"Hi honey. How was your evening?" Joyce Summers leaned against the doorjamb, her bag still slung over a shoulder.

Buffy shrugged. "The usual. Everybody comes and has a good time, but who's left to wash the dishes? Little old me." She looked at the clock. "Late night at the gallery?"

Joyce smiled. "Mostly. We do have that new exhibit opening next month. But I also figured that you wouldn't want mom hanging around and putting a damper on your fun tonight."

Buffy glanced over her shoulder. "Thanks, Mom. You're the best."

Joyce made a no-big-deal face. "You make it pretty easy, kiddo." She took a step forward into the kitchen. "So why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

Buffy sighed, her shoulders slumping. "It's Faith. Mom, I've tried everything to get through to her, just to talk to her, but..."

"Honey, what happened to Faith was traumatic. All you can do is be there. You can't fix her. She'll understand someday."

"Any idea how long?"

Joyce stepped up behind her daughter. Her hand rubbed Buffy's upper arm. "How long did it take you?"

"I'm not sure it's the same thing."

Joyce folded her arms around Buffy. "It's not? Both of you lost someone you loved and were unable to stop it. On the one hand, Faith didn't have to kill Lindsay, but you weren't forced to watch someone else kill Angel." Joyce whispered in the Slayer's ear. "Did you immediately turn to someone for wise counsel?"

Buffy flinched. "No."

"But you did eventually. Faith will work through this. No one can simply walk around carrying that much rage and hate inside them. It will either eat her alive or she'll get rid of it. You stay strong. Try to be her friend. Someday she'll step out of that valley."

Buffy forced a wan smile. "And this could take...?"

Joyce hugged her tight. "I waited for three months. Why don't you set that as a boundary?"

***

Merriweather was right; David Mangwana missed his flight. It took well over an hour to fax all the documents in his briefcase. When the last page slid out of the machine he placed it on top of the stack, tapped the edges and hoisted them into the case.

"What now?" Merriweather asked.

"I try to get on the next flight," Mangwana replied, fastening the latches.

"Is that wise? Kirkwood's associates have probably seen through my ruse by now. Perhaps you should drive to the coast, catch a ferry to the Continent--"

Mangwana shook his head. "They know where I will be eventually. If I change my schedule, they will know that I know. This way, they may believe that they have contained the situation."

Merriweather nodded. "That's sharp thinking."

"I just need to know one thing." Mangwana looked at the old man. Knots of muscle stood out along the African's jaw line. "What will you tell Kirkland if he asks you about this?"

Merriweather held out a hand, palm up. "I'll tell him that I helped you fax your proof to a colleague."

"So you'll betray me again."

"Not at all. Kirkland won't believe it. He'll think I'm a senile old man trying to scare him, take the piss a bit." Merriweather smiled. "Sometimes the truth's too outlandish for some to grasp."

"I don't know whether to shake your hand or break your arm."

"Shake hard enough and you probably will break my arm." Merriweather was unfazed. "I know this is cold comfort, but I don't dislike you, David. This was necessary. How else could I persuade Kirkland to take the viper into his bosom?"

Mangwana looked at him for a long minute. "Perhaps you are senile."

"Suppose it's possible. Still, when I told Kirkland about last night he actually tried to take a drink. Watching that prig try to digest a good scotch almost makes it worthwhile." Merriweather extended a hand. "Take care. Don't be too brave."

Mangwana hesitated, then shook the offered hand before leaving the club. Merriweather slipped out a few minutes later and hid himself behind a newsstand. Mangwana was in line at the security point. He placed the silver case on the conveyor belt, stepped through the metal detector. As he picked up the case, one of the security guards said something to him and gestured toward a door in the wall. Mangwana followed him. The door opened. Merriweather caught a fleeting glimpse of two men in dark suits before David Mangwana was whisked inside and the door closed, leaving no evidence that he had ever walked the concourse.

***


"The tunnel was a stroke of genius," said Mr. Quisling. "With access to the sewers we've been able to keep our food supply steady and we're even beginning to replenish our numbers." He touched the knot in his tie. "And the Slayer seems none the wiser."

"That's because she's not thinking," Mr. Trick said. He sat behind his desk, leafing through a catalogue from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Tell me, what do you think of this?" he said, indicating a collection of squiggles and geometric shapes.

Quisling looked at it and shrugged. "Honestly, I can't judge modern art."

"And that's your problem. You're like the Slayer, Quisling. Both of you are hung up in outmoded ideas." He tapped the book. "See, the point is not whether I like this picture. The point is that this painting will appreciate in value, which makes it a wise investment." He flipped the glossy catalogue shut. "The Slayer is running on hatred and vengeance." He wagged a disapproving finger. "Terrible motivations."

Quisling cleared his throat. "So you don't hate the Slayer?"

"I said hatred is a terrible motivator. It clouds the mind, produces bad judgment." Trick got up and walked around his desk. "Causes you to focus on one thing, instead of the big picture. That's the weakness of your traditional vampire. Everything's blood feuds and annihilation." He ran a finger along the top of his desk. "Vengeance is a dead end. I mean, what if you achieve it? Then what? You see, Quisling, vengeance is about personalities. Again, you lose sight of any greater goal."

Quisling looked confused. "So you really don't hate them."

Trick looked at him and Quisling caught a glimpse of black depths and nightmares. "Of course I hate them. And if I can destroy every one of them in the course of doing this job, I will." He shrugged. "But if not, que sera, sera. The contract comes first. Let the Slayer sit out there on the hill. Let her rage and thirst for revenge grow." He smiled. "Soon enough she'll turn it on someone else."

***

The sun rose on Sunnydale and promised another mild winter day. The weather had been so good that even Rupert Giles was in an optimistic mood. Guarded optimism, to be sure, but optimism nonetheless. He placed the breakfast dishes in the sink and rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them securely before slipping into a Harris tweed jacket.

***

The girl bolted out from between two parked cars, forcing Joyce Summers to slam on her brakes. Tires screeched and the Jeep rocked forward, tossing Joyce against her seat belt. As her head snapped back, Joyce thought she must have hit her head on the steering wheel. That was the only explanation. Why else would she think that the girl was standing on the hood of her car? Joyce blinked and the girl's face came into focus.

"Faith?" Joyce said. The dark Slayer jumped down and trotted across the street. Joyce sat there, stunned, until the honking horn of the car behind her snapped her out of her trance. She rolled forward a few feet, glanced in her mirror, and then yanked the wheel to the left. She executed a screeching U-turn on impulse. She could see Faith on the sidewalk, walking away from her. Joyce gunned the engine, pulling past the girl and turning into a parking space just ahead of a red Saturn. She ignored the squalling horn and the driver's carefully selected display of digits as she jumped out of the Cherokee and planted herself on the sidewalk in the girl's path. Faith stopped and looked around as though searching for an escape route, then turned toward the curb.

"Wait," Joyce said. "Please." Faith stutter-stepped; her knees almost buckled. She grimaced, then turned to face the older woman.

"Hey, Mrs. S," she said.

Joyce's approach was wary. She stopped a few feet away from the girl. "How are things going?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Faith flushed. Her eyes glittered, then her white teeth flashed and her body relaxed. "School?" She shook her head. "You're something else."

Joyce fidgeted, a nervous grin on her face. "Yeah, that was really, really... stupid, wasn't it?" She kneaded her forehead with a hand. "How about this? Can I buy you breakfast?"

Faith looked at her for a long minute, then shrugged. "Sure. Sounds good."

***

Giles had both hands full when the phone rang. He dithered, starting to put down first one stack of papers, then the other. He finally dropped all the documents on the counter and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring. "Hello," he said, slightly out of breath, "Sunnydale High School Library."

"Rupert, listen to me. Time is short."

"G-Gerard?" Giles frowned.

"I will be unreachable for a few days. I am sending a package to you. The contents of this package confirm what I discussed with you during our recent visit. A friend of mine is now unaccounted for because of these documents. Do you understand?"

"Well, yes, yes, of course I understand. Gerard, what's--"

"Be careful. Be very careful. A meeting of the Inner Council was held. A measure of necessity was approved."

Giles felt a chill race up his neck. "Regarding?"

"You, old friend. Regarding you. I will call when I can. Be careful. Good-bye." Giles stood stock-still, listening to the hum of the dial tone in his ear.

***

Joyce sipped a cup of tea and watched Faith use the last piece of toast to clean her plate before popping it into her mouth. The waitress advanced tentatively; she was fond of both of her hands and she'd almost lost one when she was a little slow putting the plate with the ham on it in front of the girl.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, one hand plucking at the pad in her apron pocket.

Joyce shook her head. "Nothing for me."

"Yeah, yeah," Faith said, nodding as she drank the last of her milk. "Could I get an apple?"

The waitress nodded. "Sure. One apple coming up." She hurried away.

Faith leaned back in her chair and looked at the pile of dishes in front of her. "Whoa. Looks like I ate a lot."

"Have you been eating enough?"

Faith shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, I'm not going hungry, but it's usually more the beef jerky and Doritos breakfast for me."

Joyce made a face. "That sounds horrible."

Faith considered this. "I d'know. Works for me."

Joyce studied the girl's clothing. "Are you still living at that motel?" Faith nodded. "How... What about your laundry?"

Faith made a no-big-deal face. "Well, I don't have anything in the budget for laundry and ValleyView doesn't have a laundry room if I did, so I'm doing the whole rinsing in the sink thing."

Joyce shook her head. "Come on," she said, getting to her feet.

"What?" Faith said, not moving.

"Come on. We're going to go to your room and get your laundry and then you're coming home with me and we're going to wash your clothes." Joyce set her jaw and nodded her head.

"Don't you have to be at work?"

"I'll call and take a personal day."

Faith got up from the table. "Okay. I guess the next thing out of my mouth is... why?"

"Because this is what I hope someone did for Buffy when she was alone."

Faith's jaw tightened. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

***

David Mangwana sat on a hard metal chair and looked at the massive stones that formed the opposite wall. These same large, square-cut cubes formed the other three walls as well. He did not know how long he had been here; the room was below ground level, so he could not use natural light as a measure, and they had taken his wristwatch, along with his shoes and belt. The only furnishings in the room were two identical chairs and a square metal table between them. He noted that all three pieces were bolted to the floor. He sat with his hands on his knees and his feet flat on the floor, waiting.

The door opened and Humboldt Eubanks insinuated himself into the room. There is an old saying that say a book should not be judged by its cover, but the publishing industry spends millions of dollars every year designing covers that tell a potential buyer what might be found inside. Sometimes the cover predicts the contents exactly. It certainly did so in the case of Humboldt Eubanks.

He was oleaginous and obsequious. After spending time in his presence people felt a strong need to wash their hands or gargle. He appeared as subtly and distinctly as a bad smell, but time and fresh air would not remove him. He was a bipedal leach, a remora in size ten-and-a-half shoes. He placed a stack of papers on the table, then oozed back to a place by the door. Kirkland swept into the room a very precisely timed three seconds after Eubanks came to quivering rest. Mangwana bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. Kirkland folded his heronlike frame into the other chair.

"Ah, David," he said. Mangwana was fairly certain that his name was written in ballpoint on the inside of Kirkland's wrist. "Sorry to see you like this, but we seem to have a spot of trouble on our hands."

"We do?" David kept his voice even and bland.

"Yes. You see, these documents--" Kirkland dropped a hand onto the pile of papers "-these documents were found on your person. These documents are not to be taken off the premises."

"Really? I was not aware of that." Mangwana nodded. "If you'll return my shoes I'll be on my way."

"David, we are endeavoring to be civil here. A little cooperation will help us to continue to be so." Kirkland tapped the stack with a finger. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why you're interested in these?"

Mangwana knew that the Grand Inquisitor was serious, but he still almost laughed at the man's patent vanity and pretentiousness. "Of course. I needed them to confirm a hypothesis."

"Which would be?"

"That you manipulated the selection ritual in order to influence the identity of the next Watcher."

Kirkland leaned back, lips pursed. "That's a serious accusation."

"It certainly is."

"Why would I do such a thing?"

Mangwana leaned forward slightly, speaking with great precision. "Let us see if we can venture a guess. Lindsay Maeda was Asian, and a woman. Your contempt for both of those groups is no secret. In addition, she was young and just barely out of her training."

Kirkwood laced his fingers together and stared at his hands as though he'd discovered an interesting piece of sculpture. "You wound me with these allegations and yet you've not answered my question. Why? What is my motive, outside of this supposedly well-known animus I bear against women and Orientals?"

Mangwana's face was an ebony mask. "Your 'well-known animus' extends farther than that, but very well. Your primary purpose for sabotaging the ritual was to insure the selection of a Watcher who was not yet ready to oversee a Slayer. You wanted them to fail, to create a fiasco that would enable you to strike at the person who truly galls you-Rupert Giles. Lindsay's age and gender were simply happy coincidence." Mangwana leaned back in his chair. "How many do you think would vote for your measure of necessity if they knew that?"

Kirkland flushed a dark red and exerted visible effort to control himself. "I know that you did not form this preposterous theory by yourself. Who is your accomplice?"

"Why couldn't I? Because I'm from Africa, where we're only a generation out of the bush?"

"No, because if you wouldn't need to attempt anything so dangerous as the theft of these papers if you didn't need to give them to someone." Kirkland leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now, why don't you tell me who that is?"

Mangwana's nostrils flared. "Sorry. I'm not Merriweather. I don't give it up for the asking."

Kirkland shot to his feet. "No, you certainly are not Lord Merriweather, for he is a man who appreciates the sacred trust we have been given. He understands what it means to be a Watcher, unlike you lot with your shrines to trees and glass bottles."

"Careful, Kirkland." Mangwana tilted his head back to look up at the standing Grand Inquisitor. "Your people used to worship trees, too. Druids, I believe they were called."

Kirkland went a deep burgundy. "You mock me, go ahead. It will be your doom." Spittle flew from his thin lips as he spoke. "You may be here a very long time, and not in accommodations like these." He grabbed the papers, spun on his heel, and strode to the door, turning as he opened it. "You failed. You did not get this information to your confederate and we will be contacting the rest of that little group of layabouts you were fomenting. Your reach has exceeded your grasp." He sneered. "Not that that's saying much for your kind."

"Kirkland," Mangwana whispered. "What if I told you I faxed them?"

Kirkland stared at him, eyes blazing with fury. The door slammed with a heavy thud, causing Humboldt Eubanks to jump. He scrabbled for the knob, wrenching the heavy door open, his eyes on Mangwana the whole time.

Just before Eubanks disappeared through the door, Mangwana leaned forward and said "Boo!" Eubanks jumped as a little yip escaped his mouth. He tried to run into the hall and slammed into the edge of the door, bounced back, steadied himself and made it out on the second try.

Mangwana chuckled. That image was going to have to serve as his entertainment for a while.