@@@

Xander sighed impatiently as the cell phone he had to his ear rang the other end. He looked over his shoulder back into the bar. Where's Anya with that ice? His face hurt like a mother, and he didn't need a mirror in a gross Spanish barroom toilet to know it was swollen and lots of pretty colors. I just hope Giles appreciates my espionage skills.

The phone finally picked up.

"Hello?"--

But not a voice he expected.

"Uh, hello." What's going on?

"Hello? Oh, you have reached the Magic Box. How can we heal yo-- Help you?"

Xander took the phone from his ear and stared at it in confusion for a second, as if that would make this strange person answering the Magic Box phone someone he knew. He always got one of the gang when he called the Magic Box. No one else had any business answering the phone. He put it back to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello! Can. I. Help. You?"

"Do you work there?"

"No.Yes. Yes, I do."

"Really. Who hired you?" Anya's going to have a coronary if Giles started hiring.

"Um, ...that's none of your freakin' business."

This was said in a polite and conversational tone, and Xander mouthed a silent 'What?' to the air before asking, "Is there anyone else there I could talk to?"

There was a pause, and he was almost positive the phone had been covered. The strange person came back on. "No, but I can take a message, if you like."

Xander sighed. He saw Anya coming out of the bar with wet towels and a glass of ice. What a goddess. "Sure. Just tell the people who hang out in the back that Xander called from Spain and he found the guy they're looki--"

"...Xander....Spain....fou--Hey!"

"Hello? Xander?"

"Birdie?" Xander shot Anya a grateful smile as she settled beside him on the wrought iron bench and started dabbing his bruised jaw with the towel. God, that felt good. "Bird, who was that?"

"Petchra. New Slayer. We're training her to take shifts, since she needs a steady job to stay legal in the States."

"You mean you actually hired her?"

Anya stopped dabbing. "Hired? In my store?"

"Uh, hold on, Ahn. Just let me--"

"No!" she flopped the towel into the glass of ice and set them down. "Is someone back there in hell hiring people to work in my store, or what?"

Xander panicked. "Birdie, I'm gonna pass you off." He tossed the phone to his wife and picked up the glass, resting it against his cheek.

"Now what's this about hiring? Who exactly gave you the authority--? . . . Another Slayer? Really?..That's beside the point. ...Well you don't have a job. ...They pay you? How much? ....Per mission, or on a base monthly? ...Commission's a scam. You need to negotiate a dual--... Oh, really? That's pretty good. Travel expenses included? Is it set or based on local standards?..."

Xander rolled his eyes. Wrathful, yes. Easily-distracted? Very yes. He tapped her on the shoulder with the glass. "Tell 'em what we found out."

In the Magic Box, Birdie heard the door chime and turned to see Spike walk through. She waved acknowledgement and went back to explaining her pay system to Anya as Spike wandered over to Petchra.

"Hey, cutie."

The Slayer narrowed her eyes. She glanced at Birdie. The scarred girl had mentioned something about an allied demon, and she didn't seem to mind the vampire that had just walked past her, so it probably would be best not to stake on sight with this one.

"Hello," she tried.

"Who might you be?"

"Petrchra Niratpattanasai. A Vampire Slayer." She stressed this last part a bit, to gauge his reaction.

The vampire raised an eyebrow, mouthing the lengthy name. "'Nother one, huh? Back in my day, there was only one of the little Amazons. Market's saturated, now." He leaned back on the counter. "Which one're you, then? When were you called?"

"Nearly a year ago," she said, puzzled by his ease of posture in the presence of not one but two Slayers.

"Ah," he nodded. "That'd be the gunshot wound, then. Hardly counts, in my opinion. Slayer'd barely been out a second. Those mystical powers are pretty quick on their feet to pick that one up."

"Who are you?" Petchra asked.

"Name's Spike, the White Hat formerly known as William the Bloody," he said off handedly, listening in on Birdie's explanation of her travel allowances.

To his right, Petchra was wracking her brain. William the-- Wait a second.

"You're William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Heard of me, then."

"But, but you've killed thousands!"

A look flittered across his sharp face. "That I have. Bloody hands, mine. Wreaked havoc in a world tour for over a century."

Petchra stopped sputtering, seeing the discrepancy. "And now you are standing calmly in a magic store in California, in the company of two Slayers?"

"Ironic, innit?"

At that point, a continent away, Xander had finally gotten through to Anya, and she relayed the so dearly earned gossip.

Birdie wrinkled her brow. "Dorjan Vadas? What kind of a name is that?"

"Hungarian," Spike whispered.

Birdie turned to look at him. He had an expression of utter shock, and he was frozen as an ice sculpture. She shared a nervous glance with Petchra.

"Spike?"

He shook himself. "Gimme the phone, Shredder. That can't be right. 'S no way."

He grabbed the handset away from Birdie. "Anyanka? You're info's shit. Dorjan Vadas' been dead for seventy years. .... What are you talking about? Of course he was. Surely you remember that debacle with the steam cruiser, early thirties? It's all anyone in the realm could talk about for weeks... Yeah, that. ... Yes, it was. No, it was the same guy. He did that job near the Great Wall twenty years earlier, too. *Sigh* Yes, Anyanka, that Vadas. ... Calm down. You're not the one in the same state as 'im. But what makes you think... Oh, bugger. Are you sure? You actually saw it? ... How the bleedin' hell do you recognise 'is clan tattoo but not remember who he is??"

Petchra and Birdie watched warily. The Thai Slayer bit her lip. "What is going on?"

"I have no idea. But I'm starting to get worried. He doesn't usually get this freaked. Actually, ever get this freaked." She eyed the vampire. If possible, he'd gotten paler during the phone conversation. He abruptly hung up, and stood staring at the countertop.

The Slayers shared another glance. "Spike?" Birdie hazarded. "Who is it?"

Spike licked his lips. He turned his head to face them with slightly wide eyes. "Dorjan Vadas. The man made Angelus and the Scourgettes look like jaywalkers. I thought for sure he was dead. No one's really heard anything from 'im since the thirties. He was doing this thing on a steamship that sank. Everyone kind of assumed he went down with it. But Demon-Girl's seen his clan tattoos around Madrid."

"Where the vampires left for here."

"Yeah. Probably left a few behind in the rush."

He was biting his lip again. It made Birdie want to run screaming from the room to see the snarky monochrome vampire so worried. Petchra didn't even really know his personality yet, and se looked pretty close to bolting.

"What should we do?"

For a second, Spike managed a smirk, but his eyes were elsewhere. "Hear India's lovely this time of year." He ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing we can do about him until we confirm it really is him, and even then, I don't know. First priority's still getting the big gun back." He seemed to shake most of the shock off, and straightened. "How's the Watchers doing on that?"

"They're trying the depossesion spell from Greiman's with Willow as we speak. No high hopes, but at least we'll have narrowed our options a little."

Spike's brow knit. "Red? Looked like a pretty dark spell for an addict to run. Sure hope they know what they're getting themselves into."

@ @ @

Okay. You can do this. Just breathe. ...Why would that help? IT's not like oxygen's going to make the bad evil go away, like in those hypnotism shows when they tell you to breath in the good stuff and breathe out the bad, and it's like bubbles or something. Is it? I've never actually --"Willow!"

Willow jerked out of her internal monologue, and pressed the rosemary-filled pouch to the pillar candle in front of her, snuffing it in a cloud of incense. Marion shot her a look, and started chanting again. Giles hadn't stopped, and flicked cherry powder into the little brazier in front of him, monotonously reciting. The two vastly different British accents complemented each other, and it sounded neat. After a few seconds composing herself, Willow joined in with them.

"...creature of evil; take not sanctuary in vessel. Begone from the vessel you have stolen. Creature of evil begone. Begone from the stolen vessel. Itae yo tanial. Tanae ve itae. Itail voy tanae. San. Saal. Sanal. San saal sanal. Sansan salanalanal..."

In it's terra-cotta bowl --okay, flowerpot; Home Depot, $1.49-- the cinnamon sticks started smoking. As she focused on the tendrils of brown smoke, Willow felt the power rise. And it was black.

No. Oh, no. She felt it. Way too familiar. She shot a panicked glance across the chalked circle to Giles and Marion, but the Watchers seemed unaffected. Before she could try to stop the spell, she was sucked back in.

And for a moment she didn't care. Because it felt good. Like drugs and coffee and lightning in the core of herself. So good. ...Way too good to be true. Promises of power and words of force ricocheted around her head and so much deeper. And she felt herself listening to them, even as she struggled to pull out of the trance. Too bright, too beautiful, colored in bruises and blood that made it seem like there could be nothing better. This is wrong She reminded herself.

And a voice sounding suspiciously like her own was whispering inside her ear, pointed outwards.

Wrong? How? Who chooses right and wrong? What's the difference? If I use it against bad guys, what's the problem? Fire with fire, Willow. You can help them if you just take it. It's right there.

And it was. Glowing inside her eyelids, like some cosmic fire birthed at the heart of a star, sucked at by blackness but licking merrily at infinity with tentacles of gold and light.

No one can see it but you, can they? Blind, they are. You can save them from anything with it. It's yours for the taking. Like fruit from the branch. All yours. Just say yes...

"...yes..."

Marion looked up from the flame when Willow dropped out of the chant. What the bloody... "Willow-" She was glowing with the rainbow lights of gasoline sheen on water. "Willow? What's happening?" Giles looked up, too, but she motioned him to keep chanting.

"...yes..."

"Yes? Yes what? Willow! Wake up!" Her brow furrowed as she watched the redhead's aura pulse. She didn't quite break the trance, though, just in case this was something with the spell. Just in case they were close...

"...yes.........ye-No. No! NO!!"

That did it. Marion stomped out the candle on her way lunging across the circle. She grabbed the screaming Willow by the shoulders and shouted into her face.

"Will! Wake up! Caeeris ka!"

Willow's eyes snapped open, and she gasped. "No."

"No wot? Willow!"

"Marion?" She focused on her for the first time. She mutely shook her head until she found her voice. "It, it, no, I almost, I did, but--"

"Breathe, baby. You're out. Nothing can take you now. You're safe. Can you tell me what happened?" Giles reached them, and he and Marion shared a panicked glance.

"The spell's too dark. I'm too ...weak, I nearly. It was calling me, but it wasn't the spell it was me. I."

Giles cut off her frantic babbling, using the voice guaranteed to cut through the panic.

"Willow. What happened?"

She swallowed. "It's not the magic," she whispered. She turned her head and tearful eyes to the woman holding her. "Marion, it's not the magic. It's all in me. I warped it. The dark's in me."

@ @ @

"Birdie?"

At the sound of the weak voice, Birdie tossed the People magazine in the chair and rushed to the bedside. "Dawn? Finally coming out of it?"

"Uh. Feel like I've spent weeks .*yawn*..asleep."

"Couple days. They kept you under to ease the pain. How is it?"

"I hurt..."

"That would be the broken arm and collarbone. They found internal bleeding, but it's stopped now."

"Buffy did this."

"No. Not Buffy. The demon."

Dawn looked at her with big, bloodshot eyes. "Are you sure?"

Birdie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dawn blinked a couple times. "She rejected me. In the spell. She wouldn't let me in. I saw her, and she turned her back. It wasn't the demon, it was Buffy. Buffy didn't want me to save her." She rubbed her eyes. "Why wouldn't she let me save her?"

Birdie tried to think of some explanation. "I have no idea," she finally copped out. "Except, Buffy's never needed someone to save her before, has she? Maybe she needs practice. Maybe it's a hard thing for her to let someone else solve her problems for her."

"I don't think that's it," Dawn tried to shake her head, but stopped with a grimace and a weak tug at her neck brace. "I just don't think we're close enough. We're the same blood, but we're not alike enough. I've never understood her, Birdie. How can I expect to navigate her mind if I don't get her? I was stupid to think I could help."

Birdie shoved the ideas conjured by the teenager's description to the side and went into comfort mode. "Dawn. Just because a spell rejects you doesn't mean you're useless. You've been helping more and more. Patrolling, researching, running the shop for Anya? You're doing great."

Dawn just nodded, or tried to. "Yeah. I'm very helpful. I'm Helpful Girl. But I can't save her, so it really doesn't matter." A few more tears dripped down, and her chin trembled a bit, but she refrained from an all-out crying fit. The time for those was past.

Birdie looked up as the door opened. Petchra entered, bearing Gerber daisies. Dawn's brow wrinkled.

"Who are you?"

The Thai woman smiled nervously. "Petchra. These are for you."

Dawn looked over at Birdie.

"Slayer," she offered.

"Ah. Thanks," she said, taking the bright pink flowers. "Where're you from?"

As Dawn grilled the newcome Slayer, Birdie slipped out of the room. A plan was forming, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

@ @ @

She found Spike in the cemetery, whirling in the center of a circle of relative fledglings who seemed to be exploding into dust in a cycling pattern. She watched, not sure whether she should interrupt the therapy session, as he finished off the last of them, and whirled his sharpened bat a few times through empty air, working through the inertia.

"You're quiet," he said, seemingly randomly. "But your scent gives you away every time, Shredder,"

Ah. Talking to me, then. "Why did you start calling me that a couple days ago?"

"Just thought of it then. You wanted something, or care to try another heart-to-heart? Chat over a mug of blood, kinda thing?"

Birdie focused, with a little difficulty. She kept trying to make the connection between her and the Ninja Turtles villain. "Actually, I wanted to talk about Buffy," she replied, trying to sound smooth.

"Oh," Spike said. "Goodie."

"She loves you."

"Know it. Been there. Sucks for her."

"Dawn says Buffy rejected her in the mind-diving."

Spike stopped short. "What do you mean?"

"She thinks that it doesn't matter how close she is to Buffy physically. It's the personality and person kemself that needs to match. Someone who can read Buffy like a book. Someone who she won't turn out. Someone who shares a common bond with her, who has gone through similar experiences."

"So you go in already," he offered. "If it has to be another Slayer, why aren't you already lighting candles and such?"

"You, Spike. I was talking about you," Birdie said, frustrated. "She loves you. She trusts you. She's fighting a demon like you do everyday. You can obviously tell what she's thinking like a mind reader on- on psychic steroids--" Spike raised an eyebrow at the analogy, "-- and you could be the only one that can save her."

Spike chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit. "I'll think about it," he finally said. He started walking off. "Not so sure."

@ @ @


I'll get you, you meddling kids.

Great. Now they've turned me into a Scooby Doo villain. Buffy furiously rewrapped her leg. It was nearly healed, after two days, but she kept reopening the one on her arm. The bandage there was bloodstained already.

"Damn white hats," she hissed, pouring alcohol over the puncture. She wasn't an idiot, after all. Infection is an ugly thing.

"Congratulations, Anne. You've been bested by, the cast of Friends, was it?"

She looked up at the man in the doorway. Or the rock formation that served as a doorway. "Bite me, Vadas," she said brightly.

He put his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. "Perhaps later. I trust your wounds are healing well?" He watched as she removed the bandage from her arm.

"Impressive resilience. It's nearly closed."

"Yeah, well," Buffy said off-handedly, dousing the soiled bandage in alcohol and pressing it to the wound.

"It would appear that these college drop-outs are more of a threat than you thought."

"Yeah. Who'd have thought they could accomplish anything on their own?"

So I was right, he noted. She does have a connection to them. "Perhaps it would be best to eliminate the threat now, rather than waiting for the rest of the forces to come into town."

"Why? The Spaniards should be here in a week or so. Why not wait until we have more pawns to waste?"

"Because I don't intend to waste my pawns on something like this. We'll need them all to make war with the things from the Tarmac."

"Yeah, yeah." Buffy ripped a strip from a nurse's uniform (the nurse wouldn't need it anymore) and wrapped it around her bicep.

Dorjan Vadas eyed her a moment. "I want you to take them out. Are any of them versed in interdimensional portals?"

Buffy cocked an eyebrow. "How would I know?"

"I know you do."

"...One of the Watchers would."

"Bring them to me."

Buffy stood up. "Undamaged?"

"Merely able to speak will be fine. You needn't do it tonight, though. Get some rest. Heal."

"Will do. Tomorrow, I go shopping.

@ @ @



Know I love them good down-home reviews.

~Star Mouse