Buffy stared at him, willing her eyes to shoot flaming arrows. The demon responded by putting his hands on his thighs and looking back at her with a bland expression. "Why do you want to know?" she asked.

He shook his head and raised an admonishing finger. "You're answering a question with a question. Perhaps I'm interested in you. After all, you're quite an interesting creature. These alone--" he tapped the side of his neck with two fingers "-are quite special. You're also a Slayer in love with a vampire--"

"I'm not in love with Angel," Buffy protested, her words hot and false in her mouth.

Florestan shrugged. "Protest all you wish. Still, I wonder why you're here, talking to me, instead of asking him about this. He knows many of these things, you know."

Buffy swallowed. "He said he... remembered you. He said you couldn't be trusted."

"I beg to differ. I always tell the truth, at least the truth as it appears to me." He leaned forward as a hungry, wolfish grin exposed his teeth. "But I do remember Angelus. We were very interested in him in Our Father's House."

"What is this Father's House you keep talking about and why would you be interested in Angel?"

"His soul." Florestan inhaled deeply, as though remembering a particularly fragrant aroma. "Do you even begin to appreciate the paradox? A vampire, a demonic creature, with a soul? How does it work, what is the agency that sustains such an aberration." He leaned forward. "Movies and television get it wrong, you know. We understand you very well. Why wouldn't we? I am..." He stopped short and his eyes went blank. "Time means nothing to me. I have observed your kind since you ate grubs and lived in holes. Your souls we understand. But his... Ah, what a delicacy."

Buffy frowned. "Why are you so Lee Harvey on the soul thing?"

Florestan's face looked dreamy and far away. "Because they make you special. Special and delicious."

"Delicious? Like...?" Distaste was written all over Buffy's face.

"Indeed. You see, we know what you are fit for." His tongue darted out over his lips and for a split-second raw lust and rapacious appetite illuminate his face. "You are food."

Buffy took an involuntary step backwards. "Food?"

"You wonder who you are, what is your calling? You are the shepherdess who guards the flock until we are hungry." His eyes glittered. "You stand there with your finger in the dike, doing their work for them, but where are they? They call you and then leave you to struggle alone until you die, no one to mourn you, a life dedicated to them and what is the result? You go down to dust and are forgotten."

Buffy's throat felt thick and clogged and her arms were covered in gooseflesh. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. She swallowed with some difficulty. "Okay, it just got a little Cronenberg in here, so I'm gonna leave. You stay on the couch or I will seriously kick your ass."

Florestan leaned back and shrugged. "I can wait. I have all the time in the world. Literally."

***

Willow used her straw to poke at the ice in her drink. "That was so weird."

Oz nodded, a small nod, but a definite nod. "It smelled funny."

"I'll say. I mean, when has Giles ever blown off a research session? Never, that's when. And he--"

Oz shook his head. "No, I mean it really smelled funny. Giles was definitely freaked."

Willow pulled back and stared at him. "You could smell Giles? I mean, Giles has a smell, and you know what it is?"

He shrugged. "Yeah." He saw the look in her eyes. "Not like I smell you. It was just... the background was different, know what I mean?"

Willow looked skeptical. "Not sure, but not sure I wanna be sure."

"That's cool." Oz stood up, holding his cup in one hand. "Going for a refill. You want?"

Willow shook her head. "Nope. Still got some ice to stab here."

"Okay." Oz sauntered away, slipping easily through the crowd. He nodded to a couple of familiar faces, smiled as the DJ dropped a track by Godspeed You! Black Emperor and caused most of the dancers to murmur in confusion. A quick crosscut into a remix of Curve's Chinese Air restored the crowd to its accustomed state of frenzied motion. Oz handed his cup to the server and turned to watch the crowd. The thick, gamey scent of hormonal teenagers permeated the air as Oz reflected that he could probably get a great buzz if he just stood there and breathed for a while.

The whole sensual sensitivity thing was a trip. Sometimes it was almost as good as a polygraph, although occasionally he could tell a little too much about Willow. That didn't even begin to describe the agony of a full Dumpster or a malfunctioning fluorescent tube. When he was finally under control, he needed to work on sense selectivity.

As he mused on the possibilities a gap opened in the crowd and he saw Xander and Faith dancing. Or rather Xander appeared to be in the grip of a grand mal seizure while Faith performed a full-body massage to alleviate his suffering. That's what it looked like, anyway. The record faded out and Xander made his way to the bar while Faith headed in the opposite direction.

"Hey, Oz," Xander said. He wore a hideous red-and-green shirt with vertical stripes. Rivulets of sweat glistened on his cheeks.

"Hey, man." Oz dipped his head. "Might want to check, make sure you have all your buttons."

Xander shot him a quick sidelong glance. "Yeah, pretty hot out there."

"Looked like it."

Xander frowned. He gave his order to the server and turned to Oz. "Was that supposed to mean something?"

"You and Faith seemed very close." Oz took his drink from the server. "I don't see Cordelia anywhere."

Xander shrugged. "She was at the game. Faith wanted to unwind after patrol."

Oz looked at his cup and nodded. "Listen," he said, "not to be judgmental guy or anything, but are you sure this is a good thing?"

Xander exhaled sharply, his annoyance written on his face. "I told you-Cordelia was busy being the leader of the cheers, Faith and I were patrolling." He held up his hands and wiggled them around. "See, nothing up my sleeve."

Oz shrugged. "If you say so." He turned away and almost collided with Cordelia.

"That would have been the fitting end to a miserable evening," she said, dropping her purse on the counter.

"Cordy." Xander blinked. "How was the game?"

"Only slightly less of a disaster than Meet Joe Black. We lost by one point." She began digging through her purse.

"I'm not an expert on these things, but isn't that pretty good. I mean, isn't Brookhaven supposed to be a lot better than we are?" Xander glanced over her shoulder.

"No, it isn't pretty good. Being head cheerleader for a bunch of losers does not look good on a college app."

Xander looked skeptical. "Yeah, uh, Cor, I don't think they'll penalize you because nobody on our team outside of Percy West can hit a ten-foot jump shot."

"It's loserdom by association. Which I get quite enough of anyway." She scowled. "I'm sorry. That sounded bitchy."

"A little." The server put two cups on the counter beside Xander's elbow.

"Hey, that's sweet." Cordelia picked up mug and took a drink. Xander's eyes bugged.

Oz waved his hand. "I'll have one of what she's having," he said to the girl behind the counter. "It looks good."

"Whatever." The girl shrugged and trudged away, returning with another cup. Oz picked it up and looked at Xander.

"You can owe me," Oz said as he slipped away into the crowd.

Cordelia frowned. "Is it just me or is Oz acting a little weird even for him?"

Xander laughed nervously. "It's not just you."

***

David Mangwana's head lolled back on his neck as his eyes stared up at the ceiling. He thought he saw small, unidentifiable creatures wiggling beneath the white plaster, but some small wedge of his consciousness insisted this was not true. He blinked and the squirming apparitions vanished. He drew a deep, ragged breath and contemplated his approaching insanity.

The gauntlets were responsible. The physical pain was excruciating, but he had expected that. What he was not prepared for, could not have been prepared for, was the psychological toll. To have one's bones broken, ligaments torn, organs bruised and lacerated, this was agony, but it worse, much worse, was the healing. The healing stopped the pain, but not the memory of it, and there was no prospect of release. The flesh was a fresh canvas every day, a new surface for Kirkwood to decorate with his palate of suffering. Mangwana could imagine unbroken weeks of torment, and his mind was defending itself by leaving him.