CHAPTER 12: REVENANT

This is a mean old world to live in,
And I can't face it all by myself, at all.
And, dogs begin to bark,
all over my neighborhood.
The dogs begin to bark,
all over my neighborhood.
I got a feelin' about the future,
and it ain't too good, I know that.
I know, I know, I know.
Ain't superstitious,
but a black cat crossed my trail.
Bad luck ain't got me so far,
and you know I ain't gonna let it stop me now.

            ~Superstitious, Rod Stewart
______________________________________________

"Here's the deal." Faith folded her arms over her chest and paced a step or two, dark eyes glittering like hard candy as she looked them over. "We go in hard and fast with a small team, get Blackwell and get out."

"That's it?" Xander asked, sounding stunned.

"Faith…" Angel hesitated. "The last time someone tried to resurrect the Master, they lured Buffy out so they could kidnap Giles and Willow. This could be the same kind of trap."

She gave him a tight, vague smile that was laced with bitterness and amusement. "I know. That's why you're staying here."

Angel went completely blank for a moment (which Faith noted as something of an accomplishment), and then looked at her with a kind of offended ire that would have been comical under other circumstances. "No."

"We need someone here to protect everyone while I'm gone. Someone who can fight."

"Everyone here can fight." So quiet and stern, there was nothing soft about him just then, and yet he reminded her of a little boy somehow, one that wants his way and intends to have it.

"As good as you can?" He dropped his eyes and she figured the silence was just as telling as any spoken answer would have been.

"We've done just fine on our own, before." Xander sounded slightly defensive. "Wait, I'm arguing your side." He turned to Anya, as if uncertain. "Am I arguing her side?"

"You heard him." Angel stood up straight, reaffirmed, as if the decision had been made, and she sighed.

"Your son is here, Angel. What if something happened? You can't leave him. It has to be you."

He looked like she'd sucker punched him in the stomach, and that was okay, because pretty much, she had.

The surprise and hurt vanished almost instantly, and Angel's face tightened, eyes filling with familiar, helpless brooding. He thought about bringing the kid for a second, she could see it, but she saw he knew just as well as she did what stupid idea that would be. She could tell he felt he had the right to go with her, that he should be the one, if anyone, to go with her. Maybe he even felt a little bit of a need to watch over her, protect her. Maybe she even wanted him to… But the time for all that was long past.

"Spike and Tenth go with me. The smaller the group, the less chance we have of getting caught. That leaves you as the only heavy hitter besides Willow. There needs to be a fighter here. You're it," she said simply, and shrugged. And it sounded casual, certain and inarguable, just like she'd planned it. How easily the words left her mouth. It was almost amazing. Guess that's what a lifetime of lying and covering your ass would do for you. It just didn't seem right that those same qualities should help when it came to playing leader.

He opened his mouth, and she could have sworn she could see a dozen arguments in there, just dying to leap out, and then he slowly closed it again, looked down at the table and nodded. Connor was the one thing he couldn't argue around, no matter how much he wanted to. She could imagine all too easily what would happen if the vampires showed up here, and she imagined he could, too.

"Good. Okay, I'm gonna need to get some weapons and—"

"You're going tonight?" Everyone seemed startled by that.

"Patience; not really one of my… whatever you call those things."

"Virtues?" Giles suggested.

"Yeah, those. I'm pretty sure I don't have any of those. In fact, I'm probably lucky I even know what that means." She shrugged and gave a thin smile. "Besides, the apocalypse is six days away. I'm thinking we get her out of there tonight that gives us at least five days to party. Hell, maybe the whole month if she turns out to be the key to this thing."

"Even if you do manage to get her away safely, it's unlikely that Daeonira will simply leave town," Giles said, almost chiding.

"I know. But hey, we can hope, right?"

"You're not going to engage her," Giles half-stated, half-asked.

"Not unless I have to." She turned to Spike and Tenth, who had already taken up positions near her. "You guys ready to rock n' roll?"

The looks they gave her said they were more than ready.

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

Forty-five minutes later, Faith's wounds were dressed, she'd taken the Angaturan antidote, Willow had shown them Blackwell's location on the map of tunnels, and they were stocked and ready to go.

She checked her inventory one last time, fighting down the nervous butterflies that flitted through her stomach. It felt like a parade of butterflies down there, complete with marching bands, majorettes and giant floats. Looking over her gear was as good an excuse as any not to meet anyone's eyes, and though it couldn't have been more than a couple minutes, she looked herself over so long that Tenth began to shift with impatience.

"Well, go on," she snapped. "I'll be out in a second."

He nodded and went without hesitation. So much fun, that guy. At least he'd had a slight sense of humor before they'd figured out where his friend was. Now he was all business.

"You, too," she urged Spike when he didn't immediately move. The guy was fidgeting like he needed a dose of Ritalin, and all she wanted was for both of them to get out.

Spike raised his brows, lingered a moment, looking her over, then shoved his hands deep in his duster and drew his shoulders up as he walked out.

She was all alone in the training room, and she took the moment just to breathe.

Come on, Faith, get a grip. You can do this. Don't let them see a moment of weakness, not an instant of doubt or they'll—

The door opened again, slowly, and she knew who it was before it opened far enough for her to see. The butterflies slammed together in one big lump and fell to the bottom of her stomach, tiny wings fluttering weakly with panic. She hadn't wanted to have to face Angel again before she left; her heart was hammering and her stomach felt like lead, and yet, at the same time, she was overjoyed to see him. No wonder people were so damned crazy. It was a wonder they got by at all without a permanent supply of mood-altering drugs.

"I… wanted to talk to you before you go." He darted dark eyes at her, hesitant and unsure.

And despite the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave her, she bristled. Or maybe that was why she bristled. "If this is the part where you give a speech about destiny and noble death and all that crap, save it for when I get back," she said, brisk and annoyed as she began to shove past him. He grabbed her arm, gently, ever so gently, and pulled her back a step, looking at her intently.

"I will be back," she said, sounding more defensive.

"I know." And she could see the truth of it in his eyes, in the funny little half-smile that played about his lips.

She looked at him askance, confused by his manner. "Good."

"I just wish I could be there."

She glanced down, self-conscious, and shrugged to play it off. "Yeah… me too." And she did. Oh, God, she did. Even now she was fighting temptation not to break down and beg him to come with her. If Angel were there she'd be safe, protected, she wouldn't have to worry about anything. And that was exactly what she didn't need right now. Still, the words hovered on the tip of her tongue, tingling there, and reluctantly she drew them back, knowing she couldn't do it. She couldn't risk it. Everything might depend on this. And Angel, Angel who knew so much, who it seemed sometimes knew everything, didn't know. He didn't know the real reason she couldn't take him with her, and if things turned out half as well as she hoped they would, he'd never have to.

A pause, a heartbeat or two. "I wanted to give you something." And now he was shy and hesitant again, the confidence of a moment ago completely gone. He fumbled a chain out of his pocket, handling it carefully.

She stared at the object for a moment, more confused than ever. It was possibly the biggest, gaudiest cross she'd ever seen in her life. Madonna would have adored it.

"You always carry crosses around in your pocket? Seems kind of like an occupational hazard."

"They come in handy," he answered with a shrug. He was silent, contemplative as he considered the thin silver chain links, and she could tell he was thinking of the past. "I know it's not original." He seemed embarrassed. "I gave one of these to Buffy once. It seemed… like a requirement for the Slaying business. I don't know if it did any good, but I felt better, knowing she was wearing it."

She blinked. What the hell was he trying to say, here? Didn't matter. Cover with humor. "So does this mean we're like, going steady now?" Reapply as necessary.

He blinked in return, freezing up, and she grinned, taking the chain from his hands. "Just kidding. It's a little retro, but hey, you never know." She shifted her demeanor forward, all thrusters go, set on casual. Didn't want to make this into a big deal, didn't want damage their relationship. She didn't know exactly what their relationship was, except that it was stupid, and complicated, and it often felt insurmountable, but at least it was something. He cared, in some way, and that was all that mattered.

Funny, the things that suddenly became clear when you thought you might be about to die.

He smiled a little, and nodded, and she smiled back uncertainly.

"Um… thanks."

He nodded again, and there was an awkward moment where she didn't quite know what to do. She was reminded of the time—it seemed so long ago now—in his mansion, when there'd been no barriers between them, nothing but intense skin and words and emotion. This moment was exactly like that—unless you counted the strained silence and the incredible discomfort. But the emotion, some kind of emotion, anyway, was definitely there.

"Here, let me put it on for you."

She turned and he draped the chain around her neck, and she felt his fingers fumble with the clasp at the back of her neck, skin grazing over hers with tiny, delicious chills. She closed her eyes and felt the nearness of him, the comfort, indulging in it freely for an instant, knowing it might be the last time. Oh, she talked big, all right. But then, she always had. She had no idea if she was coming back from this mission. For all she knew she might die, or be turned, or succumb to the darkness in her own soul. This might not be the apocalypse, might not be the final, penultimate battle, but the stakes were just as high as they ever got, and she was keyed up as hell, was hyper-aware that this could be her last moment for everything.

She turned back toward him when it was done, and he only looked at her, eyes speaking to her in some cryptic language she wasn't quite sure she understood.

"Be careful."

"I will."

They stared at each other for a long moment, faces close, closer than friends should be. Treading on dangerous ground, they were, and yet neither of them moved, did not so much as breathe. Or so it seemed.

"Angel…"

He shook his head gently and gave her a small, ironic smile. "Save it for when you get back." It was all he said, but she could see in his eyes that he knew already what she would have said. Knew everything except the one thing she'd been careful to hide.

If this were a movie, she thought, they would kiss now. But it wasn't. He wasn't Prince Charming and she was hardly a Princess waiting to be rescued. It struck her then that she was the hero in this particular drama.

She hoped that somewhere there was a script for it with a happy ending.

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

As they made their way through the Sunnydale graveyard to the entrance Willow had pointed out, Faith had Tenth scout ahead and lead, partially to keep him focused and busy, but mostly to give herself some time to think things over.

Spike strutted along beside her, occasionally casting her a knowing, sidelong glance, and she ignored him for as long as she could. It wouldn't be long before his mouth got the better of him and they'd be off and running, pending apocalypse notwithstanding; another day at the sarcastic races.

"Where'd you get that ugly thing?" he asked, placing strange, British emphasis on the last two words.

"Hellmouth yard sale," she shot back, amazed at the breezy note in her voice.

"Hmph," he grunted. "Pope's going to be wanting that back, you know. Catholic Church has the market cornered on tacky martyr accessories."

She gave a surprised chuckle and shook her head. "Well, when he's got the market cornered on fighting Hellmouth monsters, then we can talk."

He tromped through the damp grass, silent and contemplative. "So you've got this all figured out, have you?"

"Hey, I figure the two dozen POW movies I watched over and over in prison can't be wrong. How different can it be?"

He gave her a look that made her upper lip want to curl in a snarl. "I've got it under control," she asserted, voice sharp, commanding.

"Well," he aggrandized with trademarked sarcasm. "Doesn't sound like you need any help."

Her expression darkened, and she looked away, not wanting to play this game anymore. The time for playing games had been over since the moment she'd found out about the apocalypse, and though it still stung her pride to speak the truth, she found that it came with only a little difficulty. "I told you before; I can't do it alone." Her voice was measured, steady.

"Thought you'd want your lover boy by your side. Knight in shining armor and all that."

"He's not my lover." Angrier now, more strident.

Spike snorted. "You're wearing that God awful thing he gave you 'round your neck—that's got to be love."

"It doesn't matter." She was quiet with finality as she stopped walking and turned on him, surprised at how true it was, and he only stared at her, looking just as surprised.

And now the words came hard. "It's got to be you, Spike. You're the only one I can trust…" She ran a hand through her hair, refused to meet his eyes. "Angel might hesitate. I know you won't."

And he saw it all, then, big, bright and perfectly written. Neat, concise, writing on the wall in huge indelible letters.

"You're afraid that they're right. That you're going to go over to the black hats."

"It is a prophecy," she argued, halfhearted.

"You're afraid of yourself," he realized out loud.

"Well duh!" she exploded. "Did you see the big, blinking neon sign or did you manage to figure that one out with three working brain cells you have left?" She grabbed her hair and twisted it back from her face, aggravated. Took a breath, tried to calm herself. "Look. If it comes down to it, I need to know… I need to know that…"

"That I'll take you out." It wasn't a question. He understood all too well what she meant. It pained him slightly to think that he might have to do it, that she wanted him to do it. But he knew that of them all, he was the only one who could do it with any kind of a clear conscience. He could. And they both knew it. And he didn't know if he liked the truth of that.

"Yeah." She met his eyes at last.

"Could always let Harris have a go," he teased, the hint of smirk ghosting over his features.

She gave a gusty laugh that felt like relief. "Hah. Yeah, I bet that'd be a real turn on for him. But…" she turned serious again, like turning on a dime. "But when I go… if I go," she corrected with determination, "I want it to be by someone who…" A dozen words flitted through her mind, dozens of fancy sayings and meaningful quotes. She disregarded them all. "Someone who understands."

He took a moment to soak that in. For most people, that wouldn't have been much, would have meant almost nothing, compared to what they'd like to hear. But he did understand. And he knew that her admittance of that meant more than anything else she could have said.

He nodded. "Looks like I'm your man."

And amazingly, she grinned. "No. You're not." She tilted her head and gave him a long, hard, hungry look. "But there but for the grace of God…"

He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and smirked.

And then she grabbed him by the back of the neck and did what she could not do, dared not do, wished she had done to Angel; she kissed him, mouth as hungry and hard as the look she'd given him a moment ago. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back with matching passion, demanding all that she would give.

It was a long, torrid moment before they finally drew apart, and then she looked up at him, still grinning.

"For old time's sake," she said, sliding a hand down his sharp cheekbone.

Then she turned from his embrace and gathered her wits, the rush of the kiss not leaving her easily. Beneath the pregnant moon there was nothing between them but the sound of the mild California breeze, and she closed her eyes, listening to the sound, trying to collect herself. It wasn't simple chemistry that was choking her. It was fear. Fear and the knowing that this could be last time she touched another person, took another breath.

"Eat, drink, and be merry…" Spike's voice interrupted her thoughts but continued in the same vein.

She took a deep breath and looked back over her shoulder at him. "For tomorrow we may die," she finished the quote with flippant grace. But she turned quickly and strode off into the night, as if she wanted to leave the words behind her.

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

Spike took the kiss for what it was; a goodbye, a finish to things left unfinished between them. He knew that even if she survived, it would mean nothing more than that.

Had it not been for Angel…

The thought called up ghosts from the past, ghosts thought long dead and buried, ghosts that should have died a hundred years ago, and some that were new.

Had it not been for Angel, a great many things, he thought bitterly, and let it go at that.

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

Everyone tried to go about business as usual as best they could, but it was obviously a forced effort. Xander shuffled pages. Anya cleaned listlessly. Fox stared blankly at his monitor until it seemed his eyes would burn. Tara and Willow made awkward conversation as they perused books of their own. Giles alternated between flipping pages, looking contemplative and cleaning his glasses. Only Angel seemed intent as he read, eyes soaking up the knowledge of the pages as if his very life might depend on them.

Dawn observed it all from her perch on the counter. In her lap, she cradled Connor, fascinated by his existence as she occasionally hummed to him. He was a nice excuse not to have to observe the tension around her, but even if she didn't look directly at it, she could feel it, like a slow wire tightening around her neck, threatening to choke her.

Tara and Willow had come to get her just a little while ago, rousing her from sleep and explaining the situation. They'd thought, given the circumstances, that she would be safer with them. She figured that was covert-speak for 'Faith might turn psycho again'.

"Giles," Angel's voice broke the silence that had descended over the shop, shattering it with dread and urgency. Everyone looked up at him, eyes sharp and afraid. Dawn clutched Connor closer to her body, suddenly scared, more scared than she had been when Willow and Tara had woken her.

"What day is it?" He demanded, terse.

"W-What?" Giles seemed taken aback and everyone else, though they didn't seem less worried, regarded the vampire with a little more doubt. Then again, he's a vampire, Dawn thought. Probably not much need for knowing what day it was.

"What. Day. Is it?"

"It's, ah, Tuesday? The, er, 15th?" Giles glanced at the calendar as if to be sure. When the vampire flinched as if the words had cut him, Giles frowned and looked at him more seriously. "Angel. What is it?"

Agitated, Angel fairly twitched with foreboding. "Your calculation. It was wrong. The Mesopotamian calendar doesn't put the ritual at six days from now."

"Wh-what?" The Watcher shook his head, bewildered. "But—then—when?" he stuttered out.

Angel looked at him with intense, fearful eyes.

"It's happening tonight."

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

The tunnels began to narrow after a time, dank earth closing in around them like a velvet glove that came ever closer, dark fingers threatening to crush them in its grip. Faith slowed, motioning for the others to stop as she pulled out the map, examining it in the feeble light of her glow stick, feeling ridiculous. Maps were for vacations and tourist trips; not for tracking down a lair of vampires that might be closing in around you on all sides while you looked at a piece of paper, turning it this way and that, trying to get your bearings. Might as well write "Free Food" on the back of it in huge letters. Still, no vampires attacked and she managed to find their place after a moment, and motioned them forward, choosing a tight, tiny tunnel to the left that forced them to go forward in single file.

They reached another side tunnel and detoured into it briefly, and almost instantly the earthy throat began to widen, becoming rockier as it opened up into a small chamber. She motioned to the others again, then turned, pressing her back flat against a crevice in the wall that hid her from the chamber's view. Spike and Tenth followed her lead, pressing themselves into tiny alcoves, just the edges of their faces leaning out, eyes focused on what lay before them. She could smell the sweat, the anticipation, and could feel her own beginning to build. She forced herself to be calm, and peered out carefully, taking stock of what she could see in the rock room ahead.

Torches burned in iron brackets that appeared ancient, lending the stone wan, brackish light. The shifting luminescence made the room appear even more sinister than complete darkness would have, suggesting movement and shadow and the resting place of pale things that had no need for the light of day. Seeing nothing but stone, she leaned out a bit further, and saw the dull gleam of metal. It was the corner of some kind of box, as old as its wall hung metal counterparts, and if the size of the corner suggested the dimensions, it had to be pretty damned big. Emboldened, she leaned out even more, revealing more of the massive box. Not enough. She couldn't see the other side of the room.

In one quick, silent movement she threw herself across the passageway, concealing herself in another crevice almost instantly. She paused, feeling sweat run down her back as she listened for any sound of detection or alarm, and slowly relaxed as none came. She leaned out again, seeing the other side of the box now, and the far wall. As far as she could see, the small chamber was completely devoid of life.

She waited a moment more, until she was absolutely sure that she could hear nothing, and then detached herself from the wall, motioning Spike and Tenth behind her.

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

Giles stopped gaping long enough to ask, "Are you certain?"

"Completely."

"But…" Willow rose from her seat, frowning in confusion. "Giles, how could that be?"

"Well, I—I, ah, the Mesopotamian calendar was never my, ah… it's very difficult to…" Giles attempted to defend himself. "It's difficult to translate correctly."

"I've got to go to Faith. She has no idea this is happening," Angel declared with grim determination, slamming the book shut and throwing it on the table with a thud.

"Yes, yes of course," Giles nodded, glanced down at the page he'd been reading. "We should all—" He broke off suddenly and froze, eyes transfixed on the book as if mesmerized by the words.

"Oh. Oh, dear Lord."

Tiny spiders of trepidation skittered down the length of everyone's spines, and Angel paused in mid swooping stride, head swiveling slowly toward the Watcher. The room itself seemed to hush with foreboding, and if the silence had been loud before, it was deafening now.

Giles moved his lips and found he didn't have the breath to speak.

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

They entered the chamber, weapons drawn, slow and cautious and they looked for any sign of movement. A second box came into view, its length hidden by its angle in comparison to the first, and at last they stopped, lowering their weapons slightly as they realized they were completely alone.

"This is it," Faith whispered, trying not to hiss the sibilants. She frowned, glanced left and right again, uncertain. Why wasn't anyone here? Surely if this woman was as important as everyone seemed to think, there would be guards? Or maybe… just maybe, this was a trap.

She glanced at Tenth and Spike and saw her thoughts reflected in their faces. She hesitated a moment more, then slowly went forward, brows drawn in deep thought as she considered the two large iron boxes. One was padlocked tight with a huge mechanism, and that was going to be a problem… but the other… she took another step closer. The other one was open, revealing a slit of darkness almost an inch wide.

She glanced at the other two, made sure they understood her intent and that they had her back, and then she wedged the toe of her boot inside the opening, pulling the door with her foot and leaping backward.

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

"We… we have larger problems than, than that." Giles found his voice, though it was a pale shadow of itself, and collapsed into a chair as if all the life had suddenly drained out of him. "All these years…" he whispered, face white as paper. "I always thought…"

Everyone stood, stared.

"I made a terrible mistake." He looked up at them all as if a man who finds himself caught in nightmare and hopes he is waking. "The text… the ancient Sumerian was translated to Latin so badly… it said that the ritual to revive the Master required the blood of those closest to him when he died."

"We know that, Giles," Willow prompted, voice commanding, as if she hoped to stave off whatever was coming.

"After what happened…" He tittered a bizarre, frightening laugh. "Even the vampires misunderstood. This text is quite clearly translated… It requires…" His gaze turned haunted. "The blood of the ones that were inside him when he died."

It seemed that no one breathed.

"Only a slight mistranslation, but a meaningful one." He looked down at the book again without seeing it. "Of course. Who could be closer than the one he had drained?" His eyes snapped up and locked on Angel, shell-shocked. "She was closest to him when he died."

"Giles, what are you saying?" Willow asked, her voice a tight squeal verging on panic.

Angel stood, just as frozen as Giles by the revelation, the meaning of it sinking deep into his bones with a horrible chill.

"He's saying that they need Buffy's blood to complete the ritual."

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

Faith landed her leap in a fighting stance, legs and fists at the ready as the corrugated iron door swung open to reveal—

Nothing. Nothing resided inside the hulking shell, unless you counted the musty, faintly rotten smell that rose to her nostrils. She held her stance a moment more, more confused than ever, then shrugged tightly at the others. Still tense, she moved toward the next box, pondering how she was going to get the damned thing open without bashing it in and rousing every vampire within a mile radius.

Before she could even touch the lock, Tenth drew something from one of his many concealed pockets and stepped forward. It was a tiny glass tube, she saw, and the extreme care with which he handled it made it clear that whatever was inside it, it wasn't something he wanted to get on himself. He pulled the top from it with a faint popping sound, and gingerly poured a bit of the contents onto the lock. Smoke began to rise from the metal and he stepped back quickly, closing the tube, re-concealing it and lifting his weapon so fast that the vial might never have been there at all.

A moment later the lock fell to the floor in a smoking, tangled mess of iron. Faith gave Tenth an appreciative look, then stepped up to the box. No toe this time; she'd have to pull the door by its lock loop to open it.

She took a deep breath and put her hand on the metal, its surface still warm.

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

"Dear God," Giles murmured. "We've been looking in the wrong direction the whole time."

Angel didn't hesitate. Where Faith was going was the safest place she could be.

"We're all going. Now."

Anya took a sudden, uncertain step toward him, confused. "What? Where?"

Angel closed his eyes and steeled himself, then opened them again, trying to make the words as expressionless as possible. "They need Buffy's blood to bring the Master back. They're going to go to her grave, try to…" He tried, he tried valiantly, but he couldn't make himself finish the sentence.

"Bring her back?" Willow's voice was tremulous, broken and terrified beyond all reasoning.

"Yes." Giles galvanized into action as he spoke the word, turning to grab his coat.

"Oh, God." Xander pulled his hands down over his face.

They ran.

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

She stirs faintly, with the vague sense that something is wrong. There is little that bothers her now, in this dank, confined little world where she exists. Her arms tingle with needle pricks, both from lack of movement and far more hideous things, and she whimpers, trying to move them, trying to protect herself from what she knows is coming. Once, the world was kind. She no longer remembers how she knows this, has no specific memory of it, but she knows that it is true. She also knows, on the rudimentary level that animals know, that something dangerous is coming. She would run if she knew she still had legs and knew how to use them. She would fight if she could still lift her arms. She would scream if she still had the strength in her lungs. But she has none of these things, and so she pants in short harsh breaths, knowing that something is coming, remembering what it is, what it must be, what it always is, and she twitches with the memory of fight or flight, her primitive brain not understanding that neither option is available to her now.

She retreats to the furthest corner of her mind, the one they have never tamed or reached, and crouches there, trembling and afraid, knowing not what she fears.

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

The Scoobies, Angel and Fox raced to Buffy's grave as if the hounds of Hell themselves were chasing them, feet pounding, hearts thudding, the world an incomprehensible, unimportant blur around them, and when at last they crested the hill, most of them panting and out breath, they paused, almost forcibly stopped by the scene before them.

The clearing below seemed to gleam with moonlight, every blade of grass illuminated by the full moon above, tiny shadows standing just behind and beneath in sharp contrast. The trees that lined the clearing stood as they ever had, leaves and bark almost sharp in the fullness of light, their mystery lost in its gaudy illumination. Near one tree, toward the edge in the center, a stark headstone poked its way above the ground; a lone sentinel who bore witness to this strange beauty and was neither bothered nor moved by it.

There was nothing else. The clearing was as silent and sacred as the Scoobies had ever wished it could be.

Angel took several uncertain steps down the hill, then turned back to the others, his face pale and lost in the moonlight.

"They're not here."

His voice cracked like old bones, sending chills through them all.

"They're not here," he repeated, mystified, and turned to look again, as if he might be proven wrong.

The clearing stared back with blind, uncaring eyes.

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

Faith pulled open the door and quickly leapt backward, hands lining up to take out whatever might jump out of the darkness within.

Adrenaline pumped hard through her, making her muscles feel like live wires, and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she missed the faint moan that issued from within.

But Tenth didn't.

He moved forward with such speed that Faith took an involuntary step backward, caught off guard—and then the big man was pulling a woman from the black insides of the box, a poor, withered, emaciated woman who had probably been beautiful before all this had happened, her Hispanic heritage stamped deeply into her face if not her name. Blackwell.

"Sophia." Tenth cradled the woman in his arms as he lifted her, whispering delicate words of comfort, and Faith turned slightly away, feeling intrusive.

That was when she heard the chanting.

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

The streets of Sunnydale looked quiet in these early hours of the morning, homes dark and without any sign of life. Everything looked peaceful, almost serene... but behind the silent walls, life was anything but peaceful.

Children moaned and cried in their sleep, woke shrieking from nightmares. Lovers clutched each other tightly in the darkness, stirred restlessly in their beds, disquieted by something they could not name. Those who were still awake found themselves pondering pills and razor blades, or perhaps the axe for chopping wood that rested in the backyard, with dark intent.

Sunnydale had always been a town with death and murder in its heart, and now, that heart woke and began to beat.

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

Spike inclined his head slightly to the side, as if listening, and Faith knew he could hear it, too.

"Tenth, get her out of here!" She snapped, abrupt.

The bronze-skinned man lifted his eyes to her in confusion.

"Something's happening. I—We, have to see. Get her out of here while it's still safe."

And then she saw that he was hearing it, too. He hesitated for a moment, torn, and then nodded to her with great respect.

"This will not be forgotten."

"Great. Take out an ad in my honor when you get back, but get the hell out of here, now."

He nodded once more and then retreated back the way they had come, Sophia Blackwell cradled in his arms like a baby.

"What do you think?" She looked sidelong at Spike.

"I think the ritual's come a few days early."

She forgot to breathe for a second. "It can't be. We freed Blackwell."

He glanced toward the sound then looked back at her. "No guards, no sentries on the way in… sounds like hella chanting going on down there. What do you think is happening?"

She thought about it, listening to the building sound of chanting voices rise from below, and was terrified by how much sense he was making. She wasn't prepared for this, wasn't ready to engage her enemy head on, alone. Well, almost alone, she amended. Maybe she could go back, get the others…

Right. And maybe the Master will be polite and just wait another hour before he pops through into the world so I can dust him easy.

Now or never, Faith. Moment of truth. She didn't recognize the voice that spoke in her mind, but she figured she got the message, anyway.

She held Spike's gaze a moment more, then turned and took off at a dead run toward the sound of the voices.

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

Lights began to flicker on inside the houses above, voices erupting in chaos behind the drawn curtains. The doors to some of the homes opened, spilling confused and vaguely terrified people into the night, clad in their pajamas as they wandered the confines of their lawns. In the distance, sirens began to wail, the fire alarm to sound, and everywhere along the streets, dogs began to bark incessantly, heads occasionally cocking to the side as if listening to something far off and away.

A few people had crawled from their beds with darkness in their breast and strange murderous voices echoing in their heads. These stood strangely silent and unmoved by the chaos, their heads also cocked to the side, as if listening. They alone understood intrinsically what was happening, and they knew that however bad things might seem at the moment, this was only a prelude.

Things were about to get a hell of a lot worse.

And they thought that was just fine. Just fine, indeed.

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

Faith raced through the tunnels as if the fate of the world depended on her speed, everything around her becoming an irrelevant blur. Here, there were vampires at last, but it mattered little; they were just as unimportant as everything else, barely worthy of the time and attention it took to stake them. She scarcely felt their dust as it mixed with the sweat that ran from her pores, grave rotten smell sinking deep into the skin, filling the fine lines of her face with a gritty gray paste and painting her features in monochromatic ash. Like a Celtic warrior she charged, face fierce, painted gray instead of blue, mouth twisted in a snarl of battle rage, weapon held high and proud. When the tunnel ran out, ground extending just beyond the mouth in a small ledge, she had to dig in her heels and slide to a stop to avoid going over the edge. To her left, the ledge curved sharply away and descended toward the lower level, but her attention was fixed straight ahead, stupefied by the scene laid out before her.

Below, in a cavern of enormous size, were gathered literally hundreds of vampires. The walls stretched far beyond the light that surrounded them, rising high and disappearing into darkness, yet they were twisted and packed in a tight knot of limbs, jammed shoulder to shoulder as if there weren't enough space for them all, necks craned upward and back as they chanted, as if trying to get a better view of what lay further beyond. Faith felt terror mingle with battle lust for the first time since she'd begun running, and she had a moment to be grateful that their backs were turned to her, or she would have been sighted immediately.

But only a moment, because then she saw what they were so fixated on.

Tall, wrought iron candelabra's burned with the light of many tallows, hundreds of tiny flames forming a rough oval that ringed the area just beyond the worshippers. A female figure stood alone there in the area that was a wide, shallow depression just beyond the crowd, flickering shadows conspiring to make her appear even more awe inspiring as they played over her body. Her back was also turned to Faith, head thrust back, arms held out high as if in supplication as she lead them all in the chorusing chant.

Daeonira.

And just beyond her, there stood a stone dais. The pliant body of a human woman lay face down upon it, body unnaturally still and uncomfortably arranged, her arms dangling over the edges. Unconscious, perhaps dead, Faith couldn't tell.

The chanting rose to a fever pitch that was almost a shriek, and Daeonira's hands moved with gestures that were at once commanding and imploring. Faith tensed, preparing herself to leap—and then the woman's hands splayed out high with authority, one last word uttered like a dying curse.

"Come!"

In the immediate, ensuing silence, Faith was stunned. It was over. Worms turned in the earth, and the earth spun on its axis, and she stood rooted to the spot in disbelief.

Too late.

Around her, the entire world began to shake.

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

In the clearing, Angel and the others drifted down the hill to the grave marker, as if in a dream.

"What does it mean?" Dawn demanded, her voice shaking.

"I don't know." Angel glanced at her, still looking lost. "If the translation was right, they need Buffy's blood…" He turned in a half circle toward the bottom of the hill again. "Her grave hasn't been touched, the ground is whole… which means they should be performing the ritual right here."

"Maybe Giles read the translation wrong?" Xander queried. "Again?"

"Perhaps…" Giles admitted with some reluctance. "But if that were true, then…"

"They'd still need our blood?" Willow this time.

Giles threw up his hands in frustration. "Technically the Master shouldn't be able to come back at all, according to what we knew before."

"Well… then… that means we should be safe, right?" Willow asked, voice hesitant.

"Relatively speaking, I suppose."

There was a moment of silence, everyone glancing around as if suspicious the words would be contradicted at any second. When nothing happened, they all relaxed, and Giles opened his mouth to suggest they head back to the shop.

That was when the ground rumbled beneath their feet.

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

Around her, the earth trembles and lurches, and she is dimly aware of the danger. She is scared, and her body is still weak and in pain, but the dark confines of her prison are behind her now, and despite the danger, she feels better than her scattered memories can recall. She knows she is held safe now, tucked in the gentle arms of… someone who cares.

"Hold on, Sophia," the voice of her savior whispers urgently. "We're almost there, almost safe."

Sophia. Yes. That is who she is. She remembers now. Remembers everything with vivid clarity. And she knows exactly what is happening.

The sense of safety flees, and with a terrified moan, she turns her head against the man's broad, comforting chest, and holds on for dear life.

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

"Slayer—" Spike spoke up, voice urgent as he looked at her, saw her frozen like a deer in headlights beside him.

She turned to look at him with wide, haunted eyes, stumbled and fell against him as the world bucked and shuddered beneath them. He grabbed her by the shoulders, fingers digging deep into her upper arms, stared straight into her eyes. "If you're going to do something, now would be a good time."

The stupid doe-eyed look left her, but he could nearly smell the terror as it poured off her in waves of bitter sweat. Above them, the ceiling cracked open with a thunderous sound, a shower of earth and dust and stone raining down on them. The sound seemed to snap her from her paralysis, and she pulled away from him, turning back toward the congregation below, face pale and determined.

Faith gathered her body like a coiled spring and leapt, hit the ground on both feet two stories below, tucked and rolled to lessen the impact, and came up with twin stakes in her hands. The ground seemed to writhe beneath her, and she struggled to keep her footing, dodging falling rock as she sprinted around the crowd of vampires. Distantly, above the thunderous roar, she heard the sound of exploding dust and knew that Spike had followed behind her, distracting them, engaging them, giving her time to get to the dais.

A vampire turned toward her, leaped awkwardly from the rumbling ground, and she simply dodged, ducking beneath it, never breaking her stride. She passed through the ring of candles, stakes held ready, and heard gasps among the congregation as they sighted her. They surged forward as if to grab her but didn't seem to quite dare break the circle themselves, clawed hands slicing the air just beyond her head. She ignored them. They were irrelevant now. That the ritual had been completed didn't even matter now. Her focus narrowed to one goal, supernatural senses guiding her body almost on autopilot, carrying her through the motions. She had almost reached Daeonira when the woman spun, turning on her with a demonic, fanged grin.

Faith felt the horror of recognition surge through her like lightning, slowing her hand, dulling her instincts, exploding through her body like electric jolts. Her heart lurched once in pained understanding, and then went numb with stupid shock.

Cultured tones that had no business issuing from such a creature rung with familiarity in her ears. "Hello, Faith. I've been waiting for you."

Beatrice.

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

The town of Sunnydale had seen a lot of earthquakes in its day. In fact, you could almost consider it an old pro when it came to natural and supernatural disasters of any sort. The ground had roared and rumbled and shook, the plates had coasted over one another and teased the geography, and every now and then, a fissure had even opened somewhere. Always small with respect to the scale of the town. Never anything serious.

But if there was one thing the residents of this city, and perhaps the city itself, had learned in their time, it was this:

There's a first time for everything.

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

The Main Street of Sunnydale cracked open like an egg as the first tremors exploded into life, asphalt spraying up and raining down in a deadly geyser. Shops and homes alike slide down the steep incline to the welcoming maw and were swallowed with convulsing, greedy gulps. Glass and wood and steel were crushed, shifting rock within the earth grinding and devouring, reducing them to gritty paste. Water mains tore open, gushing tons of water into the air, filling the hole, making the pavement slick and the ground muddy. The crunching, rushing noises, mixed with the thick tearing sound of pavement, served to diminish the screams of humans who attempted to flee the destruction. Dozens of pale faces, mouths opened in round dark holes, eyes bulging with panic, arms and legs flailing. One by one they all fell to the slick perilous slide, disappearing into the jagged hole, lost to the gnashing teeth of Sunnydale's tectonic plates.

In the old part of town, a yawning mouth opened and devoured half the old city in one, quick bite. As if delighted by its meal, the mouth split wide in a grin, cracks traveling with lightning speed in opposite directions, creeping into the suburban areas of town. All around, buildings shook and shimmied and shattered to the ground.

And so it went, and so it went.

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

The ground split down the middle between Angel and most of the others with a rending, tearing sound that nearly deafened them all, shaking with such fury that they lost their footing and tumbled to the ground like rag dolls.

"What's happening?" Dawn screamed.

Angel alone remained on his feet, preternatural reflexes coupled with the instinct to protect the baby on his back, and he reached down and grabbed Dawn, pulling her to her feet and dragging her away from the rapidly widening fissure.

On the other side, Giles was similarly urging everyone away, half running, half crawling away from the gaping hole in the ground. Tara screamed and grabbed for Willow, trying futilely to hold on to something.

The earth cracked again, fissure spreading eagerly through the clearing and into the woods beyond, widening with greed, and the ground tilted crazily away beneath their feet, sending them sliding toward the hole.

Tara screamed again and grabbed for purchase, one hand tearing at the grass for a hold, the other clenching Willow's hand in desperation. She heard Willow scream in return—and then the hand was gone, sliding through hers like sand between her fingers.

Horrified, she turned and looked back—

--and saw her lover tumble away into the gaping maw.

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

Blue eyes that had always seemed so calm and serene stared at Faith with madness and laughter. How? How could this be?

"I thought you were dead," she whispered, shocked, betrayed beyond understanding.

"Oh, I am," the woman agreed, fanged maw splitting in a wide grin. "And soon, you will be, too." She lunged at Faith like a cobra, so fast the Slayer could hardly track the movement, dagger extended and eager to taste blood. For a split second Faith stood, still frozen and confused, limbs failing with the depth of her shock—and then survival instinct kicked in and she spun away from the razor sharp knife.

She felt it pass through the flesh of her upper right arm, tearing flesh, tendon and muscle, flaying her open to the bone. Hot warm, wetness rushed from the gaping wound, and Faith screamed in agony.

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

Willow tumbled through the air for a long, eternal second, fingers clutching at everything and finding nothing—and then she struck ground with a bone-rattling thud, pain flaring like a red supernova through her shoulder joint.

Moaning, she pulled herself up, knowing only that she had to escape the earth before it claimed her completely. She looked up, and her mouth opened in a perfect circle of dismay as she saw where she was.

Above her, the stone grave marker sat split asunder, each half splayed out on either side of the fissure. And if it was directly above her, that meant she was—

She looked down and saw herself sitting atop the dark, dirt stained wood of a coffin.

Buffy's coffin.

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

Faith stumbled back, holding her wounded arm, and dodged her former Watcher's next attack, ducking under the woman's arms and rushing past. Once behind Daeonira (Beatrice?), she spun and kicked the woman in the small of her back, sending her flying away. She took a split second to breathe and assess the damage. She still had two legs and an arm left, maybe she could—

Beside and behind her, just next to the stone dais, the ground cracked and split open, black wound opening in a rapidly widening circle that looked anything but natural. Faith stared, thunderstruck, and a bony, taloned hand burst free of the opening, fingers grasping at thin air almost triumphantly. Mocking laughter echoed up from within, and the hand grabbed the edge of the pit, quickly followed by a second.

Eager, maniacal laughter issued from behind her, and she could hear Daeonira exulting. "Yes! Yes! He comes!"

For an instant, Faith was transported back into her vision, and she knew what would happen next. A bald, gleaming head cleared the hole, ears curled against the skull like bat wings, eyes red with madness and death. Soon, those fingers would curl around her throat and gleefully choke the life from her, and she would be powerless to stop it.

The Master.

The thought jolted her into action, and she turned toward the dais. Grabbing the girl that lay there, she hoisted the body over her shoulder, then turned and ran for the center of the chamber.

The vampires seemed to have forgotten her, having fallen to their knees at the sight of the Master being birthed from the ground, and she darted through them, struggling to keep her balance as the world pitched and shifted.

There was no time to think about what she was doing. Instinct alone guided her to the stalagmite that rose out of sight into the darkness of the cavern ceiling. Still holding the woman on her shoulder, she spun and kicked out with her foot, landing a solid blow on the rocky projection. She spun too far as the ground shifted again, almost lost her balance, then came around again, kicking it in the exact same spot.

It gave with a satisfying crack, black line appearing across its breadth. Faith paused, preparing to kick it again, and then heard the ceiling begin to rumble ominously. The split in the rock disappeared, became invisible for an instant, and then the weight of the stone above came down full force and crushed the base, upper half crumbling as it fell forward.

She dodged around its path and ran with all her might, stumbling as the rock formation hit the ground and shook as if the world were tearing itself apart. A large chunk of the ceiling broke free and fell as if in slow motion, hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, crushing vampires like flies beneath its weight. And then the rest of the ceiling began to break apart, chunks of rock falling everywhere all around her. Somehow, Faith managed to keep her feet and sprinted the last bit of distance to the ledge she'd leaped down from, coiled herself and sprung upward.

She barely grabbed the edge of the lip, and she grit her teeth as her nails bent backward, dirt digging up painfully beneath the skin. She felt herself slipping, and cried out with primal rage, forcing herself up with a last surge of strength.

She pulled herself up, exhausted from exertion and blood loss, and kept running, the ceiling caving in like the end of the world behind her.

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

The ground began to shift again, moving back toward Willow almost eagerly, as if determined to catch her and crush her.

There was no time to think. She summoned the magic and used every resource within her to push herself up into the air.

She rose above the fissure just as it collided with coffin beneath, its upper edge barely missing her feet. The wood splintered and burst open like a rotten fruit, and she threw herself sideways, using the last of the magic to carry her away.

As she hit the ground, strange thoughts tumbled and collided inside her mind, and she grappled with them, trying to understand.

She was up and running from the deadly maw when it hit her, and she nearly fell down again, knees going weak as she realized the awful truth.

No. Oh please, no.

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

Faith crawled from the underground entrance, dazed and still bleeding, girl still slung across her back like a sack of flour. She crawled a few more feet from the entrance, heard the tunnel collapse behind her, and then her body gave out completely.

As if now that she'd escaped it had lost interest, the quake ceased, earth settling uneasily back into its normal stillness. She lay there in the grass, panting as she caught her breath, and then slowly rolled over, letting the woman slide gently from her back. She half sat up, and turned the woman over, wondering if she were dead.

Dirty hair matted in tangled snarls covered the woman's face, and she reached out to move it away.

The woman snarled like an animal and jumped to her feet, face contorted with inhuman rage as she slung the mass of hair back.

"Oh my God," Faith breathed.

"You," the woman seethed, towering over her with quivering anger so thick it was palpable. "This is all your fault. Yours and theirs." The woman's stick-like arms crawled over her body as if in disgust. "I can feel you all here, inside me, your voices inside my head. You never shut up." She bleated insane laughter. "You all thought you were so smart. You just did them a favor." The laughter faded and she trembled again in fury.

"Oh my God," Faith whispered again, trying to sit up. "No, please—"

The woman lunged for her, and before the inhumanly strong hands locked around her throat, choking her, Faith saw with a sickened feeling in the pit of her stomach that the woman's wrists were sliced open with thin, bloody wounds. For an instant, her vision recurred, and she pushed it away, struggled to fight, punched the woman with her good arm, but the blow was ignored.

The world began to go black, and Faith flailed weakly, trying to push the woman off to no avail.

"I wanted to die," the woman rasped, vehement. "But I can't even die, because of you. I can't die because you're keeping me alive." Her eyes went wide in sorrow and horror, and tears seemed to tremble on the verge. "I have to kill you all," she whispered, sounding terribly alone and frightened. Then, without warning, without rhyme or reason, the hands were suddenly gone from Faith's throat, and all she could hear was the sound of hurried footsteps running away.

"No." Faith raised a weak hand as she slipped into unconsciousness, the woman's name lingering on her lips in an anguished whisper.

"Buffy…"

And then the world swam away.