Okay, I blundered. The beginning of this chapter should have been at the end of the last one. My bad. Thanks to Sepharih for pointing it out. Thanks also to Wendy for betaing and turning my more obvious Britishisms into Americanisms, if such words exist. (Settles glasses on face and tries not to look too Giles-like) Hope you enjoy it and please feed the review monkey on my back! Oh and before anyone asks about the Sith Lightsabre... it's around, hehehe...


The moon was rising over the clearing as they approached it. It was a cool night and the wind was an intermittent presence on their faces thanks to the trees. Just as well, given their purpose that night. The leading figure was holding a flaming brand in one hand and he paused as he approached the object in the middle of the clearing.

It was built of wooden branches, all lopped off to the same length, a square platform some eight feet long and four feet across. On top of it lay a still figure, dressed all in black. One hand was missing and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

The figure with the brand paused and then thrust the fiery object into a hole in the middle of the platform. There was a slow crackle as the smaller branches inside caught fire, a crackle that spread quickly along the dry wood. Within minutes the platform was alight, enshrouding the dark figure in golden flames that licked at its clothes.

The light caught the different faces of the people standing around the clearing. A short blond girl with eyes that looked older than her years. A tall man with glasses, greying hair and an air of both knowledge and sorrow. A redheaded girl with tears in her eyes for a man that she had never known. A dark-haired girl with a face that combined impatience and regret. A man with red hair and a look of coiled composure. A dark-haired man whose face hid shadows and longing. And finally the figure of the man who had been holding the brand. Dark-haired, with a look of regretful acceptance and a silver cylinder clipped to his belt.

The flames roared upwards, taking their burden into the night sky. For a moment it seemed as if the shadows on the face of the figure on the platform had lifted.


The security guard nodded at Lindsey as the lawyer entered the building and muttered a cordial "Good Morning, Mr McDonald." He nodded back with a smile and asked about how young Becky had done in the judo contest. The guard grinned quickly and muttered that his daughter had wiped the floor with the other brats.

He smiled inwardly as he walked through the foyer and up to the elevators. The lawyer had always taken the trouble to keep on the right side of the more important flunkies in the building, as well as some of the others. You never knew when you might need them. So, he'd made sure that he knew the name of Ted, or Steve, or Phil. He remembered their birthdays, when their partners' birthdays were, what their kids names were, what they did. It all added up to a little ledger of plus emotion, in case of... well, he didn't like to think of the possible downside of parting company from Wolfram & Hart. Lilah never bothered, but then Lilah could be the most arrogant bitch on the face of the planet at times.

Entering one of the elevators he pressed the right button for his floor, nodded at Todd from Unnatural Blessings, smiled at Mary from Patent Theft and hummed a few bars of LA. Damn, that had been something else. He'd got that club in Sunnydale rocking. LA, followed by Sledgehammer. It had been almost enough to get rid of that odd feeling in the back of his head.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened at his floor and he stepped out, walking down the corridor. Something appeared to have died in Peterson's office and there were more odd marks on the walls of Jo van der Klerk's office. Same old stuff then. A day away was... he paused and looked into Lilah's office. She was sitting at her desk and directing a glare at him that could have melted lead. A large set of files were piled around her. He smiled, waved, watched the glare get hot enough to punch a hole through a diamond and walked on. Life was sweet sometimes.

Then he frowned. Ah. Yes, he had that damn meeting to talk about Sunnydale and the Arrangement with Wilkins. His hunch was still there. Wilkins was hiding something and he had to explain that all to Holland. Which wouldn't be easy.

Opening the door to his office he strode in, sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. His phone said that he had fifteen messages on voicemail and he sighed as he pulled out a self-propelled pencil from his pocket and pulled forward a fresh pad. He burnt his notes whenever he could – Lilah was very good at reading the impressions on used pads. Lilah. Always snapping at his heels. He leant forwards and pressed play to hear the litany of complaints that were bound to be on the phone system. Then he made a mental note to find out as much as possible on one Alexander Harris, resident of Sunnydale.


The document was large. It had seals in the right places for a Watcher, and a senior one at that, and was rather impressive, Wesley had to admit. He scanned it once quickly and then went through it again more slowly. Then he lifted it to the light and checked the watermark on the last page.

Someone snorted behind him and he made an effort not to glare at the other man in the room, who had been looking at him with complete indifference that bordered on the damned insolent.

"Yes, well," said the Watcher after a moment's thought, "I think that this is all in order. You may collect the things detailed in the Will."

"Oh joy," said the other man with extreme sarcasm. "Thank you. I'd be out of here by now if you hadn't come along with your diligent nosiness."

Wesley lifted an eyebrow and attempted to sneer. He was well aware that he wasn't terribly good at it. He was also well aware that he was not a little apprehensive of the other man, who had a way of flaring his nose and looking intensely angry that was really quite impressive. It reminded him of his father. He was also aware of the other man's nationality.

"I am a member of the Watcher's Council, here to collect her possessions," he said eventually."

"You told me that when you arrived, you don't have to bloody repeat yourself," the man said in a singsong accent as he walked across the room to pick up the carefully packed box of magical implements. Then he paused and knelt down next to the desk to do up a loose shoelace.

As Wesley turned his back on the rude Welshman he missed the sight of the man stopping dead and than reaching out to pull a long envelope from out of the shadows under the desk. Glancing at it and then stealing a quick glance at the Watcher, he placed it in a pocket and then strode from the room.


It was an impressively large pile of paper, thought Giles as he stared at the stacks on the table that he had assembled in the week following the Night of the Fight as Buffy and Faith had named it. If all the paper was stacked together then it might have been taller than Buffy. And it was all so varied. Histories of Sunnydale, one written by someone whose name just happened to be an anagram of Richard Wilkins, information on planning permission for umpteen underground tunnels, ostensibly for utilities like gas, power and water, that had all been approved by the mayor, the list just went on and on. A copy of an age-yellowed deed granting the land around a small village to one R. Wilkins that Willow had spotted in the civic archives. A newspaper headline proclaiming that Sunnydale had the first electric lights in the state, a great novelty and proof of Mayor Wilkins' forward thinking as the twentieth century dawned, and other such fawning rot.

It was all… rather vexing. They had all this evidence but somehow it had escaped their notice the first time around. It wasn't as if they had had to dig very hard either. The interesting thing was that they had simply assumed that Sunnydale was being run by a dynasty, instead of the truth, and that smacked of some form of spell.

Giles rose from his chair and wandered into the office, where he grabbed the kettle, filled it from the tap and then plugged it in, operating purely on automatic pilot. Wilkins had planned the place out. Wilkins had approved everything to do with the infrastructure of Sunnydale. But why? He was more than a hundred years old and that meant that he probably had ties to magic, the darkest magic if he was right. To prolong a life that far meant that he must have given something up, or promised something, so was there a mystical reason for everything?

And then there was Xander's Sith counterpart. The Jedi had mentioned that his opponent had said that he had dealt with the Mayor's plans for ascension. Ascension to what? From what? By what means?

The kettle boiled and Giles reached out to pick up his favourite mug, the one that he used when he needed to think. It had an E.H. Shepard picture of Owl, or rather Wol, on one side, with the inscription "HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY" on the other. Buffy and the others had never made the correct connection, due to the pernicious influence of Walt bloody Disney. Spooning some instant coffee in, he added the water, poured some milk in and wandered out again, still operating on automatic pilot. What was an ascension? Something was niggling at the back of his mind, something that he had read a long time ago. Something that for some reason kept jabbing at the guilt he was feeling about the Cruciamentum that he had to organise for Buffy next week.

He hated that damn ritual. It was archaic, nonsensical and downright barbaric. A Watcher should be the one to determine if a Slayer was clever and quick-witted enough to survive in the world, not this damn test. If he had his way – and God knew he'd talked about it with other young watchers – then he'd abolish the bloody thing no matter what the high-ups on the Council said.

"Cold-hearted bastards," he muttered out loud and took a swig of coffee.

"Talking to yourself again, Rupert?" said a Welsh voice from behind him and he jumped. Turning he saw a medium-sized balding man dressed in black, with a sardonic grin on his face and a bag slung over one shoulder.

"Good God," said the astonished Watcher. "Tom. What in heavens name…"

Hoisting the bag on his shoulder the man in black sniffed the air appreciatively. "Ah, coffee. Some things never change, there's caffeine always somewhere around you. You can join in this conversation any time now you know Rupert."

Giles put the coffee down on the table with a laugh and then moved over to grab his old friend's hand in a firm handshake. "My God Tom, whatever are you doing here?"

"Can't a man visit a mate and former boss?" He looked at the coffee cup. "Got any more of that?"

"Of course, come through into my office," said Giles, smiling thoughtfully. "Although I must say that you wouldn't fly umpteen thousand miles just to see me."

Tom put on a look of fake offence. "You wound me." Then he pulled a face. "Actually, I come bearing gifts from a late friend of yours. Isobel Horrocks."

"Ah," said Giles sadly as they walked into the office. "I didn't know that you knew her." He refilled the kettle and turned it on again.

"I didn't," came the reply as the Welshman sat down with a sigh of relief onto a chair. "But she left very clear instructions with her lawyer in London that in the event of her death Room 42 was to be alerted. She was apparently very careful with some of the more… interesting items in her possession. I was going to leave it to someone else, or even wait for the Council itself to take care of it, but I bumped into old Don Camillo coming out of Westminster Cathedral. He'd been conducting a Mass there and he told me that he'd seen you in California, so I decided to make a round trip. God, those airline seats do terrible things to your backside. I think I've sprained a buttock."

Spooning some coffee into a spare mug and adding the now boiling water Giles paused. "What kind of items?" he asked as he passed over the mug and the milk.

Tom paused, poured a generous splash of milk into the mug, stirred it vigorously and then threw about half of it down his throat. "That's better." He looked up. "Oh, there was an Orb of Divination, a copy of the Prophecies of the Elder Seers and a Stone of Healing. Just the kind of things that you wouldn't want floating around on the antiques market. There was also a load of standard Watcher's Council books and weapons, which a very officious English git from the Watchers Council, called Wesley Wyndham-Price, bundled up when he arrived an hour after me.

"He was very sniffy until I showed him my British Museum pass and even then he was pompousness personified. Wanted to know why I was there as well, so I shoved Mrs Horrocks' Will under his nose and got on with the job. I came very close to losing my temper with the sais mochyn(), to tell you the truth, but I remembered how we should always be kind to the soft in the head and our cousins on the Council." He grinned sardonically. "Present company excepted, of course."

Giles raised an eyebrow. "Wyndam-Price… good God, is that boy old enough now? I suppose he must be. I have a vague memory of the most irritating little… well, I shouldn't speak ill of a fellow Watcher." He looked over at Tom. "Still, there couldn't have been that much to pack off to London, could there? And you said you had something for me from her?"

The Welshman nodded and pulled his bag up to open it. After a brief moment of searching he pulled out a small leather-clad book that had an envelope inside it. He passed it over. "She said that in the event of her death her Slayer was to have it."

Opening the book carefully Giles flipped through it, smiling sadly. Yes, just like old Isobel. The personal touch from beyond the grave. Then he saw the envelope, noted the name on the front, nodded sharply and placed it to one side. "I'll hand it over to Faith later," he said is a rough voice.

"I remember you talking about her once," said Tom softly in the brief silence that followed.

"She was very close to my mother," he replied quietly. "They grew up together."

Tom nodded and then reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. "And there was this," he said, pulling out another envelope.

The moment Giles saw it his heart almost stopped. Automatically his hand went out to take it. It was long envelope made of a rich creamy paper that screamed quality. It had been sealed with red wax on the back, with an imprint of the Horrocks crest visible on the seal. On the front in Isobel's characteristically precise handwriting were written the words: "Rupert Giles, Watcher to the Slayer Buffy Summers. Urgent Delivery. Council Business." In very small letters in the bottom right hand corner was a small symbol.

"I almost didn't spot it," said Tom. "The damn thing had slipped off her desk onto the floor and was almost hidden by the sideboard." He looked at the Watcher. "Rupert, are you alright? You've gone white as a sheet."

"Its… um, the envelope. She only ever used it when she had something of vital importance to pass on. It's the Council equivalent of red flashing lights and a siren. It means either a warning, or trouble, or both."

He took a deep breath, broke the seal with a sharp 'crack' of noise and pulled out the contents of the envelope, three sheets of very fine quality paper that were covered in writing. "Excuse me while I read this," he apologised and started at page one.

By the time he had finished the last page he was feeling more relaxed than he had been in weeks. He had been right! All his damn doubts – he'd been sharing them with Isobel Horrocks, who with her customary clear thinking and insight, had seen through the whole issue far more clearly and logically than he had.

He looked up to see Tom looking at him worriedly. "It's alright," he said to his old friend, "No potential disaster to avert. Well, not in so many words. Just a confirmation about something that was worrying me a, a great deal."

The other man nodded slowly. Then he held out his mug. "More coffee?"

"Of course," said the Watcher, standing and walking over to the kettle. "When are you flying back?"

"I'm on the 2pm from LAX tomorrow," came the reply. "I found a hotel not too far away from the bus station. And don't worry, I've cast a vampire-repelling spell on my room already. I know the reputation that this place has."

As Giles chuckled he heard a voice in the library calling his name. "In here," he answered, and a moment later Buffy walked into the office.

"Hi, Giles whatcha doing?" she said and then caught sight of his rather rumpled fellow Briton. "Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had company."

"Buffy, I want you meet an old friend of mine, Tom Davies. We used to work together at the British Museum."

Tom stood up and held his hand out; Buffy shook it and the man winced slightly.

"Sorry," said Buffy apologetically, "Don't know my own strength sometimes."

"That's alright," replied Tom, massaging his hand gently, "Slayer-strength and everything."

The Slayer turned to Giles and raised her eyebrows. "Whatever happened to 'secret identity'?"

"Buffy, Tom knows all about the supernatural, vampires, demons, the whole thing. He works for Room 42 at the museum."

A furrow appeared on the Slayer's forehead. "I've heard that name before. Didn't you mention it when we had that whole my-mom's-mask-is-raising-the-dead thing? You know, the Mask of Oolong."

Both Giles and Tom winced. "The Mask of Ovu Moboni, Buffy. Um, well, it's interesting."

She sighed. "Interesting Watcher-style, or Slayer-style?"

Coughing significantly, Tom broke in. "As I'm neither, perhaps I can explain while Giles makes me some more coffee?"

As Giles filled the kettle yet again he heard Tom sit back down in his seat.

"Right," said the Welshman, "Long version or short version?"

"What's the short version," asked Buffy.

"There's a lot of freaky stuff out there."

"Okay, a leettle too short. Long version?"

"Right. In the nineteenth century, archaeology became extremely popular, mostly because it was fashionable. It was cool to have lots of artifacts around the house and impress the neighbours, who probably couldn't tell the difference between Samianware and something their kids knocked together at school. At the same time a large number of discoveries were being made in the Middle East, in Mesopotamia – where Iraq is now – lost cities like Nineveh were being found and even more artifacts were being unearthed and sent back to Britain."

He sighed. "Most of them were harmless, but some of them were, well, magical. And dangerous, potentially at least. They all had to be inspected, tagged, sorted out and stored. And the dangerous ones had to be studied carefully and then locked away in case of accidents that might have raised the dead or turned London into a smoking hole in the ground."

Buffy winced. "I can understand that. All the freaky orbs and gauntlets and shiny kablooie things here on the Hellmouth has made me really cautious when it comes to buying jewelry." She looked over at Giles. "So why didn't the Watchers' Council take over? They're the guys with the research mojo, aren't they?"

"Well, at, at first they did Buffy," said Giles as he handed another mug of coffee over to Tom who chugged a large amount. "The problem was that there were thousands of artifacts coming in every year, sometimes every month, and there were only a limited number of Watchers. Plus, they had other priorities, like doing their best to keep the Slayer of the time alive and unharmed."

"After a number of interesting incidents, including one that involved a Greek vase, a prostitute, a pendant charmed by Aphrodite and a member of the Royal Family, which fortunately was never reported by the papers as it would have made the German idiot a laughing stock, the Government of the time stepped in and ordered action," continued Tom.

"The Home Secretary – the equivalent of your Secretary of the Interior – told the British Museum to set up a special task force to examine any artifact that would go on display at the Museum, along with a roving brief to inspect dig sites and collections as it saw fit. The Watchers Council protested, as it thought that the Museum would be poaching on its territory, but soon realised that there were too many objects for it to oversee. Besides, they thought that a good way of exercising at least some form of control would be to co-operate by sending trained Watchers to join the new department, which was housed in Room 42 at the Museum. Hence the name," he said presenting his card to her with a flourish.

"So, we at Room 42 have been carrying out our duties for 150 years now and there's no chance of running out of artifacts. The bloody things are probably breeding behind our backs."

"And Giles used to work with you," said Buffy thoughtfully. "Nice card, very embossedy, if that is a word. Bad Giles, why didn't you tell us what you did at the British Museum? We all thought you were all dark and brooding when you were younger."

Peering over the top of his glasses at her, Giles raised an eyebrow. "This was only about six years ago Buffy. The Council made no objection to me applying for a job at Room 42 and I spent almost four years there, investigating, researching and occasionally smiting things. Tom joined about a year and a half before you were called and we stayed in touch after I left to replace Merrick."

A wolfish grin appeared on the Welshman's face. "We knocked some of the Council's stuffiness out of him. We're a much more informal bunch."

This seemed to surprise Buffy. "I thought all Englishmen were, well, a bit stuffy."

Giles winced. 'Ware storms, he thought. Never call Welshman English.

But Tom seemed to have either mellowed or at least realised that Yanks could be a little general in their language sometimes. "I'm Welsh, Ms Summers," he said, grinning, "We live to tease the English. When we aren't insulting them that is."

"Oh. Sorry, no offence. I think my dad's grandfather was Welsh. And it's Buffy. I hear 'Ms Summers' and I look around to see who they're talking to."

"My apologies. Well, Buffy, Rupert here was very stuffy indeed at first, but we sanded some of the corners off him. Took a lot of beer, and in one case tequila, but we did it."

"Oooh," said Buffy, pulling up a chair. "I sense embarrassing stories about Mr. Formally Stuffy English Watcher!"

Giles rolled his eyes. He should have expected this. As he listened with a grimace on his face his eyes turned to the phone. As soon as Buffy was out of the way he needed to make a call.


With a sigh and a pause to rub his aching back Quentin Travers looked down at the pictures of the various houses that were on offer in Sunnydale. They needed the right one for the ceremony, one that offered just the right atmosphere along with sufficient space for Ms. Summers to plan whatever she was going to plan. It was important to get it right.

He felt something shift under his shirt and he automatically raised a hand to touch the reassuring weight of the medallion hanging around his neck. It wasn't really compulsory – the ring of the Chief Watcher was the symbol of his position – but he always wore the old medallion of a Watcher. In the old days it had been the only way of identifying a Watcher. The wearing of the medallion had gone out of practice during the War, when a number of trained Watchers had been serving with the Armed Forces, and where people would have asked far too many questions about them if the silver and gold discs had been seen. After 1945 the practice had, well, never been resumed. Except for in his case. Tradition was important. The old ways were there for a reason. Admittedly those reasons could be harsh, but sometimes they were necessary.

The Cruciamentum was also harsh but necessary. They had know, they had to be sure that the Slayer was not just strong but intelligent and cunning. The fight against evil wasn't just a matter of strength. Evil could also be clever and cunning and the Slayer had to match that. Match it and trump it.

He heard the sound of the phone ringing next door and waited for his aide Griffiths to answer it. There was a rumble of conversation and then Griffiths knocked politely on the door.

"Come in," said Quentin shortly.

"Sir, Rupert Giles has just called. He wants to meet you as soon as possible. He said that it's very urgent and that it's about the Cruciamentum."

Quentin sighed. He was starting to have his doubts about Giles. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd been in California for almost three years, but the man was showing signs of weakness. Granted, every Watcher had to be close to their Slayer to give the right advice and guide them on the path. It was important not to get too close however, and start losing one focus.

"Very well," he sighed, "Tell him to meet me here in an hour."


Pulling the wool over Lilah's eyes was never easy. You had to have a poker face and nerves made of damn steel. You had to be able to pass on the bare minimum of information and at the same time sniff out as much as possible. It could be done, it was just that it was never easy.

Laying a false trail that would divert her wasn't easy either. There were times that he felt more like a spy or an intelligence agent that damn lawyer.

That brought on a moment's pause as Lindsey leant back in his chair and grinned at the opposite wall and thought about the most ghoulish false trail ever, one that even Wolfram & Hart would have been proud to call its own. Operation Mincemeat.

He had loved Operation Mincemeat from the moment he had first read about it in a history book as a kid. The Allies were planning the invasion of Sicily, which was the most obvious place for them to attack once North Africa had been seized. The problem was, how to make the Germans think that they were going somewhere else? Like Sardinia instead?

It was subtle: two British intelligence agents with a flair for the imagination and the macabre had hit upon a great plan. The body of a Royal Marine officer with secret documents in a briefcase that had been handcuffed to one hand had been found washed up on a beach of the coast of Spain, a company that was friendly to old toothbrush moustache. The documents indicated an attack against Sardinia. The Major seemed genuine, he had a letter from his father on him, theatre ticket stubs, a warning from his bank manager and a love note from his fiancée.

The Nazis, who were about as subtle as a hammer, had fallen for it like a ton of bricks.

But now he had to do something similar. He had to disguise his true intentions with a feint, a feint that had to be believable. He paused as he pulled his keyboard towards him and then grinned savagely.

He wrote two emails. One went to a contact of his who, he knew, also worked for Lilah when he knew what was good for him. It asked for all the information that could be collected on the Halliwell sisters in San Francisco. Lilah would go for that one like a barracuda after a pound of bait. She was incredibly touchy about her two failures there – and he suspected that there were several undisclosed failures as well. Lilah tended to worry away at something like that for ages, reinforcing failure.

The other was to the research department, asking for all the information there was about the Hellmouth in Wolverhampton, in Britain. It was only a small one, but it was still there. That was the other decoy. That would, eventually, get back to Lilah as well and make her wonder what was there to make him investigate it. Hopefully she would think that was the limit of his own subtlety, trying to distract her from the real thing.

He stood up and opened his door to the corridor carefully to make sure it was empty. Then he slipped out. He had some people to see. Discreet people, who he employed to find out things without Wolfram & Hart – and Lilah – ever knowing about it.


"Ah, Mr Giles, how are you?" Quentin grasped the other man's hand firmly in a brisk shake. Giles looked tanned, no difficult thing in this climate. "You said that wanted to talk about the coming Cruciamentum ceremony for Ms Summers."

Giles smiled thinly at him. "Yes, sir. I think that Mrs Horrocks can put it far better than I can."

He frowned. "I fail to see how, as she's dead."

"Yes, but in a way her words live on. I received a letter today that she had written to me before her death. A letter that I must say that I fully agree with." Reaching into the side pocket of his suit he pulled out an expensive-looking envelope.

Reaching out Quentin took it, noted the broken seal and pulled out the letter, pulling his glasses out as he did so. Slipping them on he unfolded the creamy paper and started to read.

My dear Rupert.

I am writing this letter to set out certain thoughts, and also because I have had a presentiment of my own death. Please therefore pass this letter on to Quentin Travers – there seemed to be a small squiggle next to his name, as if Mrs Horrocks had rested her pen there for a moment – and the Watchers Council as soon as you receive it.

I am writing this because I have come to the conclusion that the Cruciamentum ceremony must, under no circumstances, be carried out on my charge, Faith. There are a number of reasons for this, the most important of which is the fact that I do not think that it would be wise to abuse her trust in such a manner.

Faith has had a difficult life to this point, in which people have repeatedly let her down and at times betrayed her trust. The frequent absence of her mother has led to certain problems regarding her feeling of self-worth. Had she come from a more stable background, or had she been spotted and trained by the Council before she was called as a Slayer, then this issue would no longer be relevant. The fact remains, however, that she would regard the Cruciamentum as a betrayal by her Watcher, at the cost of endangering the trust that I have been able to build up between us.

Trust is vital in this instance. I am aware that the Cruciamentum is an ancient ritual – another squiggle – but I feel that my assessment of Faith's abilities outweighs it. Faith can be difficult – she has been headstrong and at times reckless – but she is also intelligent, resourceful and adapts quickly to new scenarios. She is also a child of her time, an American child, and I feel that the Council's traditional approach must be tempered with more compassion and understanding. After I met her for the first time I realised that the traditional approach to training would be wrong for Faith. Each Slayer cannot be said to be stamped from the same metal. Instead, each one is unique.

We also live in unique times – it has two Slayers. Although I have a limited understanding of the history of Ms Summers, I note that she too is a child of a broken home, who was not spotted as a Potential and who was not trained until she was 15. Rupert, you must decide if she must undergo the Ritual, but I must point out that even if you feel that her circumstances are different from those of Faith, to withhold the Ritual from one but not the other would be wrong.

I realise that the view of one Watcher can be voted down. However, as laid down in the Watcher's Laws – yet another squiggle – the views of two Watchers of successive or even concurrent Slayers are binding when it comes to circumstances where they are certain that the health, whether mental or physical, of their Slayer is in danger. I feel strongly about this point and do so inform the Council.

Goodbye, Rupert,

Yours, with sincere affection,

Isobel Horrocks

There was yet another squiggle just under her signature.

Quentin looked at the letter again, levelly. Then he carefully folded it up and replaced it into the envelope. "I see," he said, thinking about that other letter that had been sent on by Merrick. "Then as you said, you concur with her assessment?"

"Yes, sir," said Giles. "And I have written to the Council to say so formally. In my view Buffy Summers is cunning and intelligent enough not to need the proof of the Cruciamentum. And I feel that the very fact that she has survived to the age of 18 is proof enough of her abilities. Mrs Horrocks was also right in thinking that it would be a gross breach of trust to inflict the ceremony on Buffy or Faith."

'Inflict'? Buffy and Faith? The bloody man had gone native over here. It was always a risk, but the horrible thing was that Horrocks had been right. There was nothing he could do if two successive or concurrent Watchers of Slayers recommended that something be continued – or abandoned. Bloody hell.

He had the distinct feeling that the ground was being cut away from under him for a moment and forced down his rising anger. The Cruciamentum may not have been the most pleasant of tests but it was traditional. It allowed the Slayer a means of proving herself in a way that could never be questioned by the Council again. It was more than a test, it was a validation of Slayership itself and a tie to the ordinary humanity that the Slayer was sworn to protect and which she was briefly reminded of. The Council had its reasons for creating the test and to have it stopped now, like this...

Quentin drew a deep breath and made up his mind on a number of things almost simultaneously. First things first, he turned back to the waiting Giles. The bloody woman had been right after all, Council Law was strict about that.

"Very well, Mr Giles, as Mrs Horrocks stated so clearly in her letter, the recommendations of two consecutive Watchers is binding. The Cruciamentum ceremony for both Slayers is hereby cancelled. I will add that it is over my own objections, but my hands," he handed back the letter, "Are tied." And you will not hear the last of this, he thought.

Giles nodded politely and walked off. He'd almost made it to the door when Quentin cleared his throat. "Oh, Mr Giles, before I forget. A replacement Watcher has been selected for Ms Morgan, as you have been having to fill in for Mrs Horrocks." It wasn't really a lie, he'd been thinking about the new Watcher for a while, but the final selection had yet to be made. Now, in the privacy of his own head, he had decided.

"He should be here in Sunnydale within a few days to take over and allow you to concentrate on training Ms Summers."

Raising an eyebrow Giles nodded again. "May I ask who he is?"

Quentin bared his teeth in what hopefully looked like a smile. "No you may not. Goodbye, Mr Giles."

"Goodbye, sir," replied Giles and he slipped out of the door.

Returning to the window Quentin stared out of the window and practiced under his breath some interesting swear words that he had once heard a Gurkha officer once pronounce in Indonesia in the 1960s.

After a moment there was a soft knock and Griffiths entered the room. "Did the meeting go well, sir?"

"No," he said tightly. "On the recommendation of Mr Giles and Mrs Horrocks the Cruciamentum is cancelled. Mrs Horrocks wrote to him before her death and I fear that the letter is authentic."

"I see," said Griffiths, obviously choosing his words carefully. The fool probably didn't, he was too young, unable to see the rest of the chessboard, unable to see beyond the first few moves of the game beyond a few pawns moving around.

Well, it was time to take on more of what the Americans called a 'hands-on' approach. To seize the initiative from a foolish Watcher who had gone native and a dead Watcher who must have had her wits addled by the plane journey over.

"Griffiths, I have a job for you. Two jobs actually. I want you to contact Wesley Wyndham-Price at once and tell him to contact me at once. He is to be the new Watcher for Faith Morgan." Wesley was young enough to build up some form of bond with the Morgan girl and fresh enough from the Council training program to be relied upon not to go native. She, at least, could be redeemed hopefully.

"And secondly get in touch with Latimer and tell him that his proposals for expanding the search for Potentials are approved."

The next Slayer was going to be council trained from infancy if need be and was going to undergo the Cruciamentum even if he had to come out of retirement to approve it. Traditions were important. They had to have confidence in the Slayers. The world rested in their hands.


Giles looked into the rearview mirror one last time as he drove away from the house. Really, Quentin Travers was such a predictable man. A great planner and steeped in the history of the Watchers Council, but a little too hidebound sometimes. He thought back to the letter and chuckled.

When Isobel Horrocks and his mother had been in school together they had developed a little code of their own, a code that they had shared with his father (who had loved it, the devious sod) and eventually himself. It was based on symbols that took the place of phrases. It wasn't exactly flexible, but it was good enough to pass on what they thought about certain matters and certain people.

He glanced at the envelope, which Travers had never really looked at. The symbol under his own name meant: "As he can be trusted to make sure that this is delivered."

As for the others... well the one under Travers' name meant 'inflexible pillock'. The one next to the words 'ancient ritual' meant 'useless piece of cruel mumbo-jumbo', while the one by the mention of the Council's Laws meant 'these can occasionally be useful.' The final one, under her signature, meant 'Wol', the nickname that he had always known her as.

He smiled. He almost felt like singing. Then he remembered the business with the Mayor. Perhaps a brisk hum instead? And of course today was Faith's birthday.


The moon was rising over Sunnydale, a pale crescent of light that barely penetrated the streetlights. On the flat roof of the chemical lab of the High School a dark-haired figure was sitting on the parapet, her back to the wall and her attention on the things in her lap.

Faith was feeling totally freaked out now. After the previous night's ceremony thing tonight she'd been hanging with the crowd at Casa Summers, waiting for Mrs Summers to unveil her latest batch of nachos, which were always wicked cool. She liked Joyce, she reminded her of old Horry, her dead Watcher. Giles, B, the Jedi, Willow and Jedi Oz had all been there, talking about stuff and laughing. She liked it there, she felt almost... well, there was a comfortable feeling there. Giles had been doing more one-on-one training with her recently and they had discovered that her spot-the-vampire skills were 'slightly more acute' than Buffy's, which was the Brit's way of saying that she could sniff 'em out something like a second faster. Not much, but you needed every edge you could get in the fight against the vamps.

Joyce had slipped out for the nachos and then suddenly the room had gone totally dark and somekinda flickery light was out in the hall. Going on instinct Faith had leapt to her feet and pulled out her best stake, ready for the off, but then the door had opened and Mrs Summers had been standing there, her face lit by candles. Candles on a cake. A cake that had said: Happy Birthday Faith.

Totally bewildered and wondering how the hell they'd known, Faith had dropped the stake in embarrassment, especially when they sang Happy Birthday and asked her to blow out the candles. Feeling like she was back at freaking kindergarten she'd blown them all out and then almost physically cringed at the memories.

She'd given up celebrating her birthdays. Various loser boyfriends had tried – one had gotten them both tickets to hear some skanky band murder a number of good songs, another had taken her to a party where he'd drunk too much punch, thrown up in her leather jacket and passed out on her on the ride home. He'd been driving as well. And before that... well, this was where things got bad. Her mom had vaguely remembered a couple of times, but had been too busy trying to make sure that the man in her life at the time wasn't out screwing some barmaid on the side. Or she'd been away in jail, having been persuaded to 'help out' by the losers she was dating. Mom. Good old friendly mom, always terrified about spending the rest of her life alone.

But the minute she'd seen that birthday cake another memory had come back, one of her when she was very young, no more than three or four... of sitting in a chair in a house somewhere, dressed in a pink dress, watching in awe as a birthday cake was carried towards her by a tall man, an old guy, in his eighties but still tall, with an old woman next to him and her Mom somewhere in the background, all smiling... being told to blow the candles out, and when she did the old couple applauded like crazy. Her grandparents. They'd died just a few years later and then her mom had started her slow slide downhill but that memory had bubbled up in her mind the moment she saw Joyce Summers and that cake.

But that wasn't it, because there had been gifts, and apart from half a bottle of vodka and a dribbly kiss two years ago from ol' whatisname, she couldn't remember the last time that had happened. And as for the gifts... Giles had given her a stake – only this was one he'd made himself out of some dark heavy wood she'd never seen before, like mahogany. It was the perfect weight, every bit as good as Mister Pointy and it was wicked sharp. The guy must have spent hours on it.

B's gift had been cool as well. It was a knife, something long and curved and with the kind of craftsmanship that said that it would cut through anything. B had said that she'd take the rap for the howl of pain that the Watcher's Council would let out once they saw the bill she'd forwarded to them, but tough. She hadn't tested the edge yet because she wanted all her fingers to stay on. And Jedi Oz had made her a sheath for it – they'd said that the one that came with the knife was crap. So now the knife was tucked into a snug leather holder that went around her hips and rested there with a comforting weight.

As for Red, she'd produced a little rock that had been enchanted to glow whenever vamps were around. That meant it would probably glow 24/7 in parts of Sunnydale, but hey another seconds warning was all it took sometimes. Apparently it wasn't perfect – Red had told her that for some reason it also glowed whenever The Sound Of Music was on any TV closer than ten feet away, which was freaky – but it was still cool.

The Jedi had surprised her with his gift. Although she would have loved a lightsabre she was also a bit apprehensive of the things now that she had seen what a bad guy could do with them. Apparently that Snyder dork had pitched a fit at all the damage, but the school board had okayed the repairs snake fast. No, Xander had handed over a small box – containing his crucifix, the one that the Church had given him, according to Giles. It was solid silver and utterly beautiful and hell, it was old, 300 years at least. When she'd stammered out a question he'd said that it was better off in the hands of someone who needed it more than he did. She had her doubts about that – Jedi or not he was still vulnerable if his lightsabre ever blew a fuse – but it seemed to be a Jedi thing because she'd seen Oz frown and then nod hard.

Mrs Summers had given her a very motherly hug, which was ok, and then a pair of the coolest boots she'd ever seen in her life, which was more than ok. Plus the nachos, which were up to her usual standard.

And then Giles had produced the last gift. A small book, which she'd taken with a frown and a smile, until she saw the envelope tucked inside it and seen the handwriting. Horry's handwriting. Inside the envelope was a handmade birthday card, with a little pen and ink picture of her own face. Horry had been a hell of an artist for an old chick. Inside it said simply: "To Faith. Hoping that your birthday finds you well and slaying". Opening the book to the title page, she saw the inscription. "Faith. The official Watcher's Manual can be pompous, so here's one more to your style. Isobel Horrocks."

It was the Watcher's Manual, but it was rewritten in Horry's handwriting, with quotes and stories from past Watchers and jokes and little cartoons that Horry had drawn. Faith hitting her first vampire kill with part of a picket fence. Faith blowing up that Targenn demon by mistake. Things that made her grin and then think of Horry.

She'd handled it as long as she could and then made her escape, making for the roof. And now something wet kept going wrong with her eyes and she was not a girl who ever cried, come on she was tougher than that. She was a Slayer, Slayer of vampires, ass-kicker of demons. She was someone who gave Death the finger and then kicked him in the nuts.

She shook her head for a second because for an instant she could have heard someone say KICK ME IN THE WHAT?

Then she looked back down at the gifts and then out over Sunnydale. It was dumb to be feeling like this over something so equally dumb as a birthday. Come on! But they'd made the effort, which was a damn sight more than most people had. And Horry... Giles had said that she must have taken ages over the book. She must have been planning it for months. From what he had said about her, smiling that quirky smile, he had known her very well. It was odd sometimes to think that others must have mourned Horry as much as she had. She looked down again and a tear rolled down her nose and fell off. Come on, she couldn't keep doing this; she had to meet B and try out her presents. But it felt good for a moment to think of Horry and remember the old Watcher. And to realise that she had friends who cared for her.

The moon rose slowly in the sky over a weeping Slayer.


Sitting under a tree and meditating was not something that he had once thought he would ever do. Okay, it looked as if he was lying under the tree and sleeping, but if he had assumed the correct Jedi meditation position he would have drawn too much attention to himself.

No, instead he was in the position normally assumed by Xander Harris, sprawler extraordinaire, which was what people still thought that he was. It meant that he could stretch out with his feelings and surf the Force, so to speak. He could feel Buffy off to one side, probably in the library talking to Giles.

Faith was the other big signal in the Force, albeit one that had been puzzling him since the previous night. She had gone from being buzzed for instant slayage at the start of the birthday bash, to being baffled and then a complex skin of emotion, combining happiness, misery, longing, anger, joy and loss. Yes, she was a complex little slayer, and today she was feeling... different, he could tell. Perhaps it was attachment. Perhaps it was something else, he wasn't sure. What he did know was that he, Giles, Oz, Buffy and Willow had talked the previous night about making Faith a full Scooby, and the reactions from the others had been positive.

Oz was busy training out of sight in one corner of the flat roof, working on his balance skills. He could tell that Willow was with him, acting as a welcome distraction. He was pleased with the progress that his Padawan was making. The werewolf – or should that be former werewolf as he hadn't transformed in weeks? – was coming on in leaps and bounds, literally. He had excellent reflexes, a good sense of balance and his Force skills were improving rapidly. Giles was now teaching him the basics of swordfighting, and once Oz was along far enough not to be able to decapitate himself, he would step in to teach him the complexities of fighting with the Force.

Ever since the fight against his Sith self he had noticed an increase in interest in his fighting styles. Giles had run through a few training sessions with him so that he could pass them on to his Slayers, saying that the more they knew the more they could blend into their fighting techniques. He almost smiled in his trance. He had a feeling that Giles was trying to lead him up to something, to both pass on and absorb new information. There was a slight shift in the Force and he could feel that Buffy was moving now, he could feel her approaching the main doors, obviously having completed her Slayer business.

Then there were the other things that were looming on the horizon. His Sith counterpart had mentioned the mysterious Army base that was somewhere in the area and had even named it. The Initiative. They had to find out where that was, even if only to warn them that the inhabitants of Sunnydale included some things that should not be looked at without a very strong stomach and a pointy wooden object.

But the final thing that Darth Harris had mentioned was the most intriguing. The Goa'uld, if he had the pronunciation right. What were they, or it to him? Why had the Sith mentioned defending Earth? And why had he mentioned new technology?

Too many things to think about. Too many things to be concerned about. Well, at least he could make a start on a few things. He was already assembling the parts that Oz would use to make his lightsabre. He was also working on something else, a target drone. This would not be easy as Earth lacked repulsorlifts and the prospect of anti-gravity was probably decades, if not centuries, away in the future. However, he had the basics in his book and with a bit of tinkering there was a good chance that he could make it work.

He paused. Hurricane Snyder was in the area and avoiding him was one minor bonus of being a Jedi. Snyder was still smarting from utterly failing in his mission to catch Xander cheating at his SATs, for the simple reason that he hadn't needed to. When the results had come back to the school Snyder had queried both his and Buffy's figures, thinking that a mistake had been made, as that the two people he had figured for working in burger bars, or at least asking people if they wanted fries with the Special of the Day, had both scored so highly.

The look on his face when he heard that the scores were real had been priceless according to a gleeful Giles.

Ah well, class called, if his assessment of the time was accurate. He opened his eyes and got to his feet quickly, looking at his watch. Great, time for class.


He caught sight of her as he came out of history, a sulky look to her face and a distinct slouch to her body. Yup, this ex-demon was an annoyed ex-demon. He could feel more than vague annoyance rolling off her, in fact he didn't even need to use the Force to do so. When she turned and glanced at him she stiffened and then stomped up to him.

"How long," she said through clenched teeth, "Do you people intend to watch me? I mean the Watcher, it's his job to watch the Slayer not me and as for the rest of you..." She bit back something and then gave him a dazzlingly insincere smile. "It's not as if I'm a threat to you, is it?"

Leaning against the wall he directed a very level look at her. "Well," he said quietly, "As you're still a former demon who, oh I don't know, accidentally dragged an evil version of me into this world from a parallel dimension in a vain effort to regain your mojo, don't you think that we'd be idiots not to keep an eye on you?"

The dazzling smile hardened. "That was an accident."

"The Sith me or the attempt to get your powers back?"

She relapsed into poutiness. "Oh come on. A month ago I was a vengeance demon who rained fire and pincer thingies against unfaithful men. Now I can't get a drink and I'm flunking math and home economics." She shifted slightly. "Plus there's a silly little man who keeps gaping at me."

"Silly little man?" Asked the Jedi, confused.

"Him!" Her hand shot out to point at Jonathan who was loitering with intent to gape not far away. As she pointed he turned bright red, almost dropped his bag and walked straight into a closed door off the corridor by mistake before walking quickly away saying 'ow' a lot and rubbing his nose.

"You see?" She looked disgustedly down the corridor. "So how long are you people going to watch me?"

"Well, until you stop calling on witches to get your power back," he admitted.

"ONE witch!" she hissed indignantly, "One witch and even then she got it wrong!"

"Well, we're not taking any chances," he replied quietly. "And we have enough on our minds as it is anyway."

Oddly enough this perked her up. "Oh. I don't remember hearing about any new apoca-" his hand shot out to cover her mouth.

"Ssh," he said, "House rule: Don't frighten the children or mention the 'A' word. The 'A' word is bad."

She rolled her eyes upwards and sighed. "Okay, I don't remember hearing about any 'A'" Her index fingers framed the letter, "Word in my previous employment, if you want to get paranoid about the whole thing."

He spared her a long look. So far Giles had been unable to get very far with his research and they didn't want to ask around too much in the undead community for fear of alerting the Mayor to the fact that they had an inkling, in Giles's terms, about what he was up to. In the name of the Force, it was worth a gamble.

"What do you know about an ascension?" he asked over his shoulder as he walked away.

Then he stopped dead. A wave of fear and dread was pounding away in the force from her, enough to come from a crowd of people let alone one newly minted human. He turned and blinked. Anya was standing there, her eyes wide and her face deathly pale, as if she had seen a ghost.

"I don't know if I should faint or throw up," she quavered.

Jackpot, he thought. Thank the Force.

She started to talk.

() This was the first insult I ever learnt in Welsh. It's very harmless and can be deployed in front of small children, fluffy pets and little old ladies without causing irrevocable damage to their moral sensibilities. If you must know, go and look it up.