Kennedy made her way silently into the dark house. The night's hunt had been long, and she had seen more than a couple Slayers die beside her—a sight she had been glad she had not needed to endure since Sunnydale. But just like Sunnydale, the Slayers were at war, and wars came with casualties. Kennedy trusted Dawn to keep as many of the girls as was possible alive. She wouldn't make the types of mistakes that Buffy had made the year before.
She made her way up to her room without turning on any of the lights, using her Slayer's night vision instead. Once she reached her room, she began to strip out of the bloody and ripped clothes which bore the signs of the night's patrol.
She had kicked off her shoes and was taking off her shirt when a familiar voice broke in. "Ooh, baby," it said. "Take it all off."
Kennedy spun around to see a dark-haired Willow standing in the open door of their bedroom.
"Hello, lover," Willow said, stepping forward. "I didn't think you would want to go to bed alone."
"Beyond words, beyond silence, Chaos I summon thee. Accept this sacrifice, and imbue me with your power."
Ethan smiled as he said the words of invocation, holding the gagged and restrained form of a young woman in his hands. Here he was, more connected to Chaos than he had ever been, about to cast a spell of which he could only guess the magnitude. Ripper had gone out to see the West Indian girl again—what was her name? Alicia? Olive?—and so Ethan had the flat to himself during the ritual. Wouldn't Ripper be surprised, though, when he saw—well, whatever there would be to see when the spell had been cast.
He felt the power flow out of the girl and into him. Imbued with power, he stepped into the circle and began to chant. "Mother of the Nile, grace us with the magnitude of Your power, with the magnanimity of Your soul and with the magnificence of Your glory. Isis, Queen, release the ancient barriers which separate us from Your mercy." He continued the spell, channeling through himself energies greater than any he had ever channeled before. They were strong magicks that he was invoking, and he had to struggle to keep control, to not lose himself in the sheer awesome power that—
Wait. It wasn't October 1979. It was February 2004. And he wasn't in London; he was in Brazil.
"Simple Simon went to look if plums grew on a thistle," a lilting female voice interjected in a British accent he couldn't quite place. "He pricked his fingers very much, which made poor Simon whistle."
Ethan turned to see a slender dark-haired woman dressed in a diaphanous black gown with a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders. As if to demonstrate, she began to whistle a tune—"All Around the Mulberry Bush," if Ethan wasn't mistaken. "Who are you?" he asked.
"The only one I could be," she answered, as if that were the only answer needed. "The others couldn't come, trapped as they are within their carcasses of dead flesh. The quick are less than useless. Only I can see beyond."
"Beyond what? What others?" Ethan asked, confused.
"The three who want to help, possessing that which we should not have. A man, to avenge a woman. Another man, for love of a woman. And myself, once a woman, for love of the men."
"I don't understand," Ethan insisted. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Oh, you understand," the dark-haired woman corrected. "You don't comprehend."
Ethan nodded, still not understanding. "I'm glad we've made that distinction."
"Mother sings, and all her children come out to play. But Daddy's angry, and he's taking away all the presents."
"Daddy? You mean Osiris?"
"Tin soldiers, all lined up," she answered, as if it weren't a complete non sequitor. "Knock one down, they all fall. Such lovely toys, but such a horrid mess all over the floor. Grandmother would be cross. Mustn't have that, so I come to you. The pixies brought me, you know. Now you can tell Miss Muffet, and we can all have tea and cakes."
"Miss Muffet? I'm supposed to talk to a fictional character?" This was only getting crazier and crazier.
The woman shook her head. "Your lost little lamb, caught in the blackberry patch. Run and catch." She gestured towards the young woman he had drained earlier (earlier in 1979, he thought, still trying to keep straight when he was), in order to channel the energy necessary for the Rite of Isis, but when he turned to look at the unconscious girl the random blonde had been replaced by Dawn Summers, dressed in her Alice Liddell costume from so many years ago. (Or was it still years to go?) Curioiser and curiouser.
"What is it that I'm supposed to tell her? What does this all mean?" asked Ethan, the disciple of Chaos, trying desperately to find some order within this bedlam.
The enigmatic woman only smiled. "Just a pack of cards," she said, and clapped her hands.
Ethan woke up with a start. That probably wasn't the strangest dream he had ever had—between magic and hallucinogens, he had had some strange ones—but it definitely ranked up there. He wondered what had been rattling around in his subconscious to produce that. And who was that strange woman?
Wait. Ethan stopped and thought about it for a moment. Release the ancient barriers which separate us from Your mercy. The gods will walk the Earth, the wine will be sweetened. Mother sings, and all her children come out to play. I will help you once I can; until then, My hands are tied.
Suddenly, Ethan felt the color drain from his face as everything fell into place.
"Shit." Even in his wildest dreams—well, the wild prophetic dream he had just had excepted—he hadn't imagined it could be that bad. And he had cast it once himself? Oh, the follies of youth.
Ethan turned to the form of Dawn Summers next to him in the bed, and began to shake her.
"Dawn," he said, as he saw her eyes open and stare at him groggily, "I know what the Rite of Isis does."