A small herd of elephants came down to the lake for a drink, magnificent beasts with great ivory tusks. After seeing Mother this reminded me of the hunting trophies my brother and uncle had sent home from India. Tiger skins, stuffed birds, racks of horns, tusks, an elephant's foot umbrella stand. All were quite normal in our station in life, something to be proud of having.

But I could smell humans. Not the watcher, nor the shaman. They would surely see me. How could I explain what an Englishman, in a purple Ecuadorian hat, was doing, unable to move, under a tree, in deepest Tanzania, with tears running down my face?

I didn't have to. They brought out their AK47's.

I shifted again. I was the great matriarch of the elephants, taking my family from water to fresh food. Responsible for my whole family: with my baby trotting beside me. Then, pain, more pain, my own, my child's, my whole family, all dead.

The poachers took the tusks and just left the once great animals to rot.

Thinking of the trophies made me sick.

More smoke. Another woman appears. But this one is dressed in cheap tawdry finery, reeking of gin. A worn face, eyes that had seen too much. Still young; but looking so much older.

My first victim.

I remembered Angelus, holding the streetwalker he'd brought with him, to the cemetery for my rising. Him whispering to her that he would feed her to the devil himself.

I remembered how, half-feral from digging myself out of my own grave, her fear and the scent of her blood had called to me like nothing I'd ever craved before. I remembered my fangs sinking into her throat, and the sweet taste of blood rushing into me.

I shifted again. I was her; with teeth in my throat.

"You killed me. You killed my child that waited for me in that foul little room when I never came back. You didn't even know me."

I saw her life. A poor family in the country sends a daughter to London to be a kitchen maid. No chance to stay at home in an agricultural depression. Working all hours, working her fingers to the bone, and only 14. The footman her only friend. Only until he gets what he wants. With child; a fallen woman. He denies it's his, turns his back as she's turned out. No character so no new job. Living in absolute terror of the workhouse. Takes in sewing. Can't feed herself or the child. Only one way to get money. The horror of it drives her to drink. The big Irishman, the Fear. Death.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. I never knew there was a choice."

The lake boiled. My victims erupted from the lake, all of them passing through me. My mind assaulted by life after life, after endless life, all with only one thing in common. I killed them. Their hopes their dreams; their pain; their chance to do; all cut short by my fangs, and my whims.

It took a long time to stop the tears. The sun had moved across the sky to mark early evening before I got some of my composure back.

A pride of lions were using the elephant corpses to ambush a wildebeest drinking at the lake. There were 4 females and a young male. They formed up in a long slow stalk. They were in an arrow formation. The wildebeest was completely oblivious. From a stalk they moved into a lope, but just before they could break into a co-ordinated run the young male went off too soon.

Never been a problem of mine.

The wildebeest was last seen heading for Kenya and some slightly more patient lions. The females looked very annoyed. The male seemed to imply it was nothing to do with him. I wonder who that reminds me of?

At least this time I didn't get torn apart by lions. Felt like it though with all those people.

More smoke. Oh joy.

This time it's a feral girl, in rags, with mud on her face and dark skin. Slayer, from the vision the Shaman showed me. There are no words from this one, just her death at the teeth of a sister neither can recognise as such.

More slayers... all of them in fact. All their deaths experienced as my own.

Fangs, claws, horns, clubs, rocks, you name the instrument of death it was included. Death in life affirming battle. Suicide by vampire. Death pointless and arbitrary. A Roman slayer choosing to die in the bath - her wrists slit - as befits a patrician rather than support the burden any longer. A Spanish slayer burnt by the Inquisition, as a heretic, and a witch. A Jewish slayer gassed in a camp. So many slayers killed by their own watchers: some turned and put down; some in that stupid test; others so badly injured they couldn't heal when the battle demanded a new slayer. So many that died alone and desperate. So many with the death wish. I felt myself kill the Chinese slayer, felt my own neck break in a subway train.

Worst of all - Buffy.

The Master's fangs, and the murky water. Angel's fangs taking me close to death. The energy draining me as the light swirled around me. The peace I hadn't had with the other deaths - something different.

I could move finally. In theory anyway. At least I could wipe my face.

In the distance I could see Giles and the shaman. Good job too. It was getting very dark, and the hippos were getting ready to get out of the water. I read my Lonely Planet before coming over - most dangerous animal in Africa. No way was this boy staying here much longer.

"Ah, Spike how are you?"

"Fully empathised, totally full, can't take too much more right now. Need a fag actually too." So I light up, and it works its magic.

"Good, pleased to hear it. Sorry, know it was hardly pleasant. But we have a bit of a situation."

Then she appears, literally. "Anyanka?"