CHAPTER 15: INTERVENTION

She stripped to the beat but her clothes stay on
White light everywhere but you can't see a thing
Such a squeeze
A mad sad moment
Glory to you
Take me there

Got some revelation
Put into your hands
Save you from your misery like rain across the land
Don't you see the color of deception
Turning your world around again?

            ~Suicide Blonde, INXS
______________________________________________


"Slayer," the vampire breathed in a low, ominous hiss, fetid breath like the stench of an unearthed grave, meaty and rotten. Its pale pink tongue played over sharp incisors, and the look on its face almost blissful, as if it were already imagining what her blood would taste like. The creature tensed, muscles coiling with unnatural predatory strength, and then threw itself at her, mouth wide open in a slavering grin that promised death and far more insidious fates.

It landed gracelessly on its face with a pain-filled grunt, the ropes that tied it to the chair drawing it up short and depositing it on the floor, chair flopping around on its back like some sadist's idea of a dinosaur sail-fin. The vampire lifted its face, nose bloodied and pride sore, and tried to crawl the last few feet to the Slayer. The baleful glare of its yellow eyes was so brilliant that it could have fried the Scoobies and company where they stood.

"You done with the drama queen thing?" Faith asked with a cool raise of her brows.

The creature snarled and lurched toward her again, chair tangling up in its movement, causing it spill over on its side. Its limbs waved like a helpless turtle's for an instant as it struggled to right itself.

"Guess not," she assessed with a dark grin.

"Naughty, naughty," Angel said, swooping in and scooping up the chair, setting it upright. The vampire tried to snarl, face lunging forward at Angel, and the corner of the souled vampire's mouth curled up in a hard smile.

Looking at that tiny smile on Angel's face made Faith shiver and feel exceedingly warm at the same time. She glanced away, focused her thoughts, and hardened her expression again as she stepped closer to the vampire.

"I'll never tell you anything, Slayer," the creature spat, all pride and fury within its bonds, and this time it was Faith's turn to smile. She wouldn't have been surprised by how similar the expression was to Angel's a moment before.

"You know, if I had a nickel for every time a vampire's said that…"

"What?" the vampire challenged in a voice that tried desperately to mock. "You gonna torture me? Doesn't that go against your 'good guy' code?"

The younger Scoobies shifted restlessly, and Faith spared them a sideways glance, then shrugged. "Theirs maybe. Not mine." Her dark grin widened and she took a step closer to the creature, coming almost within range of its grasp—if it could have grasped. She pressed her fists together and began to crack her knuckles, tilting her head toward the others. "Maybe you guys had better leave us alone."

The vampire's smile faded, a panicked look entering its feral eyes.

"Of course," Giles answered smoothly, not missing a beat. "Would you like us to bring in the communion wafers and holy water, or will hot pokers suffice?"

The vampire seemed to shrink within its bindings, form growing shriveled and pale. Its eyes flickered amongst them nervously now, not quite believing them, not quite daring not to.

"I was thinking more like ink," Faith said brightly. "We still have that tattoo gun around here don't we?" She looked at the vampire with an almost eager curiosity. "I always wondered what would happen if you tattooed crosses all over a blood-sucker."

The vampire paled—a feat Faith wouldn't have imagined possible, considering its pasty complexion.

"I figure it won't even kill him," she went on, seeming intrigued by the possibility.

"Okay," it mumbled, voice low and defeated. "What do you want to know?"

"I knew you'd see it my way," she said with mock-companionship, clapping the creature too hard on the shoulder. "We don't want much. Just wanna know what your sleazebag mistress and the Master are up to down there."

The creature glowered in silence.

"Why hasn't the Master ended the world yet?" she demanded more forcefully, eyes darkening and flashing fire, all pretense of friendship gone from her voice.

"He… can't," the vampire admitted reluctantly after a moment. "When the—when you brought the ceiling down it interrupted the ritual. The Master is trapped… again," it finished lamely, lowering its head as if in shame.

Laughter bubbled up from Faith's chest in black, hearty bursts. "You're kidding. Not even a guy as cheesy as the Master could be that lame."

The vampire glared at her balefully.

She stared in surprise for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed, shaking it all the while. "No way!"

Giles ducked his head to hide his smile, and the other Scoobies seemed just as amused. Only Angel stood, face devoid of emotion and placid as ever, eyes and ears attentive to every detail.

"So… we're safe then?" Willow asked, hardly daring to believe it. "I mean, if he can't get free, what can he do?"

"Well, he could scream and flail his arms around a lot," Xander put in solemnly, dark humor lacing his tone.

"Yes. That would be quite scary," Anya added with dry sarcasm.

The vampire lurched forward in its chair, wooden legs scraping across the floor as it strained to reach them in its outrage. "He will make meat puppets of you! Drink your blood and leave your bodies for the dogs!"

"Yeah?" Xander asked with a lop-sided smile. "He's gonna do all that from his little 'boy in the bubble' special place?"

"When his time comes, human, you will wish you had not mocked him," the vampire seethed. "He does not need to be free to conquer this world or defeat the likes of you. When his hands fall upon the—" the creature broke off, blinking stupidly, as if it realized suddenly that it had said too much.

"When his hands fall upon the what?" Faith asked, her voice sharpening into steel, eyes narrowing as she invaded the vampire's personal space.

"Oh, ah…" the vampire's eyes went comically wide. "Nothing." It shrugged. "I don't know what I was saying," it went on with a shaky laugh. "Must be blood loss. I'm giddy," it decided with a bright nod.

Casually, Faith pulled the cross from her neck and let it dangle before the vampires face, silver surface gleaming within centimeters of its unholy flesh. ""When he gets his hands on the what?"

The vampire watched the cross swing back and forth in front of its eyes as if it were being hypnotized. "I… ah…"

"On. The. What?" Faith asked, the cross dipping closer to the vampire's skin.

The vampire sighed and rolled its eyes, leaning back in its bonds. "All right."

Everyone in the room ceased to breathe, and each leaned forward in anticipation of what the creature was about to say. Faith tightened her fist around the chain of the necklace, lips pressing together in a thin line. Giles grew somber, put his hands in his pockets, and took a slow step toward the creature. The tension in the room was almost palpable.

The vampire licked its lips slowly, then spoke. "When his hands fall upon the—"

The door to the room burst open with a terrible clatter and the vampire broke off, staring down at its chest in disbelief. For a split second, Faith and the others stared with the creature, saw the wooden stake protruding from its breast, and then it was dust.

The ropes collapsed and fell to the floor, and as one, everyone in the room spun, falling back into fighting positions.

Three men stood in the doorway, each dressed in form-fitting black clothing, and behind them, in the outer room, stood at least five more.

One man in the front rose from his stance, relaxing the grip on his crossbow. A thin smile played about his ratty features as he surveyed the group, and he rubbed one hand over his cheek, as if suppressing laughter at some sort of joke he alone understood. He leaned back on one leg and nodded solemnly to them all, hand cupping his chin.

But he spoke to one alone.

"Hello, Faith."

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

Dru's cold fingers ran down the length of Spike's cheek, the touch of furtive spiders and thin silk, drawing a sigh from his breast. He reached up, pressed his hand against hers, thick graceful fingers over thin, and turned his cheek into her caress. This was good. This was right. He was the night, and she was the goddess of the moon, lunatic and luminous, the light by which his world was illuminated.

"Spike," she said with her lovely, thick accent, fingertips twitching against the smoothness of his skin, and his eyes flickered open.

He gazed upon night-blackened trees, their branches thick and twisted, weaving a barrier between the earth and sky. Strange, red fruit hung in overripe bunches, seeming to drip from the limbs, and from all around came the faint, thin sound of trees sighing and scraping against one another in the wind. There was an almost ominous quality to the sound, one that warned that these trees were hungry, that they longed for flesh between their long, bony fingers of bark, for blood soaking the ground and feeding their roots.

"Do you hear?" Dru asked, her eyes wide and wild as they stared at him.

"The trees? Don't worry luv, they can't reach us here."

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and her eyes fell away from him, rolling upward, beautiful face creasing with a frown. "The stars are weeping."

"Why are they crying, luv?" he asked, tilting his head at her.

She reached up with her other hand, grasping at the air as if she could pluck the stars only she could see from their heavenly place. "There are too many of them, and they've forgotten their names." She paused and titled her head, raven hair falling over her huge, dark eyes, and looked at him in that distant way that he knew meant she was seeing something else entirely. "She puts out their little lights, and gives no regard to her ruby slippers."

"Who, Dru? Who puts them out?"

She rose and moved from him, a filmy white ghost dressed in even paler gauze, drifting across the night with her arms upraised. The canopy of trees groaned and seemed to shriek as the branches were ripped violently apart, showering Spike in leaves and warm sap that smelled like… blood. The ragged hole peered into the night, revealing a moon that lay huge and bloated against the sky in an obscene mockery of pale beauty, and all around it the stars flashed and burned and fell from the sky.

"It's beautiful." Dru said, spinning around once under the pale light, arm still upraised. She closed her eyes and smiled, throwing back her head, and Spike tore his eyes from her to look at what she meant.

The fruit on the tree branches overhead hung distended, bright red surface grotesquely swollen. As Spike watched, the alien fruits swelled even larger and one finally popped in an explosion of pulpy gore. A human form stretched out from inside the red skin, from tiny fetal form to full grown human in seconds, and it opened its mouth in a shriek, arms flailing as it hung upside from the tree by its feet. All around him more fruit began to burst open, humans birthed from scarlet skin, all of them shrieking and screaming. They twisted and writhed on their branches as Spike watched in mute shock, and blood began to flow from their eyes, their mouths, their noses, everywhere until it poured from them in a steady stream. Rivulets of crimson sprayed and struck the ground, saturating it, soaking it, and the trees shuddered in ecstasy as they tasted of it.

"They sing such a pretty song," Dru proclaimed in a childlike voice, still spinning. She was streaked in blood, covered with it. He could even see blood on the dull gleam of her sharp teeth as she grinned and licked her lips with sensual vigor. She rose up on her toes like a ballerina, flexed once, then began to dance among the madness, singing with a young girl's lilt—and yet her voice was as queerly flat and expressionless as her eyes.

"Ring… around the rosy… pocket full of…" she trailed off, slowly coming to a halt in her dance, and looked at Spike. "I haven't enough posies for them all," she said, and pouted.

Then, still humming the children's song brokenly, she turned and began to spin faster, and faster.

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

Faith had a moment to register the man, his manner of dress, his abrupt actions—and then Angel stepped in front of her, solidifying the vague recognition she felt.

"You don't belong here," he said, matter-of-fact, the words themselves a deadly threat.

"On the contrary," the rat-faced man said with a good natured humor that didn't reach beneath his skin. "We," he spread his arms to encompass himself and all his fellows, "belong precisely here."

"Donner," Giles said, his voice thick with disgust as he named the man.

"Good to see you, too, Rupert," the man returned with a brief nod.

"Why are you here?" Giles bit off sharply.

"Giles?" Willow asked with an uncertain sideways glance.

Giles made a staying gesture with one hand, barely even noticeable to anyone not paying attention, but Faith saw it, and wondered if the man had any idea how much Giles had just saved his snotty little British hide. Impatiently, she pushed past Angel and walked up to the man, fighting against the erratic beat of her heart. She knew who they were now, figured she knew why they were here, too, but be damned if she was going to roll over and show them her belly.

"I think Giles asked you a question," she said, planting her feet wide apart and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, the Slayer's found her voice, has she?" Donner smiled condescendingly.

"Slayer's gonna find a whole lot more than that if you don't come up with an answer in a couple of seconds," she returned with a sweet smile that was fake as a three dollar bill.

Donner chuckled as if amused, seeming not in the least concerned. "The face changes, but seldom the attitude."

"You ever think maybe there's a reason for that?" Angel asked, voice quiet and still threatening.

Donner appeared to ignore the tall vampire, pulling at the sleeve of one of his gloves, drawing the leather fingers close against skin. "Breeding. Training. Lack thereof," he said with a disdainful shrug.

"Still not answering the question," Faith broke in, voice rising dangerously.

With an effort, it seemed, Donner focused his attention on the Slayer, dark brows rising with mild interest. "Like a dog with a bone," he nodded to himself, as if he expected nothing less or more. "Very well. We're here to talk to you, Faith."

"What? Picking up a telephone was too easy?" she challenged. "Last time I saw guys dressed like you they were trying to kill me."

He nodded, not in the least offended. "Yes. But things were different then, weren't they?"

She frowned, caught off guard. She'd expected him to protest, to try and smooth things over, or deny the reason he was there.

"You were the rogue Slayer, then, weren't you Faith?"

"Do you have a point?"

"Of course," he replied mildly. "One doesn't travel several hundred miles without a point, do they?"

Her shoulders slanted insolently and she drew herself up, matching the man's dispassionate stare. "Think you're gonna get to it anytime soon?"

A sarcastic smile graced his thin, cold lips. "The last time the Council's Black Ops came here, we were hunting you. Now, you are the one we turn to in our time of crisis."

Faith almost flinched, so great was her surprise. Even with a force of effort her face still twitched and she felt herself recoil internally from the man's words. "What crisis?" she demanded, suspicious.

"The new rogue Slayer," he said slowly, simply, and her blood turned to ice in her veins.

"Buffy has to die." Donner paused, licked his lips as if he were enjoying this immensely, and added, "Again."

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

Dru held out her arms and spun like a tornado, milk white against the velvet backdrop of night. A flash of her face, her delicate hand, her witching smile, all blurring into the whole of devastation, a force of nature that Spike could never hope to stand against. Blood sprayed up in a continuous fine mist as she turned like a dervish, and the humans lay slack among the tree branches, their dead faces already beginning to rot.

"Dru." He reached out desperately to stay her. "Don't, luv."

And even as he said it, the ebony sheet of night pulled away from the sky, ripping the burning stars and the heavens with it. And within the tornado of her beautiful fury, her face caught and held still, while her body still spun.

"Dust, all dust." She laughed, dark blood spilling out over white teeth. "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."

"Dru, stop!" He lunged to his feet, moving for the first time, only knowing that he had to stop her. He sloshed through the blood that covered the ground, and saw that it was already beginning to congeal. It clung to him in ragged, red clumps. He reached out to touch her with hands that were bloodstained, and he realized for the first time that he was just as covered in it as she was. He paused, transfixed by the site of it. Then he drew his hand back toward himself, licking the liquid from it with relish. This blood was free; he could drink it.

He smiled sly and cunning down at Dru, who had stopped spinning as he cleaned his fingers.

"Yes, love," she whispered. "Strength rides in her chariot, but the High Priestess has found her dog."

She wrapped her icy arms around him, and he felt her begin to change and shift beneath her dress, her maniacal laughter filling all his senses.

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

Giles stepped forward as if the force of his anger alone were enough defense against the weapons the men in black carried. "The bloody hell you say," he spat, blazing righteous anger.

Faith still stood frozen, her heart seeming to cease its beating, her breath caught painfully in her throat. Thoughts twisted and tumbled through her mind like letters on a Scrabble board, Donner's words grasped by some sort of instinctive intuition, but their meaning not given form, not yet able to be realized.

"No," Willow echoed, her voice high and hard, her step toward the men following just behind Giles'.

"Really?" Donner inquired, almost polite as he tilted his head at the witch, seeming to scrutinize her with his gaze. Willow took a deep breath and steeled herself, feeling dirty beneath the candid eyes that roamed over her. "The way I hear it, this is all your fault."

Willow paled, triangles of bright red color appearing high on her cheeks. Her fingers flexed and closed into fists, and fire flashed like lightning in eyes which had turned suddenly dark as the sky before a storm.

"Th-that's not fair!" Tara burst out, taking a half-hearted step forward. "We… we all…" she trailed off, growing confused, cowed under the man's stern, condescending gaze.

"We all did it," Xander said firmly, stepping forward as well. "If you want to blame someone, blame us all."

"Such nobility," Donner proclaimed with a roll of his eyes, affecting the manner of a man bored to tears.

"You wouldn't know nobility if it pierced your heart with a crossbow bolt," Giles snorted.

"Nevertheless, the rogue Slayer must die. You know she didn't come back right, don't you?" he asked, piercing dark eyes falling on each of them in turn. "To leave her like this would not only be an affront to her soul, but imagine the damage she could do if she decided to turn against you. She's simply too dangerous to let run about in her current state."

"We can fix her," Willow said determinedly. "We can make her right again. I know it."

Donner smirked, arching a brow at her. "Really? How? If you have a plan, by all means, let's hear it." He made a grand show of folding his arms over his chest and leaning back, giving the witch his most rapt attention.

Willow held his eyes a moment more then glanced away, face burning with humiliation and indignation.

"More magic, perhaps?" he mocked. "The Slayer should never have been resurrected in the first place. But since she has been, it is our duty, and your duty, Faith, to see that the situation is put right."

And still Faith reeled. Images flashed through her mind. She and Buffy fighting side by side, hand and fist and heart. Buffy shoving Faith's own knife through her guts after she'd tried to kill Angel. Buffy, hazy, kissing her on the forehead with gentle care as she lay in a coma. Buffy punching Angel as he tried to defend Faith. Buffy helping her escape the Council's hands despite it all.

She snapped back into the moment, mouth curling into a derisive snarl. "No." She replied, softly, succinctly.

"No?" Donner inquired politely, as if he were a matre'de and she'd only turned down the order of the day.

"No," she said again, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she blazed the sincerity of her answer.

"So you refuse to answer the call of your sacred duty in this matter?" he asked, as if to make the matter completely clear.

"It's not my duty to kill humans."

"It is when they are the Slayer."

"Buffy didn't desert me when you tried to hunt me down, even when she believed I deserved to die. And I'm not gonna desert her."

"Hmph," Donner grunted, and made a peculiar clucking sound.

"So, now what?" she countered, hands sliding down to her hips as she stood tall, shoulders slanted in a questioning, insolent posture.

"Honestly?" Donner asked, unperturbed, favoring her with a chilling smile. "That's exactly what we thought you'd say." He gave Giles and the others an almost mocking glance of admiration. "It seems nobility catches like a disease."

"Right," she replied, not really understanding, and not really caring to. "So don't let the door hit you on the way out."

"Oh, we're not leaving," he returned mildly.

"No?" she asked with a threatening raise of her brows, posture immediately going offensive.

"No," Donner answered, his voice almost trembling, as if with laughter. "You see, Faith, we wouldn't have come here at all if we honestly thought we could convince you to do the job. But we did have to go through the formality of asking. Council procedure." He spread his arms wide in a gesture that was more mocking than vulnerable. "It was worth a try."

"Then why are you here?" she asked sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Why," Donner said with a brilliant smile that bordered on sincere, "to do the job ourselves, of course."

"Thanks for making it so easy," he added with a nasty wink.

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

"Spike," a dark voice with honeyed overtones whispered over his ear. Delicious, warm breath over his skin, exquisite weight pressed against his body. "Come on, lover. Wake up."

His eyes fluttered open and Buffy's dark smile beamed down at him. "I thought you'd never come out of it."

Ah, he was still dreaming, of course.

Buffy leaned down, caught his lower lip between her teeth then rose up, still grinning darkly. "Come on, Spike. Rise and shine. We've got work to do."

With an effort, Spike shook off the remnants of his dream, willing himself to focus on the beauty of her face. Maybe if he could just… focus on her for a second, this nagging sense of wrongness would leave him. This nagging sense of wrongness that pissed him off on a level so deep he didn't have enough stairs to reach it. This was beauty, glory. He and Buffy, together at last, against the world. It was right like the stars in the heavens, the moon in the sky. He frowned, the thought reminding him of his dream—a dream that should have been the sweetest of wine to a vampire, and yet the taste it left in his mouth was bitter, sour, rank. Like the blood he had licked from his hand.

"What is it?" she asked, seeing the look upon his face. Beneath the coolness of her gaze he became completely aware that he was no longer dreaming.

"Buffy," he uttered the word almost gutturally, stroking his fingers through her gorgeous blond hair.

"That's my name," she quipped with a smile so bright it made his heart ache with remembering the vibrant, glowing girl he'd loved. This girl… she was like quicksilver through his heart, at once the woman he'd loved, the girl he'd known, and a new, fearsome creature that made even his dark heart quiver.

She trailed languid nails down his neck, a contented smile curving her lips, and in that instant, he knew nothing beyond the feel of her, the want of her, the love of her. To see her like this, to feel her like this—it was more than he'd ever dreamed.

"The Master needs us," she went on, still smiling.

"The Master can bloody sod himself," he replied, leaning up to kiss her.

She drew back with a coy smile, turning her head slightly away so that her eyes slanted down at him with sinful sweetness. "We've got an apocalypse to finish, you know."

"Oh, that," he murmured, still leaning into her, breathing in the sweet, warm scent of her skin. Strange how human skin always smelled and tasted sweet.

"Yes, that," she answered with a teasing kiss.

"Right then," he said with some authority, then covered her mouth with his, pulling her tight against his body. "We'll get right on that," he murmured into her lips.

"Promise?" she breathed into him, rocking her hips against his.

"Promise," he answered, gripping her hair and drawing her deeper into the kiss.

The stars, Dru whispered in his mind.

Shut up, Dru, he bade her phantom, and she disappeared obediently into the mist as Buffy sheathed him with heat beyond a thousand suns.

Agony became ecstasy.

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

"I won't let you do this," Faith raged, black anger radiating from her palpable waves. Her fingers clenched into fists, hands held tight at her sides, as if it took every molecule of self-control she possessed to keep from lashing out.

"Nor I," Giles added, stepping up close beside the Slayer. His Slayer. For truly she was becoming his as surely as Buffy had.

"None of us will," Willow finished through gritted teeth, stepping up beside them as well, and as one, the others followed her.

"Predictable," Donner sighed. "But since we are the ones holding the guns, I believe we get to make the decisions." He patted the gun holstered at his side.

"You realize, of course, that we have far bigger problems than Buffy's return?" Giles asked with mild condescension. "The Master has returned and he will destroy the world unless we can stop him. If you stand in our way, you threaten the very survival of the world. Your little grandstand has already cost us a valuable source of information."

"The vampire, you mean?" Donner asked, then shrugged. "We're in the business of killing, Rupert, not interrogating. Was a time when you knew that. At any rate, we were sent here with one mission, and it is that mission we intend to fulfill."

"We will stop you," Giles uttered darkly, eyes flashing like steel.

"I thought you had larger concerns?" Donner asked, loftily. He paused, then tapped a long, thin finger against his chin, contemplative. "Very well. Since it seems this means so much to you, I will give you twenty-four hours to put this situation right. If, by the end of that time you have failed to contain or 'fix' the other Slayer, which I highly doubt, then we will go into action." He gave a whip-thin smile. "All out of the goodness of my heart, of course."

"You don't have a heart," Giles stated with certainty.

"All right then," he shrugged amiably. "Out of my sense of sportsmanship. I love a good challenge, you see."

"We're so touched," Xander said, seething sarcasm.

"Don't be," Donner said, his manner turning dark and business like once again. "Because I'm certain you will fail, and I find the idea of your anguish, having tried and failed, so much more delightful than killing you outright. But rest assured, after the next twenty-four hours, if you get in our way, we will kill you."

"Not if we kill you first," Angel said with deadly softness.

Donner smiled again, in that thin, sharp way that did not penetrate his eyes. "Then let the games begin."

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

"So, you wanna suss this out for me?" Spike asked and snapped shut his cigarette lighter, inhaling deeply.

The Master and Daeonira shared a look, seeming to debate for a moment, then the woman stepped forward.

"The short version, then," she said, tersely. "I unearthed the Master's bones from the place where the Anointed One buried them after Buffy smashed them. They were sealed within a metal coffin wreathed in sigils of power to—"

"The Anointed One, eh? You mean he was good for something after all? I offed him myself, you know," Spike said, drawing himself up proudly. Daeonira scowled and started to continue, but he cut her off with an abrupt gesture. "That's the only part of what's already happened that I didn't know, luv," he said sarcastically. "Want to tell me something new? Something that's not yesterday's news?" he challenged, raising his brows.

She stared at him in outraged silence for a moment, and then she breathed deep and seemed to resolve herself. "Fine. You and Buffy and several of my followers will be taking a short visit to Los Angeles."

"This a paid vacation, then?" he asked, exhaling smoke. Buffy shot him a crooked grin.

"Your reward will come after you've retrieved what we've sent you for," Daeonira said coldly.

"So what is this item, exactly?" he queried, still sounding nonplussed.

"It is what will bring our vampire paradise to earth. That is all you need know."

"Oh, it's all right, mistress," Buffy said, placing particular, sarcastic emphasis on the title. She sidled up to Spike and snaked an arm around his shoulders, rubbing her cheek against his. "You can tell Spikey our plans. He's on our side, now, aren't you lover?" she asked, looking up at him with glittering eyes.

"I'm on your side, luv," he said to Buffy with a pointed look at Daeonira.

She eyed him with shrewd interest, then shrugged. "It would be of no use to you, anyway. The Master is the one prophesized to invoke its power."

"Wonderful," he quipped tonelessly. "You want to answer the question now?"

"Tell him the story, Daeonira," the Master urged, unfurling his hand from beneath his chin. "It can do no harm. And I do so love a good story."

"Very well." She licked her lips, warming to the subject. "The 'item', as you so…quaintly term it, is called the Winnowin. It is a very ancient, very powerful artifact. We need it to free the Master and invoke the apocalypse."

"So why not just get it yourself?" Spike asked with impatience.

She folded her hands within her cloak and turned, walking several steps away from them. "It's protected with a rather ingenious spell. Very well done, very thorough. The magic ensures that none can touch the Winnowin until a hero of good and an agent of evil willfully join together to bring it forth."

"That doesn't sound so very difficult."

"Think on it—a hero, a defender of good, one who champions the cause of noble spirit. Would one such as that ever seek to align themselves with evil to invoke such power? One of noble heart would not desire such power and would see the dangers in freeing it. Likewise, they would know that an evil creature would seek to use it only for destruction." She spread her arms and smiled again. "Ingenious, as I said."

"A hero could be forced. Steal his family, hold 'em hostage. Wire his whole town to blow. Lots of ways."

"A truly noble hero could not be forced. But, the people who protected the Winnowin allowed for that possibility. Not magic nor charm nor word could be employed sway the hero; else the Winnowin could not be touched. That is why it must be a willful joining. A decision made of free will and thus, of good intent on the part of the hero, one would hope. For two such creatures to learn of the Winnowin and seek it together is a near impossibility."

"So how do we get it out then, if the plan's so bloody foolproof?"

"When we sought to bring the Master back, we knew that the eventual plan entailed the joining of two such creatures, but not why. I had hoped that my dark influence on Faith and my subsequent death would unhinge her sufficiently enough to join my cause when the time came. I didn't plan on Angel or the others entering into the equation. Fortunately, through their spell to return Buffy, they gifted us with exactly what we needed."

Spike thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then clenched his jaw and remained silent.

"Oh, I know she doesn't seem the picture of a noble warrior," Daeonira went on delightedly, as if Spike had spoken exactly what he was thinking. "But she fulfills the requirements well enough. She is still a Slayer; one Chosen to be a hero; the defender of good. Her power and heritage gives her that right as if it were from birth. And she has a soul," she concluded as if that settled the matter. "She will suffice, as Faith would have, had I been able to bring her to our side."

He snorted in disbelief. "And you expect me to believe this fairy tale?"

"Why Spike," Daeonira said, turning toward him with terrible smile. "We are dealing with a prophecy, after all. I'd expect you to be a bit more of a believer."

"I'll tell you what I don't believe. You've known all along what this thing is, where it is and how to get it, it's bloody key to your plan, but you're sending me and Buffy out to fetch it?"

"As I said, the circumstances must be right. The two seekers must agree and seek it willfully. Were I to go with Buffy, we would not succeed; she doesn't trust me. Faith would by now, if she stood at my side, but she is not here."

"Know what else I don't believe?" he asked with a roguish grin. "I don't believe you know the first thing about what it does."

She shifted her shoulders and stiffened, as if bracing herself. "You're right," she admitted. "We don't know what it does, only how it must be attained."

Spike stared at her in absolute silence for a moment. "Bullocks," he spat.

"We know what it will be used for, of course; the prophecy details its importance in the apocalypse, but doesn't say what it does, exactly."

"Bloody hell," he sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He hadn't honestly thought she didn't know; he'd only been trying to goad her into telling him. "I don't believe this!"

"Well, you don't have to believe, of course. You just have to do it."

He thought about that for a moment. "And you say this thing's in Los Angeles?"

"Of course, it's not exactly Los Angeles, but the gateway to where you need to go lies there."

He took a moment more to think on it. This thing, whatever it was, probably stood a high chance of destroying the world if put into the Master's hands. But that was nothing new to him after the Judge and Acathla. In fact, objects and people who had the power to end the world had always held a level of boredom for him. They were tedious things bent on one purpose, always big with the planning and talking and preaching. He'd tried to stop them, of course—mostly he liked the world just the way it was—but he'd never seriously risked himself trying to stop them. So why start now?

A taunting voice spoke up in the back of his mind, reminding him that last time someone had tried to end the world he'd almost died trying to defend it—would have died willingly, for her. And she had died instead. She had sacrificed herself to save it all. And now she clung to his side like second skin, back from the grave and half-mad, as ready and eager to end the world as the other two.

If she'd wanted to end the world last time, would he have stopped her? He didn't think so. In fact, he'd have probably helped her right along with a song in his heart. But what about now? And what about the others?

"The Scoobies'll get in our way," he said, suddenly realizing. They would come, and he had no idea how felt about that. Didn't want to have to think about it—didn't want to have to find out.

"No, they won't," Daeonira assured him in that arrogant voice that made him want to smash her teeth in. "After the phone call I made earlier, I think they're going to find themselves quite preoccupied. In fact, the sooner you and Buffy get out of town, the safer we'll all be."

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I mean that the Council is back in town, and they're looking to take out Buffy. Of course…" Her demeanor shifted almost instantly to one of cunning. "I'm sure they'll never think to look for her here, but one can never tell, and if they found her…" she let her voice trail off with grim suggestion, shrugging.

He acted as if that were of little consequence; tossed the cigarette and snuffed it out beneath his boot, taking his time. He was sure the bitch knew she'd cornered him, but be damned if he would give her the satisfaction of seeing it in his face. If he'd been left with a choice, would he have agreed? He wasn't sure… and now, he supposed, he'd never know. He couldn't risk them finding Buffy. Not now, not after…

Spike tilted his head slightly to look at Buffy, who still stood at his side, and saw the eager light reflected in her deep, gray-green eyes. That light drew him from his train of thought like a moth to flame, and he felt his questions slip away one by one. This mission sounded like craziness. Even if the thing existed, they didn't know what the hell it did!

"And if we get this bauble for you, then what happens?" he asked with a casualness he didn't feel. "Do you know that?"

"Why, we use it to make heaven on earth, of course," Daeonira answered immediately with an almost innocent blink. Then the look of innocence faded and she smiled with the hungry look of a wolf. "For vampires."

The vision of Dru spinning madly beneath bleeding, rotting corpses flashed through his mind—but he didn't allow himself to dwell on idle thoughts this time. Buffy was looking at him; as expectantly as they were all looking at him, and he knew if he hesitated it would likely mean his death.

"Right then," he said with a nod. "Disneyland for vampires." He cocked his head at Buffy and slung an arm around her. "What do you say, luv?"

She brightened and grinned at him in that way that melted his heart.

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

Faith stood in the alley behind the Magic Box, hands shoved deep in her pockets as she stared up at the night sky. The others were sleeping, finally, just for a little while until the sun rose and Donner's clock started ticking away. They'd wanted to start out right away of course, but they'd already been awake for two days and there was no way Faith was going to let them keep going. It had taken a good half an hour of arguing, but she'd finally convinced them (mostly) and she'd had Willow cast a spell so that they could sleep.

But not on her. No. She didn't get to sleep. She needed time to think and plan and figure out what their next move was going to be, and she dearly wished there were somebody else here to do it for her.

The Council, Buffy, Beatrice, the Master. The problems and betrayals seemed to pile on top of one another in a never ending supply. How was she supposed to know what to do? Know what was right?

"Faith?" Angel asked, pushing open the door behind her. He hesitated a moment, then stepped out into the darkness. "You okay?"

She turned, found a cynical smile, and hitched up her shoulders. She wondered how she looked to him, and thought of the day (had it really only been a few weeks ago?) when she'd looked in the mirror and examined herself with new eyes. She still looked the same; same black clothes and eyeliner, same long dark hair and dark, shiny lips. But her soul felt tired and stretched, worn and ill-fitting. She felt like a stranger in her own body.

"Before she died, Buffy was… She was afraid. She was scared, and tired, and… defeated."

Spike words whispered through her mind, and she tried not to shiver. Tried hard not to think about how much she was coming to understand how Buffy had felt. And Spike… where was Spike? Part of her worried for him, maybe even missed him a little, strange as that seemed to her, and she shook away the thought, focusing on Angel instead.

"Sure, just, you know, checking out the stars while they're still up there."

He glanced up at them, then moved a step closer to her. "You're worried." It wasn't a question.

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's the end of the world and I'm in charge. Aren't you?"

He shook his head, eyes never wavering from hers. "No."

She chuckled. "You know, I think I got cheated on this hero deal, 'cause I didn't get the naïve hope part of the package."

"Comes with the good guy carrying card," he said with the ghost of a smile.

"Huh. Mine musta got lost in the mail."

"You've got a plan?" he asked after a moment.

She shrugged. "Yeah. Much of a plan as we can have, I guess."

Angel found his eyes focusing on the shape of her lips, the fullness and shine of them instead of the words they were speaking, and he felt his belly tighten with the familiar feeling of self-disgust. He was so weak… he always had been. That was what it meant to be human, to have a soul. To be ruled by your emotions and desires.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked, mentally kicking himself into paying attention.

"No," she said, with an impertinent toss of her hair. "I'm tired of all the doom and gloom. Let's talk about something else. Or…" She stepped closer to him, perhaps sensing his thoughts, her dark eyes lighting with mischief. "We could just… not talk."

He'd done a great deal of thinking over the last several days, especially in the last twenty-four hours, and he knew that now, of all times, was probably the worst they could have chosen to become distracted like this. It could be disastrous. And yet, he couldn't seem to stop himself. His mind kept trying to draw comparisons, tried to warn him that this was no different than what had happened with Buffy, and that it had to end the same way. But he didn't believe it. It wasn't true, after all.

He'd left Buffy so that she could have a normal life, for all the good that had done her. But Faith wasn't Buffy. Buffy would always yearn for normality, for the sun, for places that Angel could never take her and things he could never be to her. Faith loved the night, craved the danger, relished the kill, and she wanted a partner in that—wanted him, specifically, it seemed. He could be what she wanted.

So easy, he thought, to lull himself into complacency, to justify this to himself so he could have what he wanted.

As if she could read what he felt in his eyes, Faith tilted her head at him. "You don't love me." She said it without emotion, without blame, but he thought he could see the faint hurt in her eyes all the same.

He shook his head slowly, closed his eyes. Not yet, he answered silently, though sometimes it felt like a damned near thing.

"Good," she said, almost fierce. He felt her embrace him suddenly, all soft curves and sleek, hard muscle, and his eyes snapped open with surprise.

She grinned at him, and there was a hard edge to it. "But you want me."

He tried to speak, swallowed, then nodded. "I do, but—"

She shook her head and the hard edge faded slightly. "No 'buts'. No love means no true happiness, right?" He thought he could see something fragile there in the set of her eyes, determined and tough though they were, and for an instant he was in terrible peril of falling in love with her then and there. "Now shut up," she said, and kissed him.

He did.

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

Elsewhere…

At the center of the world it lies; shrouded in mystery, cloaked and hooded by ancient words and symbols of power that bind it here, its smooth, perfect dimensions cradled within the fine silver and gold of its resting place. Its glass is incredibly clear and clean, without a speck of dust to mar its perfect surface, and it gleams reflectively in the constant, glowing light of the chamber. Murals depicting ancient peoples stretch over every wall around it, and are the only thing reflected in its silent, still depths, its convex surface warping and twisting them within the glass.

It has been called many things in its time—axis, talisman, nexus—and while none of them have been quite perfect titles, all of them have been true. Many have believed it only a legend, and its tale is so obscure that its story has fallen between the cracks of mythology. Yet, Kings and Demons alike have coveted it, and it has outlived them all.

No hand has touched it in more than a millennia, and it has not been moved from this chamber for far longer than that. It has lain here for centuries, passive and inert, only waiting for the time it will be called.

Pale, white light flickers for an instant at its center, pulsing like a heartbeat as it stirs.

--thumpthump—

The murals reflected in its surface disappear momentarily as the light flutters like the wings of a tiny moth then vanishes. Ancient faces bathed in cool, blue light return to their places in the glass, settling in with the ease of thousands of years. No one has gazed on the glass or its chamber in much of that time, but if one could gaze now and compare, they might notice that the faces are slightly different. Formerly expressionless features curve within the glass and seem to frown, eyes and mouths turning downward as if in disapproval.

--thumpthump—

The light flashes again, brighter this time, like lightning.

The room seems to contract around the pedestal with the glass at its center, and there is a sound like cracking thunder as the stone gives.

--thumpthump— thumpthump—

The murals on the wall shift, and a group of ancient hunters clothed in furs and skins ripple and change. Their faces twist and melt like butter as they run together and then reform. The features of primitive man are replaced with those of reptilian origin, blunt snouts and snaking tongues taking shape as they crouch low to the ground, dressed in rags of cloth and leather.

--thumpthump— thumpthump— thumpthump— thumpthump—

Like a fire beginning to catch, the white light kindles and pulses with steady beats, faint and opaque at the center of the glass, not quite reaching the darkened edges.

Ancient faces, now barely visible on the glass surface, no longer mirror the expressions carved into the walls at all. Eyes wide, their formerly grim stone mouths hang open in a thousand silent screams.

At the center of the world it lies, and pulses… and waits.