Case Notes:

            Pt participated in a 45 minute individual session in the company of a male friend. Pt discussed what she knew of her origins. Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding her birth, Pt expressed concerns similar to an individual who has been adopted. In addition Pt seems to have serious abandonment issues stemming from multiple incidences (ie. parental divorce, maternal death, and sibling withdrawal and depression) The Pt had difficulty identifying the current trigger for her depression, and anxiety. Recommend participation in depression/PTSD group, and art therapy. Continue meds as stated. Dr. T. Lawrence, MD

~Dawn~

I sit sketching on a sheet of computer paper with the black felt tip pen the art therapist had provided. The paper has a kind of art deco border around it with ornately printed titles that say: house, person, and tree. According to the therapist I am supposed to draw one of each and then turn them in.  If this is art therapy, I'm not impressed so far.

I decide to start with the person. The old fashioned font reminds me of that Victorian illusion; the one where the woman sits in front of the mirror, and if you turn it one way you see a skull and if you turn it another you see a beautiful young woman. I block in the basic design, wishing I had a pencil. Reflections, reflections; am I the woman or the skull?

Thinking of mirrors makes me think of Spike. I know the jerk stood right in front of that mirror on purpose. The session had not gone the way I had planned. I wish I'd had more time to prep her, ease her in a little. I wonder how freaked she is?

            I draw myself half turned toward the mirror so that just the barest hint of my features show. Then I add a table lamp and plot how the shadows will fall. I feel like I've lived my whole life in shadows; fake memories and all. Well at least the monks were consistent.

  The screams of the old woman across from me pierce my concentration, and I jump in shock. My pen jerks across the page, the line cracking the mirror. Before I fully comprehend what's happening, the paper is ripped from my hands. Flinging myself backwards I raise my arms in defense. 

The old woman starts to attack me. "Skulls", she screams, pointing at me with her bony hands, "skulls and shadows". "She's going to get me. Don't let her get me", she pleads. An orderly catches her by the shoulders and leads her from the room

Sandy, the art therapist, places her hand on my shoulder startling me for a second time.

"Don't let Mrs. Corbin upset you Dawn. Sometimes when she gets really depressed, she gets paranoid. She didn't mean anything by it.  You'll see. She'll get her shock treatment, and she'll be just fine tomorrow."

~Doctor Lawrence~

 I examine Dawn's drawings that the art therapist has shared with me. I think I'll have her try to interpret them before I share my thoughts with her.  She's really quite a fine artist. These drawings are almost good enough to frame, but it's not the quality of the work that really interests me; it's the symbolism and the feelings they express.

"Come on in", I say in answer to the tentative knock at the door.

She pokes her head in the doorway, long hair swinging. I wave my hand toward the chair. "Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?" She shakes her head no.

She's gone all silent and uncommunicative, probably waiting for my response from yesterday. Ok, brain, let's come up with something truthful and supportive; if I'm anything less than honest I'll lose her.

"Dawn, I wanted to thank you for introducing me to your friend. I won't pretend I wasn't scared, but you really did do me a favor.  You opened a new door in my mind, and suddenly the world became a much bigger place; a lot scarier, but much more interesting." Of course it took be half a bottle of scotch to get to that point, but she doesn't need to know that.

"So you're not wigged or anything?"

"Wigged?"

"You know, weirded out."

"Well, yes I'm a little wigged, but that won't stop me from trying to help you. Now, let's look at some of your pictures from art therapy. Tell me about this one of the tree."

"It's a little pine tree that's growing on the edge of a stream."

"Ok, now tell me about what you were thinking when you drew it."

"I was thinking about a place in Colorado we went to when I was little."

"When you say we, who all was there?"

"My family: Mom, Dad, and Buffy."

"So what happened on this trip that made it so memorable?"

"Nothing much. It was just nice. We were all together, and Mom and Dad weren't fighting. Buffy even helped me to catch fireflies, and we put them in a bottle. I can remember watching them from my sleeping bag."

"It sounds like a nice memory." I pause and wait to see if she will add anything. When she doesn't; I ask another question. "Dawn, would you say this picture is happy or sad?"

"It's kind of sad, don't you think? The colors are all blues and purples. It looks lonely."

"Lonely?"

"Yeah. Look at it; surrounded by all the other trees, but its not a part of them. It's off on its own by the stream."

"I can tell you put a lot of detail into the stream, much more detail than you put into the tree. Why?"

"Water's neat. It's so hard to draw, all flowy and everything. I just wanted to follow it. You know, experiment. See where it was going."

"So, you were experimenting with your technique for drawing water?"

Uh huh. She nods.

"That doesn't tell me why one is more detailed then the other."

"I don't like trees; I'm not fond of still-lives. I like water; it moves and goes places."

Damn, the sarcasm in that statement is palatable, as only a teenager can make it.

"Dawn, what if I was to tell you that trees are often seen as symbols for our bodies and our family systems. Look at the way you drew the little tree. It's off on its own. It's being over shadowed by the older, bigger trees.  If I were to look at this symbolically, I would wonder if that's what you felt your place was in your family."

"Wait don't answer yet. Look at the water. Water is often a symbol for emotions. In your picture the water is moving, carrying your emotions away. Where are they going, Dawn? Now look at the picture again, and tell me how it relates to you."

Case Notes:

            Pt participated in a 45 minute individual session. Improvement was noted in Pt's affect. The Person, House, and Tree interpretive drawing evaluation given by the art therapist discussed with client. Pt's expresses concerns regarding social isolation, and expressed fears that her emotions were getting out of control. The drawing of a person (seen with her back toward the viewer) indicates a possibility of poor self awareness, and decreased self esteem. Homework- Pt is to identify at least 3 things that she can do to decrease her perceived isolation. Continue inpatient art and group therapy. AM blood draw/ck medication levels. Dr. T. Lawrence, MD

~Dawn~

Day 2

The water has separated from the tempera paint they are using, making it lumpy. I stir it with a vengeance, smashing the lumps against the side of the styrofoam cup. The activity of the day was to paint something that makes you happy. What a pile of crap! I am grateful that tomorrow is my last day. I'll be glad to get out of here, and away from all the togetherness. I want to sleep in my own bed and …

My thought trails off as Mrs. Corbin heads toward my table. Her curly blue hair bobs up and down as she waddles forward. I'm surprised to see her up and around. I would have thought electric shock treatment would have been quite painful.

"You doing okay today, Mrs. Corbin?" I ask in concern as the woman shakily lowers herself into the chair across from me.

"Oh, right as rain, dear. Thank you for asking." She takes a cup of paint and begins to stir it.

With the limited palette they have provided it's hard to think of something to paint. Maybe I should go with something abstract, but what would make me happy right now is a big plate of chocolate chip cookies.  Nice hot cookies, ones where the chocolate oozes out as you pull it apart. Ones like mom use to make. I'm not sure what Buffy and I do wrong, but they never taste as good as hers did, even though we use her recipe. Tara use to tease that it was the love she put into them that makes the difference. 

"Oh dear, now look what I've done."

I glance up. The old woman's grip was too tight and she's punctured the foam cup with her thumb.  Taking the cup from her trembling fingers, I offer her a paper towel. "Why don't you take my paint, Mrs. Corbin; I don't know what I want to paint yet anyway."

As I pour the yellow paint into a new cup I get an idea. A dollop of red, a small dab of black, stir, and I get a passable brown. Not bad. I'll add some white to make the tan for the outside of the cookies. I begin to paint a low pyramid of ovals lying on a blue plate. I'll add the chips after this dries.

I look at my tablemate to see how she is doing, and find her staring at me. "Are you sure you're okay, Mrs. Corbin? Do you need me to get you anything? I imagine your still feeling pretty rough from the electric shock treatment."

"Oh no, dear, I'm fine. Really! Electric shock doesn't hurt at all. I just sleep right through it."

Taking that as a dismissal I go back to my work and begin to rough in a background of kitchen cabinets. My forehead begins to itch, the way it does when someone is staring at me. I look up and I meet her eyes. This is getting creepy. She takes my eye contact as permission to continue our previous conversation.

"Do you know, I actually like the shocks, they let me see everything so clearly. I get scared when I can't see things clearly. Everything gets all misty at times, and I'm afraid something is going to get me." She shivers theatrically.

She's probably just lonely and wants to talk. If I keep my eyes down, maybe she'll leave me alone.  I diligently begin to work on the angles of the cabinets so that the perspective focuses the viewer's attention on the plate of cookies.

"Hope I didn't scare you yesterday, with all my crying and carrying on. I'd just never seen anything quite like you, my dear. But now I can tell you're a nice girl. You're such a bright shiny green. You glow with it, just like your paintings."

Ok, that stopped me. I mean, I've come to kinda expect crazies to tell me I glow, but this is the first time anyone has ever mentioned my paintings.

"Mrs. Corbin, I'm not using any green paint."

"Oh, I'm sure its not paint, dear. Paint doesn't hang in the air like that. It's such a pretty shade of green, and your cookies look very good, too". She gestured to the picture on the table. "I wish I could have a cookie, this hospital food is just terrible."

I narrow my eyes trying to see what she is seeing. Reaching out a finger tip I touch the wet paint. What the…! My finger sinks through the paper down below the level of the table top. I try to pull it back but I can't. A swirling funnel of color opens beneath my hand sucking me in. It's like falling into an impressionistic landscape. Splashes and dots of color seem to form images that break apart the moment I recognize them. Then, disoriented and dizzy, I am unceremoniously dumped on to the kitchen floor.  Before me on the counter lies the plate of cookies that I have just drawn. Giving a strangled cry, I reach for one in disbelief. Its warm, hot, and golden brown; just like I imagined.

"Dawn, is that you?" Buffy's voice floats down from upstairs.

I jump in alarm, and find myself back in the hospital's art therapy room.

"Oh, you got a cookie. I wish you would have brought me one."

I stare at the cookie in awe. What have I just done?

~Buffy~

 "Sunnydale Memorial Hospital- Psych Ward- Pat speaking."

"Hi. This is Buffy Summers. I'd like to speak to my sister, Dawn Summers, please."

"I'm sorry she's in with her doctor right now. I'll transfer you to her room's voice mail and you can leave a message."

Buffy hung up in confusion. She could have sworn she had heard Dawn. Shrugging, she grabbed a cookie from the plate before heading out the door to work.

~Spike~

I scribble a note to Buffy telling her I've gone to the hospital. Dawn's voice sounded urgent. I head up the steps to the attic to get the supplies she asked for. No one's been up here since the night I took her to the hospital. I make a mental note to remind Buffy to clean up the glass and the blood. I'd do it myself, but creatures of darkness don't do house work. Well, not when they can convince others to do it for them anyway.

I carefully take the painting down from the easel. Why she wanted a wet painting I don't know. Do you realize how hard this thing is going to be to transport without smearing it? Oils take forever to dry, why couldn't she paint in acrylics.

I'm kind of leery about taking it to the hospital. It will probably give the good doctor heart failure. Dawn did a first-class job of capturing the essence of the hunt; all darkness and terror.  Sometimes I miss it; hunting my prey through the London streets, and then bringing it home to share with Dru. Yep, Big Bad in all his glory.

I grab the tackle box from the shelf and throw some tubes of oil paint in it. Then taking a hand full of brushes and the painting; I head down the stairs to the car.

~Dawn~

I'm so excited I feel like I've had a triple espresso. I caught Dr. Lawrence just as she was leaving for the evening, and convinced her to come back with me.  If this works I want someone who can be objective, and if it doesn't I want her there so that she can give me medication; 'cause I've obviously lost it.

"I don't know if this will work." I lead them through the darkened art therapy room. The single spot light highlights the white rectangle on the easel.  Flipping back the loose sheet that Spike covered it with for transport; I am struck by how powerful it is. I think it's one of my best works.

Dr. Lawrence draws back from it, and looks rapidly between Spike and my painting.

"Yeah, it's me. What of it?" Spike gave the doctor a disgruntled look.

"Nothing, she's changed the hair, but I can tell that it's you."

"I used to wear it longer back then."

 Trembling in anticipation I raise my hand and press the palm against the wet paint of the painting. The minute my skin makes contact with the canvas I can sense the change. It is much faster this time. I wonder if the quality of the painting has anything to do with it. A whirlpool begins to open up under my hand sucking me in. I can feel my self falling through the slashes of black and burnt umber that had made up the background. Hands grab at me, trying to pull me back. But I won't go! I push forward pulling them along behind me.

I fall with a smack, taking the impact on my hands and knees.  My injured wrist buckled, and like an unstable tripod I collapse on to my elbow.  Damn it, damn it, damn it! My wrist burns as if I've shoved it in a fryer of hot grease. I'm pretty sure I've torn my stitches out, but in the dim light it is hard to check. Pushing myself up, my right hand slides across the cobbles comes to rest in something sticky.

 Eew! I pull my hand away and wipe it on my jeans. God, I hope that isn't what I think it is. The stench is horrendous. I'd never thought about how the scenes in my paintings might smell. The putrid reek of open sewer and rotting food makes me want to barf.  Underlying all the other smells is something familiar, and it scares me worse than the rustlings I hear among the garbage. The metallic odor could mean only one thing- blood, and I don't think it's mine.

 It's so dark in the alley that all I can see are vague geometric outlines. Lumps and cylinders line an even darker wall like a modern impressionistic canvas. Everything has been reduced to a monochromatic palette of gray and black. My eyes gradually adjust to the gloom, and I raise my head to look around. Oh god! What I had taken for a bag of trash was actually the woman from my portrait. Dead now, her eyes stare into mine from where she lays only a few feet away. I feel a scream building in my throat, as I scramble backwards away from her.

"And what have we here?"

 The voice comes from above and behind me making me jump in alarm. I find myself gazing into the eyes of two familiar strangers. It's Spike, but it's not my Spike. He's all dressed in brown, a color he never wears. And Dru, I haven't seen Dru since Angelus kidnapped me when I was eleven. She hasn't changed, only her hair is different. Beribboned, curled, and elegant she is still ten times more terrifying than the familiar stranger who bares his fangs as he pulls me from the ground. Time feels disjointed. My vision seems to switch between the sepia version of reality locked in an old time photograph, and the Kodak colored life or unlife that stands before me. The scream that was building has become lodged in my throat and I can't even breathe. My sight goes from color, to gray-brown, to black. Forcing the scream past the constricted muscles of my throat I gasp for air, and wait for the shock to carry me back to the present, but nothing happens.

"Poor angel, it's fallen from the heavens. But where are its wings? Time runs too fast, and the sun's rising."

He gives Drusilla a fond smile. "Right, luv, I can't say I've seen too many angels, but it did fall from the sky. I say we take this little puzzle back with us, and if it's not useful we can have it for tea."

Spike's fingers dig into my arm, and he starts to pull me down the alley.  Our heads turn in unison as a loud thud sounds behind us, and the bodies of two people sprawl in a tangled heap on the cobbled street. 

"God damn it, Dawn. I'm going to rip you freakin' head off. What the hell did you do?"

"Spike", I yell and two sets of eyes turn toward me the first in bafflement, and the second in horror. A hurricane of emotions seems to pour across Spike's features. Anger and anxiety give way to steely calm, as he takes in the tableau before him. Dr. Lawrence seems unhurt, but stunned. Her eyes fix on the blood soaked bandage adorning my wrist and she starts toward me, but stops as Spike motions for her to stay behind him. I'm so stupid, why didn't I think before I got us all into this!

~Spike~

Don't let anyone ever tell you that time travel is not a shock to the ol' noggin; I don't care how many times they've watched Star Trek. How in hell did we end up here? It can't be anyplace else but London; no other place in the world could smell so much like coal dust and cabbage. I stare at my younger self with stunned dismay. Why didn't anybody ever tell me that that hairstyle made me look like a bleedin' fag? My mind's skipping tracks like a portable CD player on a bumpy road, and I can't seem to stay focused.  Looking around, I catch sight of Drusilla. Oh god, Drusilla. My Dru all corseted up, and that little trickle of blood at the corner of her lips, what a goddess she is...was?  I scrutinize the area carefully for clues to what year this is. I need to remember rapidly; if Angelus and Darla are around this could turn ugly fast.

 Dawn whimpers and I turn my attention back to her. Time to get moving; the quicker I get Dawn back the quicker she can get us home. And when I get her home I'm going to beat the living daylights out of her for getting us into this mess in the first place. I hear the Doc scrambling up behind me. She's keeping quiet and letting me handle this. Got a good head on her shoulders, that one.  I swagger forward, bluffing for all its worth.

"Well, if it isn't William the bloody, and the lovely Drusilla. Looks like you've done me a favor; catching my stray and all." I try to project the weight of time into that phrase. It's a well known fact that a vampire's power gets stronger as they age; I'm a master now- not a minion, and I don't have to take anything off a pup that's probably not even fifty years old even if it does happen to be myself.  I keep my eyes on their faces trying to judge their reaction. I'm not sure he's recognized me, but Dru has. The gobsmacked look on her face is priceless. Her head's bobbing back and forth like a ping pong ball between us. It's harder to read myself, the git's face looks like its been frozen in plaster. It makes me wonder why I don't win more often at poker.

"Do I know you, mate?"

Drusilla steps between us, and heads toward me with her arms outstretched. "My poor Spike, what have they done to you, my love?"

"I'm right here Dru, they haven't done anything to me."

 My younger self moves in front of Dru, and pushes her toward the end of the alley. I make a lunge for Dawn, and we end up in a tug-o-war with Dawn screaming like a banshee cause the fool's pulling on her injured arm. Doc tries to lend a hand and grabs Dawny around the waist. Then Dru tries to take a bite out of Doc's shoulder. I can't tell if she's hurt or not, but she lets go and the three of us stagger into one of the barrels that line the alley tipping it over. Old, rancid grease pours across out our feet, and things go a bit wonky at that point.

 I watch in amazement as Doc and Drusilla go at it. Dru must just have gotten a mouthful of shoulder pad, 'cause Doc doesn't act like she's hurt, and damn if she doesn't know some sort of martial arts.  Dawn slips, dragging me down with her, and I lose my hold. The three of us grapple around in the grease for a few moments, but he gets his footing back first and flings Dawn into Dru's arms. Dru wraps her hand around Dawn's hair, bending her head down, and baring her throat. Dawn struggles, but I flash her a look and she holds still. Holding still is the best thing to do around Dru, struggling just gets her all excited.

I grab my other self, and just as I'm about ready to break his freakin' neck, Doc tackles me yelling, "Don't kill him, you'll mess up the time line, and we'll never get back." The two of us slid into the remaining barrels bringing them down on top of us in an avalanche of garbage and sour wine.

By the time, we get our limbs sorted out, and our feet back under us, they're gone without a trace as to which way they went. God damn it all to hell, could things get any worse?  As I lean over the broken barrels and offer Doc my arm, I hear the sound of a cock heralding the coming sun.

~Dawn~

            I struggle to find my footing as Dru drags me up the pitch-black stairs of an abandoned building.  Forcing my weight backwards, I try to break the iron grasp that binds me to my assailant, but the wooden handrail was brittle and pulls away from the wall. I try to hold on to a piece of it to use it for a stake, but it is so worm eaten that it crumbles beneath my fingers.

Uh-oh, She's irritated with me now. Shit!  She pulls me up the last few steps by shear force. Spike doesn't use his strength around me too much, and I've forgotten just how incredibly strong vampires are. She throws me through landing doorway, and I land awkwardly unable to tuck and role as I've been taught.  I make a mad scramble for the door.  She grabs me by hair my and hauls me back; hissing at me like a cat.

"Naughty angel, she doesn't want to play, and we were going to have a tea party." 

Dru starts swaying back and forth. Her eyes burrow through my skull. I know she's trying to hypnotize me, and I try to fight it, but I can feel myself zoning out. She takes me by the hand, forcing me down into a tub of water clothes and all.

"Nasty, dirty, smelly; we must get our little angel clean."

            She pushes my head, under the water, and holds me there until I'm about ready to black out. I come up gasping, the cold water's broken her spell, and I start to fight. She pushes me under again as if I was nothing more then a pile of dirty clothes. My mouth opens in a silent scream as I thrash about under the water, but just as I am about to lose consciousness another set of hands hauls me up roughly by my hair.

"Dru, how many times have I told you that you don't have to wash your food before you eat it? You're not some bloody raccoon."

            "Its smell clogged up my nose."

Spike hauls me over the side of the iron tub, and I collapse into a drippy wet puddle on the oriental carpet. "She tried to drown me", I complain.

"Well, yeah." He gives me this blank look, like what did I expect, and tosses me the sheet off the bed.

"What are you?" He pulls the backpack off my shoulders, and attempts to open it, but seems baffled by the zipper. I look at the bag and am surprised it stayed with me as long as it did with all the knocks I've taken in the last hour.

            "I'm an artist, a painter." I reach out and give the zipper a tug. Water and tubes of paint sluice across the cherry wood table. It's amazing how the mind seeks out trivia when it can't deal with the repercussions of reality, but the artist in me is horrified, the finish on the antique gate legged table is probably ruined. Wait, in this time period it's probably not an antique at all, but new or old, it's still a nice piece, and it's a shame to dump all that water on it. I stand there and dab at it ineffectively with the edge of my sheet while Spike plays with the backpack's zipper like a little kid with a new toy, running it up and down over and over again.

Keeping an eye on the unpredictable Drusilla, I examine the room in greater detail, but like most lairs favored by vampires it has limited escape options. The large rectangular room appears to be an interior one without windows and with only one visible exit. The ornate furniture that inhabits the space doesn't match the dilapidated surroundings and it strikes a jarring note, like using pot metal to mount a ten-carat diamond.  The couches are covered in red brocade silk, the shabby cracking walls are adorned with tapestries that would be more at home in some Bavarian castle, and the bed with its heavy curtains looks like something from an Edmund Dulac illustration of Sleeping Beauty.

"Neat trick that." Giving it one last zip, he tossed the backpack from him. "But nothing in here tells me who you and your friends are, and where you come from".

 Reaching up from the chair, he grabs me by the hair, and pulls me down until I'm kneeling between his legs. "Pony up girlie, and make it a good story, or I'll let Drusilla over there finish her meal preparation."

"Oow, oow, ouch!" I try to tug my hair from his grasp. The way everybody's been pulling on it I'm surprised I have any left. "I painted a picture of the alley that you found me in, and then when I touched it I fell through." There I didn't say anything untruthful, but it didn't really explain my role. I don't think I want them to know that I can open portals through time.

"Who was that woman who was with my Spike?"

"I'm your Spike, and I'm right here. The other is an impostor, or something."

"You don't have to worry about Dr. Lawrence. She wasn't really with him, they were just chasing me; I was escaping from an insane asylum.  Maybe I can establish a little bonding, among us fellow loonies.

"Insane?" She gets a speculative look on her face. "Do you see things? Do 'orrible nasties paw through your skull, and lick its jelly from their claws?"

"Umm, no. I'm not real you see, and I don't belong here. I tried to escape by killing myself." Oops, probably shouldn't have brought up the k word.

She looked me in the eyes, and for the first time she actually seems to see me. "Not real. Nothing… neither here nor there. Locks and keys, locks and keys." She drags her nails lightly down the side of my face sending shivers down my spine. "Reality is not what you desire, little angel.  Real?  Reality chews you up. It has nasty teeth and claws. Reality kills your family, and everyone you love."

"Angelus killed your family."

"You know Angelus?" Spike breaks between our little dance and turns me to face him.

What do I tell them? That he use to date my sister- The Slayer. I settle for a neutral, "yes".

"And you survived?" He looks impressed.

"Yeah, with some help." I wonder if I should tell him that he's the one that rescued me? Maybe not, he'd hardly see it as a compliment at this point.

  "Umm, speaking of which, where are he and Darla right now?" Running into them would be the last thing I needed. Spike could be reasoned with, but Angelus was just pure evil.

"They're somewhere in Italy right now. Too bad, I'm sure he'll be disappointed not to see you again. Maybe I'll keep your body around after I've finished with you so he can say hello, so to speak." Bringing his face only inches from my own and he shouts in rage, "Now just where did you come from, and why did the bloke in the alley have my face?" His hand slams into the wall beside my head with a sharp crack, and I cringe.

~Dr. Lawrence~

"Do you know where they took her?" I can tell that my voice is shaky, and I feel close to tears.

"Haven't a clue. I'm not sure what year this is, and as you can imagine we moved around quite a bit to keep the hunters off our tail." He offers me a hand over a wooden fence and we continue to walk. The warehouses and shops have given way to a more residential area. Clotheslines full of cloth diapers and white underclothes flutter like ghosts in the dim light as we scurry down the dark alleyways. The birds are waking up, and their territorial chatter heralds the coming light. He seems to realize it at the same time; and grabs my wrist, hurrying me along.

As he pulls me further and further from where we first landed, my inner child starts to panic, and I wail, "How will we get home?"

"I don't know, but don't you worry, I've been through worse."

Some comfort that is!  Maybe he has been through worse, but I haven't and six years of college and another four in medical school have definitely not prepared me for dealing with this. Ok, now I'm angry.  In a strange way it makes me feel better. Being angry and afraid is much better then being just plain afraid.

"The first thing we need to do is find some shelter. Daylight's coming, and they'll be heading a ground, too. We'll have to find them when the sun goes down."

"You came to the hospital in daylight", I phrase it as both an observation and a question.

"Limited sewers in this time period; good underground plumbing makes it much easier to get around without going poof."

"So it's true then, the part about sunlight killing you."

"Yeah, sunlight, garlic, stakes, crosses, and all that rot, completely true."

 I pondered the implications of that as we jog down a twisting maze of alleyways. He appears to know where he's headed. I can't get over the feeling that he's enjoying this. Vampires, time travel, what's next, space aliens?

We pause in the backyard of what appears to be a large town home and begin weaving our way between the kitchen garden with it rows of lettuce and tomato plants and a small chicken yard. The rear windows of the brownish brick house are shaded by two large elm trees. The vampire comes to a halt beneath the shadow of the second tree, and signals for me to wait.

 "If worse comes to worse. I'll break the lock on the laundry, but I really don't want to hide in there. Too many be people coming and going", he whispers and points to a small brick building about thirty yards away from the rear entrance of the house.

 "You wait here; I'm going to see about getting us into this house." He starts to shimmy up the tree to one of the second story windows. I can't help but wonder who he thinks will be crazy enough to let us in, we smell like the end of the pier at low tide and look like we've taken up dumpster diving as a professional sport.

~Buffy~

"What do you mean my sister is missing; she's in a locked psychiatric ward.  How could you have misplaced her?"

Buffy listened to the administrator as the man tried to be both reassuring and noncommittal at the same time. Digging between the lines, she was able to figure out that the last person to see Dawn had been the security guard who had unlocked the art therapy room at the request of Dr. Lawrence. Buffy wondered where Spike fit into all of this. Apparently, the hospital didn't realize there might be three missing people instead of two. Well, until she saw the situation for herself she wasn't going to enlighten them.

  "No, I'll be right there." Buffy mentally ticked off a list of her current enemies, and tried to figure out what was going on.

 She hit the autodial button for Will. "Will are you free? Something has happened over at the hospital.  Dawn, and her psychiatrist have gone missing, and maybe Spike, too. I'm not sure where he is, but he left a message that he was going over there."

 "No, they didn't give me any details. Can you meet me at the hospital so we can get a first hand look at the situation? No, I'll call Xander myself.  We may need him to run interference with the hospital personnel and the police."

"Ok, I'll see you there in thirty minutes."

~Dawn~

I start to cry as a delaying tactic, but now I can't seem to stop. The tears come hard and fast. If only I can think of a believable story, maybe he'll help me find my Spike, and we can all go home.

"Here." Spike tosses me a linen hanky. "Stop your blubbering, and let me see if I got this straight. You're from the future, and that twit that I saw you with was really my future self.

 "It's true, I swear." My crying jag has trickled off to a few hiccups. "Angel, Drusilla and you all live in California."

 "How did you end up here?"

"It was a spell.  I think I can reverse it, but to get back to the future we all need to be together."

"She hides the truth. Her heart whispers to me, pss, pss, pss." Drusilla stretched out her hand and laid it flat against my chest.  I'm surprised I didn't have a heart attack right then and there.

            "What does it say, my darling?" He leans close to her twinning a tendril of raven dark hair between his fingers.

"It speaks of her love for you."
            "She loves me?"
            Thank god! I was afraid that Dru was picking up on all the stuff I was leaving out. This I could handle. "I do love you; in the future I serve you. I am in your thrall."

"Thralls? Blimey, I must be as powerful as Dracula."

"Oh, you're way cooler than him."

Spike is looking insufferably puffed up about being compared to Drac. He leans back in his chair and starts staring at the ceiling, probably visualizing the string of thralls he has under his command. I can tell Dru is getting bored; she's wandering around the room shredding the handkerchief that I dropped into tiny pieces. God, she's strong, that's linen not just a paper kleenex. She stops next to me and picks up a tube of paint from the table. Unscrewing the lid, she squeezes a dab of bright red between her fingers. Giggling, she rubs her hands together smearing the paint until it looks like she's wearing red opera gloves. The twisting and wringing of her hands reminds me of the play we did in high school.  Dru would be perfect in the part of Lady Macbeth, much better then that wimpy Karla Kindal who got the role; she already has the madness thing down pat. Out damn spot! I move over to the couch, as close to the door as I can get without tipping them off.

Dru looks at me slyly, cocking her head and running the tip of her tongue over her lips. "My momma always said beauty is as beauty does. Do you think I'm beautiful, little angel?"

 "No, I don't." I'm not sure where I came up with the courage to give that answer; maybe I am as suicidal as Dr. Lawrence thinks. "I think you are captivating, and alluring …..and dangerous", I add as an afterthought. I have to keep reminding myself that this woman kills for pleasure, and I don't want to end up like poor Kendra with my throat slashed. 

Spike smiled at Dru with affection. Leaning over, she stroked a red finger tip across his cheek, and down the side of his neck. I tell you the look he gave her was down right disturbing; I'm use to him looking at Buffy like he wants to eat her up, I mean it's cute when he goes all misty and adoring, but it was just wrong seeing him looking at Dru with the exact same expression.

"My evil empress, you'd like to be able to admire your lovely face again, wouldn't you?" He picked up one of the paint brushes and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. "Done up right a painting would be almost as good as a mirror, now wouldn't it."

~Spike~

            "Paige! Paige, wake up, it's me William."  I rapped on the window with my knuckles. I could hear a heart beat so I knew someone was in there. "Paige, be a good little sister, and open the window for your brother."

            Pale, delicate hands pushed the curtain aside, and opened the window part way. "Willy, you're not supposed to be here, you're dead. You're supposed to be in heaven, God will be angry at you for leaving." 

What the…. She was making about as much sense as Dru did. I didn't have time to worry about it now, the sun was crowning the top of the tree, and here I was sitting in it like the proverbial duck. "Paige, could I come in please?"

"Don't be a silly Willy", she giggled, "it's your house, too!"

"Paige, repeat after me. Come in William."

"Come in… Willy."

Good enough. I dive through the window, knocking Paige over in my haste to get inside.  Turning my back on her for a moment I help Doc maneuver from the tree to the window ledge.

"Paige, this is Doc. Doc this Paige, my sister."

Paige murmured, "Willy", and collapsed in a dead faint.

Doc caught her before she hit the ground, and put a hand on her forehead, "Good grief, she's burning up! Here, help me get her to the bed."

I scoop her up in my arms, and start to carry her toward the bed, her sweet warm weight dredging up so many past memories. With a nine year difference in our ages, it seemed like I was forever hauling her up the stairs when she'd fallen asleep down in the parlor.  I gave her an extra squeeze and lay her gently on the covers.

Doc elbows me out of the way to examine Paige, and hisses at me to get her some light. I turn and start toward the doorway, and then felt like a fool; my mind expected to find a light switch. Turning back to the table I fumble my way through lighting an oil lamp. Pumping up the base to bring the oil to the surface, I light the wick with one of the red tipped matches lying nearby for that purpose. 

Shielding the light from the doorway with my body, I moved back over to the bed and looked down at my sister's face. When had she grown so beautiful? All I remember were brown braids, freckles, and her ability to annoy me. Well, at least one thing hadn't changed. Bloody hell, she'd called me Willy, no one has dared to call me that in years, and even when I was alive only my grandmother got away with it. "How old do you think she is?"

"Hmm, hard to tell, late teens or early twenties I'd guess."

"I died when she was twelve."

So that means only about seven or eight years has passed. Does that help you figure out where they may have taken Dawn? Bring the light closer I need to look at her throat."

Even from where I stand hovering over the doctor's head, I can see it is swollen and red.  She begins to bunch up Paige's nightgown. "Hey, wait a minute", I complain.

"Look, I need to check to see if she's got a rash, if you're embarrassed turn around. Oh, wait, I need the light."

I hold the lamp behind my back until she says I can turn around. Hell, it's bad enough when Dawn's prancing around in that bikini of hers, I don't even want to chance thinking about Paige that way. I can control my actions, but demonic thoughts are another matter. I'm struck by how much Dawn and Paige look alike, sometimes the gods have a weird sense of humor.

"Ok, remember, I haven't practiced physical medicine since I was an intern almost ten years ago, but I think she's got scarlet fever."

"That's good isn't it? I mean it's curable and all, right?" I am surprised how much it suddenly matters to me that she be ok. I haven't thought about her in years, I'd never checked on any of my family after I changed; not like that bastard Angelus who murdered his entire bloodline down to the last infant. 

"It would be easy enough to cure if we were back in our time. I'd just give her a shot of antibiotics and she'd be well in about three days. In this time period however, it's a serious disease."

"How serious?" I'm not sure I really want to know.

"She could die."

The sound of a door being closed somewhere below us, interrupts the conversation. "We need to get out of here, before the maid comes in to stoke up the fire", I whisper. Holding a finger to my lips I approach the doorway and listen carefully. There's no one in the hall. Opening the door, I gesture for Doc to follow me, and we head up the back staircase to the attic.