CHAPTER 10: REUNION

"Is this Horrible?
Is this Horrible?
It's the ugliness men, Mr. Horrible
We're just trying to bug you
We thought that our dreadfulness
Might be a thing to annoy you with"

But Mr. Horrible says, "I don't mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair."

            ~Someone Keeps Moving My Chair, They Might Be Giants
______________________________________________

"I know where she is," Willow said, hazel eyes large and haunted. "She's alive."

Tenth rose instantly to his feet, bronze arms rippling and flexing with anticipation. "Where?"

 "I…" she glanced around as if lost, looking for the puzzle piece she'd had just a moment ago.

Giles also rose to his feet and shot the Brazilian man a reproving look as he reached down to help Willow rise unsteadily to her feet. "Give her a moment."

"Yeah, back off, Arnold," Faith said, inserting herself between the two of them.

He barely glanced at her, addressing Giles instead. "We may not have a moment! Blackwell could be dying right now." Now that he had a direction, the warrior seemed anxious, almost nervous to get underway.

"Yes," Giles agreed quietly, offering Willow a supporting arm. "And perhaps we can all run right out and get ourselves killed as well." His sarcasm was light, but no less sincere for it. Faith cut him a questioning sideways glance, surprised.

But it was Tenth who voiced the question. "What are you talking about?"

"Think! The Oracle believes your friend is connected to the unfolding of the apocalypse. What if it's our rash reaction that sets off the chain of events that causes it?"

Tenth looked as if he weren't sure if Giles were serious or not, and uttered an uncertain laugh. "You're kidding?"

"I'm afraid not. It was prophesized that the Master would escape and that the Slayer—Buffy—would fight him and die. When Buffy went to fight him to prevent his escape, she inadvertently triggered his release. Had she never gone, he would not have escaped and she would never have died. Prophecies, if indeed this is one, are never as simple as they appear on the surface."

Faith blinked, frowning, looking troubled as she absorbed that.

Willow looked up, searching Giles' face with her eyes, then turned toward Tenth with a shaky nod. "He's right. It's not that simple. I…" she frowned, entire face scrunching with thought. "I… saw her, saw where she was, and I… I almost saw how she was connected to everything. But it was too tangled… I don't remember." She shook her head and the confusion cleared from her expression somewhat. "Or maybe I never knew. But she is connected. Something about her is."

"You think she's the trigger?" Tenth asked, incredulous.

"I think it's possible," Giles said, appearing to choose his words with care.

Tenth glanced at Fox and an unspoken communication passed between them—the exact nature of the communication wasn't apparent; it could have just as easily been, 'okay let's kill them all' as it could have been 'okay, we'll wait'—and then Tenth nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible, and his dark eyes flickered back to Giles, black depths glinting like stone. "Maybe you're right."

Xander cleared his throat and edged closer to the small group. "Great. So now that we're all friends again, what do we do next?"

As one, everyone looked to Giles.

"Well, of course we—"

That was all he got out before Willow collapsed.

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When she opened her eyes, for an instant they looked as dark as the depthless seas, filled with deadly creatures swimming just out of sight beneath the façade of emptiness. Then Giles blinked and the impression vanished, leaving behind hazel-green doe eyes that stared at him in fear and wonder.

"Giles. Am I… are we…" she gave a quick glance around the room and sat up abruptly. Too abruptly, it seemed, since she cried out and put a hand to her head to stave off the sharp pain that exploded there. Blood began to trickle from her nose at an alarming pace, and in two steps Giles had crossed the room to where she lay on the mats, glad that he'd brought her to the training room alone to recover, handkerchief appearing as if by magic in his hand. He pressed it beneath her nose and held it, and she looked at him gratefully over the crumpled cloth.

"Wow, that must have been some spell I did, huh?" she asked, voice muffled by the handkerchief, and he could imagine the wan smile that curved against the material just beneath his hand.

His eyes lingered on hers meaningfully, and then stuttered away, down to the floor. He let go of the handkerchief, and Willow took it, dabbing delicately at her nose. "Willow," he said, very serious and deliberating, as if he didn't want to go on, or was perhaps trying to find the right words. "What happened out there?"

And then it was her turn to look away. What had happened? All she had were fleeting impressions, snatches of conversation, random images. "I'm not sure… Th-the demon came, and we… talked. And then… it attacked me." She glanced at the shoulders of her blouse. "And then…" She looked at him, eyes wide and deeply troubled. "Giles… I think I killed it." Her voice seemed to cringe.

"What? Willow, that's impossible. In its home plane, this creature, if it was a demon, would be pure, like the Mayor was when he transformed."

She thought about that for a moment. "I'm pretty sure I killed it." She stopped, put her free hand to her head. "I don't know. Everything's all muddled. It was bad… I remember that. It was like… someone else took over me."

Giles frowned, thinking aloud as he rose to his feet and began to pace the room. "Perhaps this creature toyed with your mind, changed your perception? Made you think there was something in you that could kill it?"

A flash of its face, the sound of bone as it crunched and twisted, and she flinched. They were tiny moments, but they were vivid and clear. "I know I killed it," she said, morose.

"Willow…" he seemed puzzled, at a loss, as if he were trying to be truthful without being unkind. "The kind of power it would take to destroy a pure demon… you don't have that kind of power."

Could they be implanted memories, or false images conjured by the creature? "I don't?" her voice trembled, half-hopeful. "Or no one does?"

He hesitated, expression conflicted as he wrestled with several opposing emotions. "Sometimes, when fueled by anger, or hatred, magic can become more powerful, an extension of the emotion and the users will," he allowed, reluctantly.

"Like the dark side of the force?" she suggested with a small smile.

"Yes," he agreed, not smiling back. "But Willow, the amount of power involved, the lack of respect for magic and its principles that is involved… those people become monsters."

Her smile thinned to a hard, pale line beneath eyes that were both frightened and determined. "It was trying to kill me, Giles. Respecting principles was kinda low on the list."

He nodded slowly, as if accepting her words with great reluctance. "If you did… if you did, then you tapped into something that is not normally a part of you. No matter how powerful the user, the limitations of magic are set in place by the mind. Morals, scruples, beliefs. These things all dictate the ways in which the magic can be used. If the user is without conscience, driven by madness or revenge or hatred, then the power can be overwhelming. Without boundaries, without control, it becomes a conduit for the user's dark impulses."

"So, am I going to become like, Darth Willow or something?" she asked, nervous and alarmed.

He paused again, then shook his head, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "The magic itself is neither good nor evil. It is through the human vessel that it finds such definition. Through our actions." He looked to Willow again, serious, but gentle. "In a life or death situation, our instinct to survive is likely to take over completely. Perhaps you pushed past your boundaries to protect your life. If that is what happened, then you can hardly be blamed."

"Right," she echoed without conviction. She dabbed at her nose one last time, glanced at the crimson stained cloth, then let her hands fall into her lap.

"And, remember, we're not certain that's what happened. This creature could have done any number of things to warp your perception."

"So we probably shouldn't worry about it?" Her eyes were hopeful, wanting to believe so badly.

"Willow…" He walked over and took a seat beside her, regarding her with concern and care. He reached out and covered her hand with his, just barely, light and reassuring, and she almost smiled at the sweetness of the gesture. It almost made her feel better. Giles hardly ever touched any of them. "You've been on a shaky path of late, but I believe this may have been a good lesson for you, regardless of what the true outcome was." He paused and tilted his head at her. "Does it frighten you, the idea of this loss of control?"

"I don't think 'frighten' covers it," she said with nervous shake of her head.

"Then I don't think you have to worry." He smiled gently.

Willow tried to smile back, and wished that she could believe him.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith crouched down and rocked back on her heels, back leaning against the rear entrance to the Magic Box. Looking up, she tossed her hair back out of her face and considered the blond vampire that stood, leaning against the green dumpster like some kind of rebel catalog model. A freshly lit cigarette burned between his fingers, and as she watched, he took a deep, moody drag from it, orange light illuminating his sharp features for an instant.

"Bad bit of business with the witch, there," he said, exhaling slowly.

Faith shrugged. "Giles said she'll be okay. He's handling it." She rubbed her hands together and tilted her head, dismissing the subject. "So tell me, what's the deal?"

"Straight down to business then, is it?" he asked, and the chuckle he gave was exceptionally patronizing.

"You know," her voice crackled with ire. "Some people have mood swings. You though, you've got split personalities. I thought you liked 'straight down to business', or did that line belong to one of the other Spike's that share your body?" She spread her arms with pronounced attitude and fixed him with a stony glare. "Sorry I don't have time to wine you and dine you first, but in case you hadn't noticed, we've a got a little bit of a situation happening."

"So it's give me the information and get gone, is it?" He gave a wry smile that she could hardly see in the darkness and shook his head. "Well. Guess you're Miss Reformed Slayer, now, eh?"

Her face tightened, expression drawing close and guarded. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "Not running with scissors. Playing well with heroes. You think they're going to accept you now?"

He asked the question reproachfully, with disdain, but she gave it real thought for a moment, then turned her face away from him, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. I have to do my job. Besides," she looked back to him, grim smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I've always got you, don't I?" The way she said it, it sounded more like a curse than a blessing.

He shot her a look of surprise and froze for an instant, cigarette halfway to his mouth, and the look on his face was so naked that she almost laughed. Then he snorted, a short bark of laughter escaping him, and looked away from her. "Right. Locked together in hatred. We'll be lucky if we don't kill each other before this is all over."

She rose to her feet and walked toward him, smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "That's half the fun, isn't it? The fire? The unpredictability? Keeps things…" She put her hands in her pockets and looked skyward, seeking inspiration. "Exciting," she finished decidedly, eyes locking on his with a devious grin.

He studied her for a long moment in silence, wondering and mistrustful. "You're a few cups short of a tea party, aren't you?"

"I thought that's what you liked about me?" she challenged.

"I don't like anything about you."

"And yet," she shrugged again and looked around. "Here we are. You. Me. The undercurrent of sexual tension."

"And because you think I want to shag you, that means I must care?" he asked, disgusted as he turned his head away from her. "You're right off your head, Slayer."

"No. I think you care because you want to and you haven't."

He made small noise that might have been laughter. "Another brilliant deduction."

Her eyes narrowed, and her cynical humor degenerated rapidly into bitterness. God but his attitude pissed her off. "You know, for a guy who's always throwing the truth around, you sure are careful not to get any of it on you. You wanna play dumb? Fine. But you've had plenty of chances to get in my pants, Spike. You know you could if you wanted to—and I know you want to," she cut off his interjection. "But you haven't. And you keep helping me. The way I figure it, if you really didn't care, you'd have had your way with me and been gone a long time ago. So don't stand there and try to tell me you don't give a shit."

He turned on her, eyes wide with something that was not quite a parody of innocence. "You're still tripping," he condemned her with disbelief.

"You helped Buffy because you loved her," she said, matter of fact.

His face darkened in a sudden storm of anger and he advanced a step on her. "You're not Buffy!"

"No, but I'm her replacement, aren't I?" she asked with a thin smile. "Pale shadow of her noble goodness, but I'll do, right? They have a term for that, you know. My psychologist told me about it. It's called transference." She shook her head. "You and Angel. Both of you have serious emotional problems."

He was fairly sputtering, he was so angry. "This isn't about Buffy! Or the Midnight Avenger."

"You can't even say his name, can you?" Her smile was wry and mocking, and somehow, satisfied.

"Of course I can," he said and shifted his posture, looking unsettled.

"Angel," she said again, and watched his face twitch. Grinning, she stepped closer. "Angel, Angel, Angel—"

"You're bloody mad, you know that?"

"Angel!" Faith practically yelled in his face. Spike frowned and blanched, trying to determine the reason for the sudden excitement in her voice, and then he was being shoved roughly aside as she sprinted past him. Confused, he turned—

And saw Angel standing there, brooding Neanderthal forehead and all. Faith ran another step, then leapt at the tall vampire and threw her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug.

Angel blinked with impact as the overjoyed Slayer slammed into him, then glanced uncertainly back and forth, hesitating a moment before he brought his arms up around her. He clearly hadn't been prepared for the enthusiastic hug she'd swallowed him in.

To his surprise, Spike found that he hadn't been, either.

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And that was all right, because Faith wasn't prepared for what she found, either.

The smile slowly faded from her face, replaced by confusion as she drew back and lifted her hands from around his neck. There was metal back there, smooth and warm to the touch, like some kind of backpack or—

The wail of an infant split the perfect silence.

Faith's eyes widened with something like horror, and even Spike looked surprised, though the familiar smirk was beginning to creep back onto his lips.

"Angel… You…"

With a sheepish, shifting look, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trench coat, Angel slowly turned, the metal construct coming into view.

It was a backpack, of sorts, and in it sat a tiny baby with a very, very big mouth. Faith could tell, because it was opened in the most ear-piercing wail she'd ever heard. As she watched with surreal awe, Angel cooed to the baby over his shoulder, calming it.

Faith looked around warily for the cameras. "Okay. This is… this is a joke, right? Candid Camera? America's Funniest Vampires?" Her lips curved in a half-smile, the kind of desperate half-smile that begged him to agree.

Angel turned back to look at her, his face impassive. He seemed extremely uncomfortable as he searched for words, and when they came, they came out like an apology. An apology he was somehow, strangely, very proud of.

"He's my son."

"Your—How—" Another round of sputtering, unfinished sentences passed, and finally, she spat out the only thing she could come up with. "You've only been gone a few weeks!"

He lifted one shoulder in a slight, apologetic shrug, still looking uncomfortable. "I've… been really busy."

"I'm surprised you weren't picked up by the National Enquirer," Spike snorted, "carrying that thing to term."

"I didn't—" he stopped, rolled his eyes, dismissed the younger vampire, looked at Faith and tried again. "Darla—" He struggled for words, stopped again, cleared his throat. "It's… a really long story."

"Darla?" Spike enquired with a snort of disbelief, eyebrows rising. "I thought you staked her a few years back in the name of 'true love'?"

He looked at Spike for a moment in silence, and then turned his eyes back to Faith, ignoring the other vampire.

Faith felt a tiny shiver run down her spine and couldn't identify the emotion that caused it. Her world narrowed to the depths of his warm, dark eyes, eyes that looked at her as if she were the only thing that existed. Her momentary excitement at seeing him was passing, and other feelings were beginning to creep back in, leaving her tense and confused.

"I went by the house. I saw what happened. I thought maybe you…" he trailed off, eyes wavering a moment. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah," she said with an uneasy tilt of her head. "You know me. Like a bad penny."

"Giles and the others… you're with them now?"

His voice was quiet, and it snaked through the darkness, seeming to catch her up and caress her with care. She nodded and wondered what it was, exactly, that she was feeling. Gratitude? Resentment? Love? Hatred? All of the above? The bitter taste at the back of her throat gave her no answers.

"We have a lot to talk about," he said.

"Yeah," she agreed with a slow nod, taking a step backward and averting her eyes. Pushing her hair back out of her face, she swung her upper body slightly left, then right, as if debating, then shrugged toward the shop with one shoulder. "Guess we should do it with the others."

He opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something more, then closed it and nodded. In the darkness, his eyes were bleak, intricate poems she couldn't read. Had she imagined it, or had he looked vaguely hurt? Straight faced, eyes always remotely brooding, it was hard to tell what, if anything, was going on in there.

And really… did it matter?

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hated herself for knowing that it did matter, then turned without another word and led the way inside.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

The Scoobies were gathered around the table in the Magic Box in a tight group, bodies still, expressions completely frozen and glazed with shock, staring at the infant that lay sleeping, swaddled in blankets, its head resting against Angel's chest.

"Remarkable," Giles muttered, breaking the silence at last.

"He's very special," Angel agreed with a proud nod.

"Now, when you say special," Xander asked, holding up one hand questioningly, "are we talking short bus special, or golden child special?"

Angel cut him a nasty glare.

"What? It's an important distinction," Xander defended himself.

"So," Willow shifted in her chair, leaning forward in earnest. "Let me see if I've got this straight, Angel. The Master made Darla." She counted one finger. "Darla made you." She counted two. "And you made Drusilla?" She counted a third finger and looked up at him for confirmation.

"Right," Angel agreed quietly.

"Then, you killed Darla, Wolfram and Hart brought her back as a human, and Drusilla made Darla a vampire?" She blinked, shook her head once. "Again?"

Angel nodded.

"Then you… slept with Darla, she got pregnant, and then staked herself to give birth?"

Xander raised his hand again, classroom style. "Can we please get off the merry-go-round of Angel's family tree? I think I'm getting dizzy."

"It does redefine dysfunctional doesn't it?" Giles asked, sounding mildly impressed.

Willow's face scrunched up in a frown as she mulled all that over. "But Angel… how was the baby…" She raised her brows and gave him a tilted, embarrassed smile. "You know, how did it get conceived?"

"Well they had sex, of course," Anya said, as if it should have been glaringly obvious.

"Okay, now, I'm gonna be sick," Xander observed, loudly.

"Yeah, I got that," Willow said, giving Anya a disgusted glance. "But I mean… how?" She looked back at Angel. "Vampires aren't supposed to have babies."

His expressionless face grew darker, tauter, conveying unhappiness with his reply. "We're not sure."

"Angel…" Giles shook his head. "I must confess. No matter how the child was conceived, I don't understand why you would bring him to the Hellmouth."

"It's the safest place for him," Angel answered with a mild shrug. "Not only is he with me, but the creatures searching for him would never think to look here."

"Well, I can certainly see why," Giles almost sputtered. "It's one of the most dangerous places on earth. No one in their right mind would bring a baby, especially one this extraordinary, here."

"I had to come back," Angel said, and closed the subject with a final, penetrating look at the Watcher.

Giles' gaze slid sideways to where Faith sat, almost as if he couldn't help himself, and then he glanced back at the vampire and dropped his eyes with a self-conscious nod. "I see."

"So now that we've all heard about the Boy-Wonder, can we please get on with the apocalypse meeting?" Spike asked, voice straining on the verge of violence with impatience and boredom.

"I thought you weren't in a hurry?" Faith mocked, voice icy as she raised a brow at him.

"That was before I had to sit through the undead remake of 'Away in a Manger'," he sneered, rising from his chair in a swirl of black leather.

"There's… an apocalypse?" Angel asked slowly, eyes traveling over each of their faces.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike muttered pressing the heel of one hand against his brow. "You people should just print pamphlets."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith told most of the story, beginning from the time Angel had left, interrupted only occasionally by a comment from Giles or Tenth, and when it was done, he looked at her with eyes so deep and concerned that at last she had to look away.

"So…" he said, shifting as he absorbed everything she had told him. He glanced over at Connor, who was sleeping peacefully in a wicker basket, his tiny face the only thing visible amidst the tumble of blankets. "We don't know much more than we did before."

"Not yet," Giles replied, regretful. "If we could only discover what this creature is, or why they wanted the scroll…"

"It's not the scroll that's important," Spike said, and everyone turned to look at him at once. "The way I hear it, it's some old religious tome that's got them all in an uproar."

Faith sat forward in her seat with a sudden, violent motion, anger and betrayal contorting her features. "The scroll has to be important. They killed my Watcher and burned down our house to get it."

"Sorry luv," Spike said with the shrug of one shoulder and incline of his head. "I'm just the messenger."

"How do you know this?" Giles asked, brow furrowing with suspicion.

"I ran into an old friend of mine tonight, succubus by the name Cherry. She says there's a ritual, and it's definitely to bring back some kind of big bad, but she doesn't know who. Seems the person running this group is some kind of nasty powerful. Got a grip on her followers even a succubus can't break." He slipped his hands in the pockets of his duster and leaned back against the wall, shrugging. "No one knows who she is."

"She?" Giles interrupted, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah. She doesn't seem to have a name. Her followers call her 'mistress'."

"Mistress…" Giles murmured thoughtfully. "It doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid."

"Could she be related to the Master?" Willow asked. "I mean, not very original, but hey, vampires, not always the smartest Peanuts in the pumpkin patch." Everyone fell silent for a moment. "Uh, it's a whole 'Great Pumpkin' theme," she explained and then glanced at Xander, who smiled.

"That explains the little black rain cloud," Spike snarked, with a look at Angel.

"Peanuts?" Angel asked in quiet disbelief.

"No offense," she offered with a weak shrug, and then bulldozed over the subject with eagerness. "So, the Mistress and the Master, maybe?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Perhaps," Giles agreed with a nod. "But it could just as well be a title given to her by her followers. She may be known in history by her true name. We'll have to research."

"So we've still got nothing," Faith said with a disgusted sigh.

"No," Angel said, fixing her with a quiet, steady look. "It's a good start. Even if she's recorded by her true name, there will probably be references to what her followers call her."

"Well, it's a good thing you're here to reassure us, Sunshine," Spike mocked. "Don't know what we ever did without the undead cheerleader here to keep our spirits up. I know I feel better now." He was so bored and sarcastic that for a moment he sounded sincere. "Don't you?" he asked Faith rhetorically.

But Faith didn't hear him at all. Angel's last words still echoed in her mind, syllables leaving an almost visible trail of color and vibration as they shook loose thoughts long tucked away, reverberating through the corridor of memory. A flash of white sand, stabbing pain in her side, a gurgling gasp for breath, and she knew this was it, she was dying—and then the memory spun away, shattering into so many shards of multi-colored glass, white desert reflected in a million tiny mirrors for an instant, and the resonance their destruction made came together in a single, sharp sound that formed a word as it shot like a bullet into her consciousness, into knowing.

"Daeonira," she whispered with trembling lips, and the word escaped her like curse, hardly knowing it had been released at all.

"What?" Xander asked, looking at her oddly.

She turned and looked at him full on, her eyes steady now, aware, though they were no less filled with strange echoes and emotions than her heart. "Daeonira," she said again, with emphasis, as if he should know what it meant.

"Oh," he replied with a lilt of his eyes that suggested she might have just lost her mind. "And what is that, exactly?"

Angel, who had been leaning over the back of a chair, stood up straight and gripped the wood so tight that it creaked in protest.

"It's her name."

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"I didn't really know her," Angel explained, hand curled into a light fist, chin resting in the shallow circle of thumb and forefinger as he flipped idly through the pages of a book. The others were silent, listening with rapt attention as they pored over their own books, scouring for references. "She was more like a legend. She was an ally of the Master, incredibly old. Some said she was the first vampire he ever sired, and some said she sired him."

"You never met her?" Giles asked, glancing up from beneath his glasses.

"Darla and I weren't with the Master very long. I—Angelus didn't like him."

"Shock! Horror!" Spike muttered without surprise as he paced restless circles around the group.

"We don't have anything about her on our files," Fox said with a sigh of disappointment and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Willow glanced over and gave him a wan, encouraging smile.

"She was very secretive," Angel said by way of agreement. "Most people hadn't ever seen her face. There was debate over whether or not she actually existed."

"Giles! I think I've got something!" Willow spoke up, excited. "Here," she said, pointing to a paragraph on the open page. Giles and Angel came up on either side, flanking her as they read over her shoulder. Faith rose from her seat and moved between them, behind the witch, and nearly bumped into Spike, who had wandered over as well. He cut her a scathing look and she shot him a sardonic wink in return, and they both turned shoulder to shoulder, sharing the space by mutual, unspoken agreement. She could see the smirk still lingering on his profile and felt her own smile surface for an instant, then turned her attention completely to the book, craning her neck to see over the witch's head.

"'…such occurrences are repeated throughout history, Roanoke being the most famous. In Cadiz, Spain, an entire Phoenician trading colony vanished almost overnight. Since such colonies consisted almost exclusively of seafaring men, it was thought by most civilized people that the colony had simply moved on. But the more primitive natives whispered dark and eerie tales of a word carved into a rock near the shore of the colony, written in a language ancient even to them. It read Daeonira, and its significance is still unknown…' Giles," Willow shook her head, frowning. "The date of this event is documented as 1100 BC." She turned wide eyes on him. "Can that be right?"

Giles pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "I'm afraid so, yes."

"But… that would make her almost three thousand years old, Giles," Faith said with a tiny laugh that implied the idea was pure craziness.

"At the very least," he agreed, face devoid of humor. He slipped the glasses back onto his nose and pushed them up with a practiced gesture. "Don't worry, Faith. The Master was far older than that, and Buffy defeated him. And you and Buffy defeated Kakistos together. Even the oldest vampires can be vanquished."

The Slayer shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked away from the tiny group around the witch, turning her back to them. "Sure. Right," she agreed with an abrupt nod. "It's just… I never really think about how long they've been alive—just how long it takes me to kill 'em. Kind of a shocker." She bowed her head and fell quiet, more disturbed than she'd let on.

"So what do you think happened to the colony?" Willow wondered aloud.

"I'm guessing 'Suck-a-palooza' in a big way," Xander answered, grim faced.

"I bet she made them her minions," Willow added.

"Well of course." Anya shrugged. "If you're a sexy gal looking for male minions to worship you, you can't get much better than sailors. They practically do that anyway."

"I don't know if I'd call that worship, An."

"Lust, desire, want... they all equal the same thing," Giles said with an indifferent shrug. "No matter what its form or end, that sort of passion is a type of worship in and of itself. Such emotions carry great power."

His words reminding her of their conversation earlier, Willow cut him an uneasy glance.

"The question is," Faith said, swinging her hips with slow steps away from the group, her back still turned. "How does she do it?" She stopped walking, abruptly, and folded her arms over her chest.

"I think we've got bigger problems than that," Angel spoke up after a moment. His finger traced the tiny print on the parchment of the book he was looking at. "'After the turn of the second Christian century, the divine one shall return, and the one called Daeonira shall herald his coming.'" Angel looked up and caught Giles' eye as the Watcher came closer, leaning down to view the print.

"Sounds like our big nasty's resurrection ritual," Spike commented.

"Is this our apocalypse?" Willow asked leaning over to get a better look.

"It's not exactly apocalyptic, but it doesn't sound like it bodes well," Angel replied.

"So more like an opening act for the apocalypse?" Xander asked with grim humor.

"Probably." Angel caught Giles' eye again as the Watcher stood up. "It was a prediction made by an ancient vampire called Heronia, just before she was slain."

"The seer?" Giles asked, surprised. Angel nodded in reply, letting his eyes carry the gravity of that affirmation.

The look between them lasted so long that Xander finally sat forward and waved a hand at them to get their attention. "Hello? You guys wanna share with the rest of the class?"

"Heronia was a famous vampire. A seer," Giles replied, distracted as he broke the look between himself and Angel and turned, leaning back against the table. "Almost everything she predicted came to pass."

"Does that mean we can't stop it?" Willow asked, concerned.

"We won't know until we try," Giles shrugged. "Nothing is set in stone."

"Well, did she make any predictions after this one?" Xander asked. "'Cause that'd be a dead giveaway on whether or not we're gonna pull this thing off."

Giles consulted the book again briefly. "It doesn't say, here. I'd have to get a listing of her predictions to be sure, but I don't believe there are any predictions chronologically later than this."

Faith turned and walked back toward the table. "This divine one… It's a he, he's returning, so he's been here before." Her eyes fell on Angel almost accusing, expectant. "Come on, Angel. Who is it? I know you've got some kind of idea."

He hesitated a moment, all eyes focused on him, then steeled himself and looked up at her. "I'm not sure. But…" he went on, giving in beneath her glare. "If I had to guess… I'd say the Master."

Faith's blood rushed cold in her veins for an instant. Oh yeah, that was all she needed, two ancient vampires out to destroy the world.

"Angel," Giles said, reproachful. "You know just as well as I do how impossible that would be. N-not only are his bones crushed to powder, but, but the spell requires the blood of those who were closest to him when he died, and Jenny is—"

He broke off abruptly, and the look that passed between them this time was swift and filled with a myriad of emotion. The pause in conversation was slight, but telling. Angel dropped his eyes to the ground, and the Watcher turned slightly away, not looking at the vampire as he continued in a quiet, far more subdued voice. "Jenny is dead. The spell would be thwarted by her absence, even if it could still be used. Even if this Daeonira was very close to the Master, it would be impossible for her to bring him back."

Faith let the silence play out a moment longer, then pressed on. "Okay… any other guesses?"

Giles raised his shoulders in a vague shrug and shook his head, looking lost. "None at present."

Angel shook his head as well, still not looking up from the floor.

Willow cleared her throat, uncomfortable, and stood up. "Um, guys, I know we'd love to figure this all out tonight, but I've really got to get some sleep. I've got classes tomorrow."

"And someone has to run the shop tomorrow," Anya added, rising from her chair as well.

"Yes, yes," Giles agreed with a motion of his hand. "Go home, rest. The books will still be here tomorrow."

Angel shifted from one foot to the other. "Um," he spoke up with a pointed look.

Giles looked at him, questioning, and then realization swept over his face. "Of course. You'll need to stay somewhere…" he tried very hard not to look at Faith, "comfortable. I'm sure we can, ah, set something up for the you and the baby in the training room."

"What?" Anya demanded, stepping closer to Giles. "You're going to let that puling, vomiting creature stay in our store?"

"Anya—" Giles began.

"Why can't they stay at the mansion with Faith?" Anya challenged. Faith turned began to intently examine the contents of the spice shelf, as if fascinated. "Or your house?" Giles looked flustered and began to protest. "See! You don't want them at your places either! Why do we have to be stuck with them here? Give me one good reason!"

"I can pay you," Angel offered, voice calm and quiet.

"Oh." She straightened thoughtfully, then smiled, big and bright. "Okay then."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Far beneath the streets of Sunnydale, the mistress sat upon her throne chair, one leg hooked over its arm, ancient tome laid open across her lap. Several more books were stacked haphazardly on the small table beside her, surrounded by pencils and notepads. Scattered paper filled with tiny, concise script covered the entire scene, from table, to lap, to floor, but she seemed not to notice it—indeed, she was deeply involved in another tightly written calculation, sharp teeth gnawing at the end of the pencil, worrying the eraser to shreds, when Zhaad entered.

She finished writing off the line she was working on and glanced up, impatient. "Speak."

"The others have come searching for their companion, as she predicted they would," he said without preamble.

Her eyes went wide for a moment, and then she realized what he meant. "The woman from the Order."

"Yes, mistress."

She twiddled the pencil between her fingers thoughtfully. "And?"

"They've made contact with the Slayer and her group."

The pencil came to an abrupt stop.

"They appear to have allied, mistress." He was careful to keep the emotion from his voice, as neutral and impartial as a news anchor giving the daily report. The best thing he could have done, really. Any attempt at showing sympathy would likely have sent her into a rage and resulted in the delivery of her wrath.

She thought for a long moment, considered being angry, and then shrugged, looking back down at the book in her lap. "They're likely not a threat. They know nothing. After all," she reasoned, with a self-satisfied grin, "there's no way that they could." She looked up at him again, face sly, her smile deepening and twisting into a smirk.

"Blackwell has made very, very sure of that."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith stepped out the back door of the shop into the cool night air, took a deep breath, and turned her face up toward the stars.

"Hell of a night," Spike growled from the shadows, the orange glow from his cigarette flaring up in the darkness.

"No kidding," she agreed with a nod of her head. She tilted her head from one side to the other, trying to ease the tension in her neck muscles, and they stood there together for several minutes in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

"Right. So. About earlier—" Spike began as he moved into the light, and she just had time to note the uncertain note in his voice before it broke off, his body tensing as he spotted someone coming around the corner.

Faith dropped back into a fighting stance even as she swung around, following Spike's gaze, and caught just a glimpse of a black clad form emerging from behind the dumpster.

"Faith?" Angel's voice, soft and hesitant.

Spike made a grunting noise of indeterminate nature. Stepping into the fluorescent light behind the store, Angel's eyes flickered in the other vampire's direction, then proceeded to ignore him. "I thought I heard you," he explained, speaking to Faith.

"Yeah." She stood straight and let her posture relax. "So, did you forget where the door was or did you think skulking around the building in the shadows would be more fun?"

"I was checking the perimeter. Thought I should get familiar with everything since Connor and I will be staying here for a while."

The door creaked open and Giles poked his head out. "Oh good, Faith, you're still here. With Spike and Angel," he sounded pleased. "I wonder if I could see the three of you for a moment. I require your, ah, input as experienced warriors."

"You mean you need our help moving furniture?" Spike asked, surly and unimpressed.

"Well, er, yes."

"No sweat, Giles." Faith flashed him a smile.

"Very good. I'll just go move some boxes out of the way." He retreated back inside.

"Guess we should go," Faith said, with a look at both vampires. Angel scuffed his feet, looking morosely down at the ground, and she turned toward him. "Moving furniture… depresses you?" she ventured with a raise of brows.

He lifted his head and she was struck again by the sadness in his eyes, the way it went straight through her right to her heart, piercing like an arrow, filling her with confusion like poison. And still, his eyes were veiled, mysterious even for all that they showed, and she could not know how deep the silence ran, or where the concern left off and the love began, or if it began at all.

A moment of awkward silence passed between them, eyes locked and hearts torn, words on their lips that burned to be spoken.

She heard the door open behind her, could sense Spike waiting there, could imagine his annoyed, impatient expression as he prepared to throw a nasty comment at them about taking their bloody time, and relieved that she had an out, she took a step backwards toward the door.

It slammed shut.

She blinked, surprised, feeling somehow trapped and betrayed. He'd left her. Angel was here, and Spike—

Okay, never mind that. Salvage the situation. Quick.

"So, some reunion, huh?" she asked, feigning cheer.

"Not exactly what I had in mind."

"Yeah, you know, I wanted streamers and balloons, maybe a big cake with a stripper, but the vampires wanted apocalypse." She gave a wry grin and held up her hands. "What can you do?"

"Faith…" He swallowed and glanced away, expression pained.

She froze, gaze falling, locking on the ground, almost vacant. "Angel… Don't."

"No. I want to. I need to." He took a moment, gathered his thoughts. "I… I made a bad decision," he said it as if the words hurt him, and she knew instinctively that the hurt was for her, for all she had suffered while he was gone. "I thought you'd be better off without me around." He hesitated, seeming to struggle with the words. "I'm sorry I left. If I'd known…"

She nodded, still not looking at him. "It's okay. I get it."

He shook his head, helplessly. "It's not okay. I never should have—"

"But you did," she said, voice taut.

He flinched and his puppy dog eyes filled with guilt that said he'd deserved to be kicked like that. She grit her teeth and fought for control, the sight of his regretful face only serving to make her angrier. She caught her temper, reined it in, and forced herself to go on in a more calm tone of voice.

"Look. Angel. I was really pissed at you. I'm still pretty pissed, but there's bigger stuff going on right now." She pushed her hair back out of her face, tucking it behind one ear, and looked up at him.

"I understand."

"I know." She gave him a sad, faint smile.

"I thought I was doing the best thing for both of us. I thought it would be better if we had time to figure out how we feel—felt about each other." He stumbled over the last few words and stopped, looking confused.

"And?" she asked quietly, hardly daring to breathe.

He looked at her with lost eyes and shook his head slowly. "I don't know."

"Well, good thing you took your time figuring that one out," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"It's not like this has been easy for me, either," he defended himself. "What about you, Faith? How do you feel?"

How did she feel? How did she feel? She hovered on the edge of explosion again, and in the moment, she could see that he was ready for it, body tense, expression expectant, braced for the impact of her barbs—and then, she just… stopped. She could do this, fall back into the routine, go down this path again… but with the end of the world on its way, did she really want to waste the only time they might have left? And if she didn't even have the strength to tell him how she felt, how could she have the strength to bear any of the coming trials she would surely have to face? Besides, she thought with an inner grin, the truth might just be enough to catch him off guard and send him stuttering into embarrassment, and that was something that never failed to entertain her. So how did she feel?

Screw that. No analyzing. She jumped forward with both mental feet and let the truth come free.

The faint smile lingered on her lips and she folded her arms over her chest, taking a slow step closer to him. "Right now? Looking at you, I can't decide if I want to hit you or kiss you." He blinked and took a breath he didn't need, and she couldn't read his emotion. "But hey, that's cool," she relented. "I've felt that way a lot lately."

His gaze turned slightly suspicious, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure that one out.

"And, I've got too many other things to focus on right now, so lucky you; you're at the bottom of the list. You get a reprieve. At least," she added with a light shrug, "until this thing is over."

"And then?"

"If we live?" She took another step toward him. "Your ass is mine." She paused, tilted her head as she considered that for a moment, then flashed a dazzling grin. "And you know, I'm still not sure if that means kicking your ass or jumping your bones."

He smiled, the smallest of smiles, so faint, but definitely there.

"Let's get this straight. I'm not forgiving you."

"I know."

"But…" She hesitated, self conscious, and then forced herself to say it. "I'm glad you're here, Angel." It was true, after all. With Angel back, she felt safe, more sure of everything. No matter how strange things got between them, no matter how much he'd hurt her, his presence soothed her, calmed her in a way she couldn't describe or explain.

"What happened to you?" he asked, soft and wondering.

He stared at her with wonder and something like pride, and again he pierced the veil of her soul, pulling it back to reveal something foreign and tender. And she hated him for making her feel that, hated him with a passion that made her want to kiss him until—

Okay, whoa, backing away from that intense, psychotic feeling, right. now.

She took a step backward and tried to regain her wits. "Nothing compared to what's going to happen if we don't get back inside the shop. Giles may not look like much, but Watcher rage?  Not a pretty thing. We should go."

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but he only nodded. He looked just as tired as she felt. "So we're still friends?"

One corner of her mouth twisted up in a smirk, and she put a hand on her hip as she looked him up and down. "Sure. I mean hell," she shrugged, "the world's probably only got a few weeks before it blows up, anyway. I think I can pretend to like you for that long."

He smiled at her then, a real smile, and it warmed her heart more than anything she'd felt in a long time.

And she thought, for the first time, that maybe… just maybe, they'd get through this all right.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Elsewhere…

Something shifts and mewls eagerly, scratching at the skin of the world with long, black claws that have too long been denied the texture of human flesh. It reaches out with its mind, feeling for the one who will soon free it, sensing her presence, so close to the other side of the rapidly thinning barrier.

The time is close now. The moon grows wide and bloated again, and soon its cycle will come full circle.

Soon, it will be part of the world again, and humanity will tremble before its wrath.

Content, it turns away from the barrier, curling up within itself to wait. It has no need of worry or fear.

After all, its destiny is written.