--- Part Eight ---

Buffy had walked home slowly from the dormitory, thinking. The thoughts flew around in her mind like birds. Fluttering, nervous. Willow seemed to hold a little pearl of wisdom in her words... but it can't be true. She wondered if the dark powers that she had chosen had driven her insane. It made too much sense not to consider it, regardless of how it frightened her. No one was acting as they should be...

Whatever that means.

She turned the corner onto her street slowly. It was very, very late. She didn't have to sleep much, but still the exhaustion bore down on her. Bitter anger had fueled her as she went to see Willow. Anger and pain and confusion. And she didn't want to deal with it all. But Willow, with her sad words, had stripped anger away.

Willow had such tiny, delicate fingers, Buffy thought. Small and white and innocent. Not the sort of hands that conjure dark power. Like Spike. You look at him, you see a passionate man, yes, but you wouldn't have ever thought such a powerful, smoldering rage could exist there... and yet she'd seen it. And she couldn't trust him. Even though she often forgot this. It seemed counter intuitive. Even now, it hurt like cutting into her own flesh to think of him and what had happened.

There was a tiny little part of her that, in thoughts of him, filled her with an exquisite, bittersweet pain.

The trees bent their arms over the street, and their rustling leaves made her feel more calm. That was something she'd learned from him, since he'd returned. Something about the sheer weight of beauty in ordinary things bore down on some buried romantic corner of his nature, and he would try to share it with her. But that was before. And it was wrong.

Even so, that little nagging part of her soul still loved him. And always would. It would almost be frustrating if it wasn't so sincere. The larger parts that felt hurt and anger pressed on her, demanding justice. And the sound of the leaves poured over her like rain as she approached the house.

And she froze in shock. Her house was gone.

In its place was a dark hulk of rich, green leaves, and rose blooms. White and soft. She could smell them as she ran up the path. The door was a shattered mess on the carpet. Broken stems lined the porch, where they had been torn from the entrance. A white blossom, tossed in among the wild vines covering the floor, had been bruised and stepped on.

She burst inside, uncertain of what to feel.

And it was dark, and empty. It felt unnaturally cold. There was a movement at the corner of her eye, and a sound like gentle bells. They rang and echoed in the frosty silence. She poised, ready to attack.

And the sound faded, and there was only darkness again. Buffy exhaled the freezing air, and she could see her breath in a misty trail.

A noise of footfalls on the stair startled her, she spun towards them.

"Buffy," Tara said as she ran down to the landing. Her shirt was stained with blood. Her face was frightened, insistent.

Buffy could see her, but at the same time, felt almost as if it were projected from within her mind... she could hear her speak, but it echoed from some dark place in her spirit. It wasn't frightening, or even shocking. Somehow, in that moment, it felt entirely natural she should be there.

It was difficult to understand her words, and yet the emotion, the desperate, frightened emotion communicated itself in every nuance.

"Buffy, something took her, it was a vampire. I tried to stop it but I'm not strong enough... it wants to hurt her. You have to help."

Tara tried to continue speaking, but somehow disappeared while she struggled for words. Buffy didn't see her dematerialze, and there was no puff of smoke. It was like she simply, while Buffy had been distracted by her own shock, had vanished. Her eyes lost their focus for a moment, and then Tara was gone. She didn't know exactly how.

But it didn't matter. What did she say... it was difficult to remember. It was as if she hadn't spoken in words, but directly into Buffy's heart... she strained to remember the message that Tara had conveyed only moments before. Feelings came first, pouring fear over her like icy water. And then the words, or the impression of the words. Their meaning.

Vampire. Dawn.

She bolted from the house, jumping past the porch stairs and on the path, landing in a full run.

---

Buffy bowled him over a tombstone in one blow, and pounced with a preternatural speed.

"Where is she?" she cried, striking again, throwing him back against the same stone. She could see the cracks and little fault lines it caused in the memorial. He looked at her earnestly, with some dread, and whispered softly.

"Gone," he said. She stared at him, shocked, eyes bright and desperate. She rarely looked this lost in a fight, he remembered. Only when he had just closed in for the kill, he could recall, the one or two times he had got that close... her eyes had that look of rage and animal instinct.

"What has she done?" he said. He was half certain of it already. The voice that came from him sounded calm, but was full of strange nuances. She could not hear them.

She threw him down, and he did not even brace for the kick to the stomach. He accepted the pain willingly.

"She took her," Buffy said, her voice wavering with anger. They both knew who she meant.

"She took her. Why would she take her... unless..." She remembered Sarah, with her burned neck and bitter laugh. She felt like her head had disconnected from her body, and she was floating above them, watching the action take place. He had gone there to kill the fledgling. But Drusilla thought he wouldn't kill Dawn... because he'd loved her. She knew this because he'd loved herself once, and she had been safe with him.

She was playing to his sympathy. It was disgusting.

He thought they might already be too late, as Buffy held him in an iron grip. He swallowed, anger swelling in his own gut. She might get her caretaker after all. She thought he wouldn't kill her. But if she did get that caretaker, neither would survive his pursuit. This couldn't happen, not to Dawn. It was the supreme irony that it would be her, who knew nothing of this.

He came to his decision and struggled in her grasp. It almost took her by surprise, and she was a moment late in tensing her muscles to hold him. He broke free.

He tried to walk away, and she moved to detain him, tense with rage. He seized her shoulders as she did so and pushed her aside. She sprung to attack.

She aimed a blow at his leg, but he gracefully evaded it. He was going to try to escape her. She could hardly believe it was happening.

But she suppressed any thoughts of betrayal and concentrated on his movements. He was hard to hit. He evaded her every action, easily detecting her feints. And she did the same. They had come to the point it was practically impossible for them to fight together in earnest. They knew each other too well.

She finally landed a blow to the jaw, and he reeled backwards before catching his balance again. He smiled bitterly, intent on finding a chance to break off the attack. He needed to get away. There couldn't be any time to spare. His impatience grew with his desperation.

"No music box this time, huh pet?" he said. She looked at him, her eyes wounded, and leapt back out of range as he tried to knock her down.

And they continued the rain of attacks, and faints, and disengages. They blurred together. And Buffy's rage faded as she fought, became hollow fear and sadness. The night was silent around them, as if courtesy demanded they be left wholly alone. She remembered the sublime joy of their training sessions, the humor in his attacks, full of sharp, physical wit. His eyes had been alive then. But now there was nothing. Nothing but a bitter sort of irony, and a desperation she understood too well.

But she couldn't let him get away. He couldn't run this time. He needed to tell her what he knew... even though she couldn't shake the feeling he knew nothing about it at all.

She couldn't think clearly about it, not now. He was here. He was responsible. He had to be. All she knew was that, somehow, he needed to produce her sister.

And when he landed a solid blow to her jaw, and caught her off balance, she almost thought it was inevitable. She landed against the chipped headstone, stunned. She could only see him run into the distance, vaulting over memorials like a cat, fading into the night.

She felt nothing. Just a dull, helpless void as she watched his receding figure, and struggled to find her breath again.

---

Dawn wept. The woman was talking to her, incoherently. She wound sheer silk panels tightly around her arms, her legs. She ached with the constriction.

Drusilla was fascinated, as she prepared the cocoon. The green child was full of secrets.

She was headstrong, though. It would take time to break her. But, in the end, she would want what she offered. She would thank her with blood and pain and trembling.

They always did.

---

Spike tore a hinge off the door with the force of his entrance. He left it hanging and jumped down to the lower level. He kicked open his weapons chest, and looked for something appropriate to the task ahead.

---