Bell, Book, and Cat Tales

Willow looked down at the sleek tabby. Its luminous green eyes gazed back unwaveringly. "It's a cat."

"We know it's a cat, Will." Xander glanced between his friend and the petite woman sitting nervously on the edge of the couch cushion. "Is there anything, you know, aura-y or vibey about said cat?"

Willow smiled apologetically. "I don't usually handle animals. I'm not sure what to look for but nothing seems to be wrong."

"I'm just glad you guys didn't laugh at me." Jane reached out to scratch the cat's ears. "Nice to finally meet some people who aren't crawling under their pillows at night."

"Oh, we still crawl. But it's because we know what's out there rather than just plain old fear of the dark and creepy." Willow turned back to the cat, trying to see something that might be construed as strange behavior. He was sitting quietly, sphinx-like, purring under the soft rubbing of Jane's fingers. With a twinge of sadness, she wished Tara were there. She had always been better with animals than Willow. "You said he's just staring at you?"

"All the time. He never used to. He used to do cat things." Jane continued to stroke the feline lovingly. "Like chase insects and string. Sometimes he'd bring a mouse home and leave its carcass on the doorstep. Sweet little things like that."

Willow glanced at Xander; he shrugged. "When did it start?"

"About a week ago. He's not even interested in his toys anymore. The vet says he's perfectly healthy." She pulled the cat into her lap, cradling him gently and pressing soft kisses into his fur. "But I know something's wrong. I've had Bugsy for ten years and I can tell there's something different about him. I know he's getting old but it's not that. It's like he's waiting for something. Or listening. I don't know."

"I can do research. We have books." Another glance to Xander. How much had he told her? "About unusual stuff. There might be information about cats. And they can sense things. Earthquakes, that kind of stuff. Maybe he's picking up something from you. If you're stressed or unhappy, he might be reacting to that."

"I don't think I've been more stressed out lately. Nothing's changed." Jane gave them a half-hearted laugh. "You must think I'm crazy. Just a cat after all. And he's probably just getting old, leaving the kitten behind and becoming all responsible. Maybe a nice shiny convertible." She looked down at Bugsy. "That works for human males. How 'bout a new carrier, Bugs? With a sunroof. We could put James Dean decals on it. You could be a rebel." Bugsy meowed and nudged her gently with his nose.

"I think he likes." Xander flashed Willow a grateful look. "I'm sure a nice fluffy Miss Kitty would do the trick."

"Oh, he's neutered. But you're right. Maybe he misses his wild days of sexual abandon." Jane smiled shyly at him. "Thanks for trying, Willow. It was really nice to meet you."

"Me too. I mean with the niceness of meeting you, not that it's nice to meet me. Xander told me he had his eye on this girl..."

"Will." Xander was doing his deer in the headlights impression.

"Which I'm sure I wasn't supposed to mention but since it's already out, I'm going to shake your hand and wish you luck with your cat."

Jane laughed. "Glad to know I wouldn't have made a fool out of myself asking him out. You can't be too careful in this town. People usually aren't what they seem to be."

"You're right about that." Willow gave Bugsy's ears a good scratch before picking up her handbag. "I'll stop by Buffy's, see if Giles has any ideas. See ya later."

"Say hi to the gang for me."

"No problem." Willow left them sitting on Xander's couch trying to coax Bugsy into a rousing game of Hopping Shoelace. She was relieved. When Xander had asked her to take a look at the girl's cat, she had been surprised but it had given her an opportunity to check out Jane Liddle. Since she was the best friend and protection of Xander's heart fell under her jurisdiction, she needed to be aware of new developments.

The engine of her Nissan hummed quietly as she wove through traffic. She couldn't remember reading anything about cats. Maybe animals in general. Were other animals in Sunnydale acting strange? A few phone calls could answer that. If all cats were acting strangely, it would be worth looking into. She wondered if she could prove her hunch. Those green eyes had watched her with the intensity of a being who knew and understood what was going on. He had enduring her careful poking and prodding, meowed when she asked him questions, and had seemed more intelligent than most cats. She wasn't a feline expert but years of living on the Hellmouth told her there was something off about the tabby.

Dawn was turning up the walk, schoolbooks in hand, as Willow pulled into the Summers' drive. Grabbing her purse, she waved to the girl and climbed out of the car. "Hey, Dawnie. Is Giles still here?"

"Yeah. He's supposed to conference call the Head Watcher this afternoon."

"Classes over?"

"Finally." Dawn grinned as she let them into the house. "And what is my favorite witch up to this fine California day?"

"Went over to Xander's on his lunch break and met the girl responsible for those five pounds I've gained eating all those donuts. Her name is Jane."

"Demon?"

"Far as I could tell, she's human." Willow dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter. "And I tried three different spells and two demon-sensitive crystals."

"What's she like?"

"Cute in a tomboy way. Short. Probably a size zero. A big wind would blow her away. Overall verdict, normal with higher than average intelligence. And I think she likes comic books."

"How so?"

"It might have been the X-Men t-shirt she was wearing. Or the Spider Man shoes."

Dawn laughed as she pulled the milk out of the fridge and poured herself a glass. "Sounds like we have a winner. At least they'll have something to talk about."

"Yeah." Willow found a glass for herself and filled it with water. "They seemed to be relaxed together. Joking, laughing. And I think she gets Xander's sense of humor."

"A rare quality indeed."

"For a non-Scooby? Much so." She glanced up as Buffy came through the doorway. "Home for lunch, Buff?"

"Yeah. How'd donut girl check out?"

"Free and clear." Calling Buffy had been the first thing Willow had done after getting Xander's request.

"Major relief. Sense any sparkage?"

"Definite meeting of brain waves at least. Those two might actually speak the same language."

"About those brain waves..." Buffy hesitated. "Giles wanted to pick your brain for a bit. Something about radio from the Hellmouth. Making demons a little wacky and who knows what else."

"Where is he?" Willow checked her watch. "I don't have to be back up on campus for another couple of hours."

"He might be on the phone for a while. Council stuff. They're trying to play nice this round."

"Anyone seen Faith?" Dawn blinked innocently at her sister. "Just wondering."

Buffy glared back. "You're way too happy about this."

"At least someone's having sex."

"Dawn. Thin ice, treading on it, you are."

Willow frowned in mock disapproval. "What's up? Who's getting sex? Cause I'd kinda like to join that whole train the next time it comes around."

Buffy's voice was muffled as she searched through the refrigerator for something to eat. "No, you don't. Faith. Spike. Do the math."

"Oh. Well." Willow grinned at Dawn's attempt to keep back her laughter. "Guess I walked right into that one. Although it does make a strange sort of sense." She caught Buffy scowling at her. "In a non-logical and potentially bad sort of way. "He doesn't have one of those, you know, clauses or anything, does he? Cause I'm fresh out of Orbs of Thesula."

"Dawn didn't bother to find out before she sent Faith into the lion's den." Buffy dumped some bagged salad onto a plate and stabbed at the lettuce with a fork. "Has anyone thought to ask him how he got a soul anyway?"

"You were too busy knocking him out and tying him up," Dawn answered pointedly.

"How was I supposed to know he wasn't crazy anymore?"

"It's called trust, Buffy. Try it on sometime. It itches a little at first but you get used to it."

"Trusting vampires leads to pain and heartache, Dawn."

"Just because you had a bad experience-"

"Bad?" Buffy's fork hit the plate with a clang. "Bad is being used and dumped by Parker. Bad is Riley leaving me. Bad does not begin to describe what happened with Angel or Spike. Not even close."

"Fine." Dawn looked down at the counter, knowing she'd crossed the line.

Willow decided it was time to find Giles. "I'll just be...somewhere that's not here. Waiting for Giles." She scooped her bag off of the counter and escaped with her glass of water. The living room was blissfully quiet. There were books stacked on the coffee table.

"Ah, research. I've missed you." Willow settled onto the couch, sifting through the volumes to get an idea of what Giles was looking for. Energy fields, dimensional rifts and boundaries, that sort of thing. Nothing looked promising for information about strange cats. Oh well, first things first. Humming softly, she picked up one of the books and scanned through the marked pages.

Giles came around the corner, another book in his hands. "Willow. I'm glad you're here."

"Here and research ready. I do have one quick question for the old Watcher." She smiled as he took a seat. "Old as in former, not old as in fossil. Because you're definitely not archeology old."

"Yes, thank you. I think."

"Any ideas about strange cat mojo?"

"Cat? As in feline? Large or small?"

"House variety. Cute little tabbies with green eyes." She tried to read the title of his book, frowning at the unfamiliar script.

"I don't remember anything in particular. Most spells or summonings deal with larger cats, lions or tigers. Except for the myth of them being a witch's familiar or bad luck, there isn't much outside of the standard Egyptian lore." He shook his head. "Of course, I do believe that you can find several hundred works that claim all cats are divine and several hundred more that believe they are the Devil's servants.. Until someone actually gets into a feline mind, I'm rather inclined to believe the latter. Why do you ask?"

"Potential Xander love interest has a cat who's acting kinda spooky." Willow put her book down and tried another.

"Demon?"

"The cat? Don't think so. No demon vibes."

"No, the girl."

"Oh, nope. I checked." She smiled, wondering if Xander would ever be able to date without them all asking if the girl was human. "She said her cat's been a little weird. With the creepy eye watching and listening to mystical things only cats can hear. And Giles, I think it understood what I was saying. The cat. I mean, it knew when I had asked him a question. At least he meowed in all the right places."

"Cats are thought to be sensitive to human emotions. It was probably just picking up signals from its owner."

"Maybe. I was going to check with the animal shelters and clinics, see if they've had a lot of weird pets coming in. Maybe it has something to do with what's making the demons jumpy."

"Good idea." Giles got that far away look that Willow had always associated with research. It meant that he was thinking about something a million miles from Sunnydale and would return when he had found the answer in the enormous database he had instead of a brain.

"What did you want to ask me about? Giles?"

"Yes, of course. It's about Dawn and the demons actually." There went the glasses. This was turning out to be better than Willow had hoped. Polishing of the glasses was usually accompanied by something very interested. And very bad. But she could be excited until he told her the bad part. "It has been theorized that centers of mystical energy, like the Hellmouth, have a signature frequency. Beyond the range of human sensation or even modern technology."

"Like mystical electromagnetic radiation?"

"Exactly. I'm wondering if it would be possible for that frequency to change. And it did, would it affect the demon populations? We know the Hellmouth draws them here."

"And if it were amped up, it might do more than just draw." Willow frowned thoughtfully. "Like music affects humans. Triggering endorphin responses, adrenaline. Bringing out aggressive tendencies or making you happy. Big on the mood shifting."

"Resulting in a much more volatile temperament."

"But the whole point of a fundamental frequency is that it's fundamental. It doesn't change. You'd have to change the properties of the object to change its frequency."

Giles nodded and held his book out to her. "What if the nature of the Hellmouth isn't changing? It's just being augmented by something else. Or something else has changed. Syncing up the frequencies of these mystical convergences somehow."

"You think they're resonating. Like finding a natural frequency for our dimension."

"Precisely."

Willow traced a finger over the map printed on the pages, little dots indicating supernatural hotspots. "Well, resonance does produce destructive amplitudes. It's what breaks the glass." He looked confused at her reference. "When an opera singer hits that really high note and the glass shatters. It's because that note is the natural frequency of the glass. It resonates. Goes boom." And there was the bad part. "You think all these places are like the Hellmouth and they're all resonating at the same frequency. That's bad. That's world-ending bad."

"I think it's a possibility."

"And Dawn?"

"Dawn is hearing whispers. No intelligible words. Not even a clear voice." Giles dug another book out of the stacks. "The reason we can't see the Key part of Dawn is that it vibrates on a dimensional frequency beyond our reality. She could be hearing the vibrations of these energy fields. Literally speaking, the voice of the Hellmouth."

"She's resonating too." Willow felt the color drain from her cheeks. "You don't think it will hurt Dawn will you?"

"As far as we can tell, it hasn't hurt anything. It's only exciting the demons."

"Maybe it hasn't actually reached the resonance frequency yet. Maybe it's still ramping up." She stared blankly down at her lap. "Do we have any books about this stuff?"

"Not many. I'm scheduled to speak with the Council in half an hour. I'll ask them if they have more resources available." He checked his watch. "I'm sure Dawn's fine, Willow."

"Is there anything you haven't looked through yet? I'm sure you've gotten everything out of the rest."

"Feel free to double check, Willow. I'm not going to pretend I have all the answers any longer. You're a grown woman now and an exceptional one at that."

Willow blushed at the compliment. "I'll get started on that research then." She grabbed the nearest book and buried her nose in the pages to hide her red face. Halfway through the first paragraph, inspiration struck and she stood up quickly. "Actually, I can do better than musty old books."

"You can?"

She hurried to the desk and searched through the spiral bound notebook where Buffy kept important phone numbers. There it was. She dialed quickly, twisting away from the phone cord as she listened to the ring tone. "I'll just be a second, Giles." Two. Three.

"Angel Investigations," a cheerful voice answered at the other end of the line.

"Hey. It's Willow Rosenberg in Sunnydale. I'm looking for Fred."

Clair Iverson had never wanted to be Head Watcher. He wanted to be a Watcher, to do his bit for mankind and retire quietly with a good book and his Welsh Corgi named Max. He did his job well and he enjoyed it, two things that had been the very cause of his new responsibilities. No one cared that he didn't want them. Rubbing his temples, he watched the phone and waited for it to produce the shrill ringing that had to be the most irritating sound in the history of mankind.

"Do you need anything, sir?" Roberts' head poked through the door.

"No, thank you. How is the clean up going?"

Roberts hesitated. "He took the hard drive, sir."

"Why am I not surprised?" Iverson leaned back in his chair. "Any word on his whereabouts?"

"Not a whisper."

"Keep me updated." He breathed a sigh of relief as the door finally closed and he was once again alone in his office. The strange happenings around the world were making him jumpy. A cat on a hot tin roof. It seemed to get a tad worse every day and they still had not heard from their Slayer. All in all, it had been a very bad week thus far and Iverson doubted that it had any intention of getting better.

He was shaken from his thoughts abruptly by the ringing of the phone. For a moment he stared blankly at the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the handset and pressed it against his ear. "Iverson."

"Rupert Giles in Sunnydale, sir."

"Rupert. How are things in California?"

"Very much the same as when I spoke to your assistant yesterday." The former Watcher's voice was noticeably terse even with the less than optimum connection.

"I understand. My deepest apologies to you and your Slayer for what happened. It was a dreadful mistake."

"What do you intend to do to prevent another such mistake?"

"I intend to involve Miss Summers completely in the business of the Council." Iverson glanced up as Roberts returned, silently placing a folder on his desk. "That is the very reason that I wished to speak with you." He flipped open the file and frowned at the newspaper clippings inside. Two families in southern Virginia had been brutally murdered in their own homes. Another in the south of France and a fourth in the Lake District. No, his week was most definitely not improving.

"Very well. What do you propose?"

"I will be flying out this evening for California. I don't wish to conduct this business over the phone and I would like to personally assure Miss Summers that both myself and the Council are squarely behind her."

"That would be appreciated." The older man sounded suspicious. Iverson could hardly blame him. The Council's record with Miss Summers was abysmal at best.

"Is there any way we can be of assistance to Miss Summers or to you, Rupert? I could get the paperwork started today and still meet my plane if there is anything pressing." Iverson tapped the desktop absently, scanning through the articles about the deaths. Something was familiar. The names. Larry and Karen O'Bannion, two daughters, Eliza and Miranda. Dr. and Mrs. Jacob Marshall, a son, Andrew, and three girls, Kate, Lily, and Sybil. The Moreau family in Nice. Six people lost in the Worthington family. All dead. Giles' voice interrupted his concentration.

"There is something. About Buffy's sister, Dawn."

"Yes?"

"You are aware of her circumstances?"

"Of course."

"Are there any records in the possession of the Council that might contain more information about her?"

"Most of our records were destroyed by the First." Iverson closed the folder. "But I will initiate a search before I leave this evening. If there is anything in our possession, it will be forwarded to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you. Sir."

"No trouble at all. This organization exists to benefit the Slayer or Slayers in whatever way we can. I will see you in Sunnydale tomorrow evening." He set the phone down with a click. "Roberts?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are there more of these?" He indicated the folder of clippings.

"Not yet, sir."

"There will be. Damn." Iverson took another deep breath before standing up. "I want you to find, photocopy, pack, and ship every bit of information about the Key and dimensional matrices that we can find. Send out a search through every contact we have. I want it all in Sunnydale by the time I land at the airport tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir."

"And Roberts? Get the genealogists in here. If we can warn or protect some of these families." He shook his head sadly. "We need to know about as many of them as possible. And send out a request for information. Let's find out who or what is doing the killing." He watched Roberts scribble furiously on his notepad. "I'll take care of those last two, Roberts. Concentrate on getting that information to Mr. Giles."

"Yes, sir." Roberts disappeared before Iverson could change his mind.

New Orleans held its breath when its resident vampire mogul returned in a flourish. Kraqin stayed low, blending into the background as the Al Capone imitation strutted through the city he had abandoned like a kicked dog less than a week before. Rumors had taken hold and the word was out; William the Bloody Psycho had left the building. There was a price on the vampire's head that made Kraqin wince. Bounty hunters swooped down onto the demon community, bloodthirsty vultures searching for any scrap of a clue. Those weren't the only rumblings. As one of the species of balance demons, Kraqin could feel the shift of power around him. Something was changing.

From the gossip, Cable seemed to be in the know and jockeying for the position of right hand man. Kraqin didn't want to know whose right hand because it gave him the creeps and anyone Cable would align with was doomed to be bad news all around. The vampire might be a coward but he wasn't the short end of the stick. If there was a big evil setting up to move, Cable would be scrambling to make himself useful in the hopes of a reward.

Ice sloshed in his glass as another demon bumped against his arm, he scowled ineffectively at the creature's back and moved his drink protectively. No respect for other demons, that's what was wrong with this world. Everyone out for themselves without care or concern for anything but getting ahead of the next guy.

"...a bookstore on Bourbon. Someone saw Spike there a few days ago."

"Trail's cold by now."

Kraqin's ears perked up at the mention of the vampire's name. The two demons at the bar next to him must have been bounty hunters. They had the look; dollar signs instead of irises and more weaponry than they knew what to do with. He leaned sideways on his stool, trying to catch more of the conversation out the background noise. They were talking about knives now. In great detail. He sighed into his drink. All brawn, no brains. He waited until the hunters finished their drinks and lumbered through the crowd but they never returned to the subject of Spike.

Cursing his boundless and meddlesome curiosity, he finished off his own drink and headed out of the bar after the hulking blockheads. Tucking his hands into his pockets awkwardly, they just weren't meant for his triangular bone structure, he shuffled down the street behind them. It was late and the human traffic was minimal through the back roads and alleyways. He doubted he'd get a second look anyway. If they weren't drunk as sailors, they'd think he was wearing a mask. Bourbon Street was a taste of double shot insanity any time of day as people wandered in and out of the clubs, flirting with the shot girls, and joking with friends. He watched the bounty hunters stop outside the Full Moon Rising bookstore and glance between the sign and the darkened interior. They continued moving, looking slightly puzzled.

Weaving through the crowd, Kraqin stopped in front of the store and peered through the glass. There was a dim light in the back and the vague shapes of bookshelves formed out of the shadows. Frowning, he wondered why the overgrown weed-whackers hadn't simply broken down the door and ransacked the place. That was their usual modus operendi. Taking a step back, he looked up at the sign again. Back to the window. Back to the sign. Something was wonky. The letters blurred as you looked away. In fact, he couldn't remember what the sign had said just a second later. Sign. Window. Strange.

He moved past the store and found he couldn't remember what it looked like or if he'd even seen it. Was the bookstore on Bourbon anyway? He shook his head, clearing some of the cobwebs away. Bookstore. He turned away, focusing on the busy club across the street. What was he looking for again?

He grinned as he realized what was going on. It took a clever hand to fashion a confusion spell that worked on a Balance Demon. Chuckling, he started down the street with a lighter heart. Big Evil might be on its way and it might succeed in dragging the dimension into chaos, but nothing in this world ever went quietly into that dark night. Now was probably a good time to take that extended vacation to the Nether dimensions he'd been thinking about.

"Behind you!"

Two steps, push off with one powerful thrust, there was a thud as her boot hit the wall of the crypt. Faith twisted midair, bringing her other leg around in a swinging kick. Bones crunched as her foot connected with the vampire's face, snapping his neck. Feet hit the ground and she started breathing again. God, she loved this job. Smooth as butter, the stake pierced through the vamp's chest and she waved away the dust that exploded at her feet.

"Not bad." Buffy was panting a little. "Your strength is coming back."

"Thanks for the heads up." Faith twirled the stake like a Western cowboy movie and stuck it back in her jacket pocket. "See what you mean about things being a little wacky out here."

"Confidence is of the good." Faith kept her eyes open as they started back through the cemetery. She was hoping to run into the vampires from the bar the night before. In decent shoes and no blood delivery scheduled, she'd wipe the floor with their reject asses.

"You're all peppy and good moody tonight."

Faith grinned but didn't take the bait. "Good to be out, kicking demon ass." She still loved the charge, the rush of adrenaline that slaying brought. The trick was control. Don't go over the top, don't get lost in it. It was getting easier.

"Have a good time last night?" Not giving up, Buffy's voice was deliberately casual.

Faith looked at her sideways, trying to decide what exactly the fishing expedition was for. "Not bad. Relaxing." She'd fallen asleep next to Spike and had slept better than she had in months. No nightmares, no restlessness. Knowing she was safe. It had been mid afternoon when she'd finally crawled out of bed, forced another bag of blood down Spike's throat and headed back to return Dawn's clothing. Dinner at casa Summers, a little patrol, and she would head back to Spike's. It was good to be around someone who didn't give a fuck that she had been in prison or looked like a quilt.

"Good." Buffy was staring at her feet as they walked. "So, you and Spike are getting along?"

"Yeah. He's cool." It was still easier to keep things casual. Too much Slayer bonding usually led to bad things. Like breaking and entering, stealing weapons, resisting arrest, and the inevitable accidental staking of a human being. Which led to dumping the body in the bay where it was found anyway and shacking up with the evil Mayor determined to eat the graduating class. Eventually there was prison blue and a whole lot of steel bars. Not pretty.

"I was looking for a little more than that. Along the lines of soul status. Not really wanting any more surprises." Her voice took on a hard edge.

"B. I'm flattered," Faith laughed, she was in too good of a mood to let Buffy ruin it. "You really think that little ole me could give Spike his one moment of true happiness? That's gotta choke."

Buffy stopped and glared at her. "Just tell me if I have to stake him or not."

"Chill, B. His soul is safely in place."

"Guess you didn't get the job done then."

Faith froze, turning around slowly. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." Buffy's smile was cold. "You'd think with all the practice you've had, I mean, is there anyone in this hemisphere you haven't screwed?"

"You're jealous." Faith watched in awe as Buffy shook her head and started walking away. "You are! You're jealous. Of me. I can't believe this!" She leapt onto a tombstone ahead of Buffy, pivoting and grinning down at her. "You can't handle the fact that I have something you want."

Buffy shrugged, heading in the other direction. "And aren't you forgetting that I've already had him? Just another one of my cast-offs. Think about that for two seconds. If you can manage to pay attention that long."

Faith jumped down and jogged after her. "What's your problem, B? Are you this bitchy to everyone or do you reserve it special for me?"

"It's all for you. Aren't you lucky?"

"Luckiest girl in the world apparently."

"Get over it." Buffy paused to look her up and down appraisingly. "Screwing a vampire isn't exactly one of those things you brag about."

"Especially if you're little Miss Perfect who can't stand the competition." Faith edged closer, anger finally burning through her earlier good mood.

"You're not competition, Faith." Buffy advanced, fists clenched at her sides. "Every time you come here you take over my life. At least you try. But you can't cut it. You have no idea what it takes to live in this world."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one jumping on my back here."

"Was it worth it, Faith?" she taunted. "You always wanted to know what it was like. How do you like being some vampire's whore?"

"Stop," Faith hissed through clenched teeth, trying to fight back rage and hurt. A little voice whined that she deserved it. Deserved whatever Buffy dished out because she had done things. Terrible things. This was her punishment.

"What? Can't take the truth?"

"Nothing happened. We didn't." Faith shook her head slowly.

"Really?" Buffy laughed. "I'm sorry if I find that hard to believe. You're not exactly known for your restraint. Remember? Want. Take. Have. And I'm sure he didn't even put up a fight. At least he has an excuse. He's a vampire. Just an animal looking for a good lay."

"Just stop."

"And could you have picked a more pathetic vampire?" Buffy crossed her arms, eyes glittering with anger. "Did he tell you all about how I broke his poor little heart? About how he followed me around? Or the robot? How about trying to rape me? Did he mention any of that before he tried you on for size?"

"Stop."

"Oh, I know. Did he cry about all the people he's killed and how sorry he is? You should really see him cry, it's hilarious."

Faith snapped. She felt something break inside her, images flashing through her mind of Spike as he carried her away from the warehouse or sleeping beside her. His voice whispering to her, arms around her, keeping her safe. Her fist connected with Buffy's jaw, sending her tumbling backward onto the grass. Lunging after her, she grabbed hold of Buffy's jacket and yanked her roughly to her feet. Blood pounded furiously in her head as she blocked a punch and shoved Buffy away, watching her crash into a headstone. "You don't get to talk about him like that. Ever."

"Why? Because you're fucking him?" Buffy got to her feet and circled warily, coiled and ready for a fight.

"Because you don't deserve him. You never did." It was suddenly crystal clear in Faith's mind. "He's not your cast-off. You're his."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're beneath him." Faith walked away.

Buffy beat up a few more demons, venting rage she didn't understand until she was breathing hard and no less confused. Blinking into the shadows, she realized that she was in Spike's old crypt. It still smelled of ash. Feeling her way around the bottom level, she found the candles Dawn had left. Her sister thought that Buffy didn't know about it; the Spike shrine. Her foot brushed against something that rattled and she reached down for the box, sifting through the contents for the lighter. A thin flame sputtered and she started on the candles. They cast dancing shadows over the blackened interior.

She hated it here. Hated it enough that she'd come down and torn everything out, leaving only dirt and cement behind. She couldn't stand the reminders. The burnt shreds of carpet. The bed. They drove her mad. Reminding her of him.

Now there was nothing but soot and ash and the box Dawn thought was a secret. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the pictures out, sinking to the ground and holding her knees tightly against her chest. He was there. Sleek and beautiful in black leather. She'd kept the jacket, but it no longer smelled of cigarettes, alcohol, and Spike. She touched the photograph lightly, the black eye that she had given him because he had been trying to help her. Trying to save her. Something tickled her cheek, reaching up she was surprised to find her fingertips wet. Tears. Another tear slipped out, chipping away at the wall around her. The wall that kept her safe, kept the pain out. Kept her in control. Vision blurred and she brushed the tears away angrily. She wasn't going to cry. The tears didn't listen.

"Stupid tears," she hiccupped into the silence, shoving the picture back into the box only to pull it out again a second later. "Stupid vampire." She hated him for what he'd done. Hated him for what they had been, for loving her, for taking care of Dawn. She hated the way he was always so right about everything. Hated that she hadn't wanted to kill him, had hoped that he would come back.

Tears turned to sobs and she buried her face in her arms. For four long years she had waited for him to come back, wanted him to come back, believing that he was still pissing people off somewhere and that he still loved her. That he would always love her. Somehow that made the fact that she was alone easier to face. She hated him for leaving her. Like her father, like Angel, like Riley.

"St-stupid m-me," she stammered, wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her jacket. Her life was a wreck, she was a wreck. She'd wasted four years of her life hoping that she hadn't really driven him away. Trying to push away the guilt of beating him, leaving him in the alley behind the police station. Trying to block out the pain of the loss of him. Pretend she didn't care, that she was glad he was gone; pretend she didn't love him, she had never loved him. But here she was, huddled in the crypt that had witnessed more than earth should see and she could tell herself that it didn't matter, that he was a vampire and she didn't need to feel guilty. He was evil. He deserved what she had inflicted on him. Soulless vampires didn't deserve to be treated like human beings, didn't merit respect or basic consideration.

They were lies. Comfortable, safe lies that she had told herself to keep the pain away. Her life was one long string of lies.

She was no better than Spike. Maybe she was something worse. There was blood on her hands just the same. Ethan's face haunted her dreams, sightless eyes staring out from beneath a single bullet hole until brown changed to blue and it was Spike pinned to the stairway. This was what murder tasted like. Bitter, acrid. Coating her mouth and gagging her when she tried to breathe.

Was she even a good person? What had she done that was good? There were dead demons; there were apocalypses that weren't. But when had she asked Willow about her work or her thesis? When had she last taken Xander out for coffee or spent real quality time with Dawn? Not the scheduled outings she prearranged and penned into her day planner. Had she actually cared for anyone? What had she done that made her a good person? Someone worth loving, someone who could be loved. Her friends were loyal. Were they blind? What did they see when they looked at her? A Slayer. When had she done something human?

She sniffed and smoothed the bent edge of the picture. That birthday would be forever stained by the memory of her fists and Spike's face. Thinking she had killed Katrina had devastated her but it had also been a release. Knowing that the life she was living would end as soon as she turned herself in and faced the music. That all the other decisions would no longer have to be made. She wouldn't have to worry about money or Spike or Dawn. Just getting through each day in a cell that couldn't possibly be as bad as the prison inside her mind. She'd felt genuine relief when she realized that it could have and probably had been Warren, but a part of her wondered if things would have been better for everyone if she'd gone to jail. Tara would probably still be alive. Willow wouldn't have tried to destroy the world. Dawn would be with their father. Granted he wasn't the most ideal parental figure and he'd never really known Dawn but she wouldn't have had to worry about vampires and demons anymore. Now that she deserved the sentence, she was too afraid to take it.

Killing Ethan had been easy. Too easy. Remembering all the times he had tried to hurt them and nearly gotten them killed. What he had done to Faith, trying to turn them against Spike. That had sealed his fate in Buffy's mind. She had broken every rule she'd ever made and taken human justice into her own hands. Except it hadn't been justice any longer, just vengeance. With a sad smile, she wished Anya were around to point out the obvious. So much death. Death was her art.

Staring into the flickering shadows bleakly, she tried to remember the feeling of peace she'd had when she had crawled out of the earth with Dawn after Willow's rampage. It hadn't lasted. She'd gotten over the trauma of being ripped out of heaven but she'd come back with the same flaws that had always been there. She was still broken; had been broken long before Willow's resurrection spell. She wasn't perfect, she wasn't even good enough. She had become Faith and, ironically, Faith had become her. Now she was the one spiraling out of control and Faith was getting it together.

Empty. Empty and broken. Lashing out at Faith because she was jealous. Of Faith's calm, her control, the new confidence in her voice and the easy smile that Buffy had never seen before. Maybe it took being murdered, brought back, and being tortured to finally bring closure to Faith's violent past. What would it take for her? Did she have to lose everything to realize what she had?

Closing her eyes, she curled up on the stone floor, breathing in the dust and ash that coated everything. Might as well coat her lungs too. She'd put it there. It was her fault, her responsibility, her shame. Who could she ask for help? Was she even worth helping now? She was the strength. The rock. She couldn't show weakness, couldn't let anyone know that she was lost and scared inside, that she didn't know where her life was going or what she was doing. The Slayer had to be in control. Always in control. It was all just a charade. She'd fooled them all.

"World's best actor," she whispered mirthlessly into the silence, blinking away fresh tears.

If I could wake up every afternoon with a beautiful woman next to me, I'd be the happiest man on Earth. Or vampire, if you're a stickler for details. Lying there on the bed, watching the rise and fall of Faith's back, I wished to be a man. Wished that I could watch her sleep as the first light of dawn came through the window and turned her skin gold and coral. Bring on the white picket fences and everything else I'll never have. She brings out every protective impulse in me, the ripping throats out of anyone who looks at her the wrong way type of instincts. She's gone when I wake the second time. It's dark now and the bed is empty.

Horrendous pain has finally subsided, leaving me stiff and weary like jetlag from Hell. Strangely enough I'm restless. Memories of a past long gone rise up as unbidden phantoms from the dusty corners of my mind. Haven't thought about those first moments, crawling out of my grave into a whole new world of blood and violence, for some time. How far I had fallen, how far I have continued to fall. After all, a vampire lying next to a Slayer without wanting to drain her dry is as sick, as wrong, as the creature I was when I rose that night. Maybe I'm brooding. Just a tad. If I thought about it long enough, it'd probably depress me. I've had enough of depression.

Had enough of it when those sodding Solider Boys shoved that chip up my brain and left me to die. Can't imagine any other reason for it; chip the vampire and wait for someone with half a brain to figure out which end of the stake to use. Better yet, hope the Slayer finds him and laughs her fool ass off. Enough spending a year chasing Buffy like a pathetic dog panting for affection. More when I finally caught her and she ripped my unbeating heart out for my effort. Depression. Dark, angry, bitter. The taste still coats my throat. All for love.

Everything I've ever done, ever been. For love. Love's bitch. Love's whore. Used to think I'd never be anything without love, never be able to breathe or survive without the heady rush of passion. But it's been more than four years and I haven't even tried. Wonder what Dru's up to these days. Crazy bitch is probably still trying to get her precious poof of a sire back into the fold. She ought to do what he did to her, kill everyone he loves, drive him fucking mad. A twinge of sympathy for Angel aside, it would be a rather poetic ending. I shouldn't be entertaining such thoughts, shiny new soul and all. Except my soul isn't new or shiny. Not like it was when Dru found me.

I smile at the thought of the bint sending Angel down that damning spiral if I bloody well feel like it. Course, part of me, the really annoying part that can be a right prat sometimes, knows that I'd stop her if I could. That's a sickening thought and I push it away. Not a chance in hell I'd save that bastard's ass. Joining the souled vampire club doesn't mean I stopped hating him.

Congratulations. Looks like you're finally one of us.

Even with the gypsy curse like a noose around his demon's neck he'd looked at me like something unworthy. Although that was probably because he was horrified with what he had done, what he had made when he turned Drusilla. Because she was his and I was hers. Which in his addled brain probably made him responsible for all of my kills as well.

The past all comes down to love. Who has it, who doesn't. Memories of William, the Bloody Awful Poet, scratching out verses so Cecily could transform them into mocking daggers to impale himself on. Sweet, naive William seeing the world through rose colored glasses and thinking that if one merely believed in virtue and goodness, it made the darkness disappear. He was ruled by love, killed by its fickle promises, and ironically returned to this body by the same vain hope that had driven him to write the bloody trash in the first place. There are times I hear myself thinking like him, using William's stilted prose and poncy language. I've given up trying to squash it. Can't cut it out of me anymore than I can cut out the soul.

I'm not sure I believe in love now. After all I've seen, felt, been through. Not the way I used to. Maybe Buffy was right. Demons can't love. And the soul? William wouldn't know love if it found him crying in an alley and bit his goddamn throat.

Enough brooding. If I don't get out of bed soon I'll be unable to resist the urge to stock up on nancy-boy hair gel. Wincing against protesting muscles, I reel my thoughts back into the present and the world around me. Gingerly testing my ribs, I'm satisfied that they're healing quickly. My chest is covered with bruises and there are scratches from the breaking window on my arms and shoulders. I remember thinking my ribs were broken. I hadn't been focused on anything but finding Faith. Still didn't explain why my injuries had decided to reappear days later, excruciatingly fresh and bringing a bitch of a hangover with them. Come to think of it, the blinding urge to kill things has faded. Should probably mention all this to the Watcher. Eventually.

It's easier once I'm up and moving, working some of the stiffness from my joints. There's a pile of mail next to a brown cardboard box on the kitchen counter. Must be the package Crazy Judy was talking about. It's the size of a medium television and I smile when I recognize the logo for the Full Moon Rising bookstore printed on the side. Ripping through the packing tape, I fold the flaps back to reveal my laptop nestled safely in a pile of clothing. A note is taped to the top of the case:

Stay in Sunnydale. New Orleans not safe. Sent a few of your things and some for Faith.

Considering the dusty crusade I waged on the undead population of southern Louisiana, I'm not surprised at the warning. At the very least, Cable would be out for more than just blood. Hauling the box into the bedroom, I hook the computer up, listening to the familiar chirping as it boots. The clothes obviously meant for Faith, I fold neatly and place on one of the empty shelves in the closet. Maybe I'll take them over later. Need to check on Dawn and have that confrontation with Buffy. She's been waiting four years for an apology and even if I'm not sure I have one to give her, she deserves to know about the soul. Black clothes go into the box and straight to the back of the closet.

One of the strings attached to being a part of this world is that you have to play along. Sign on the dotted line, fill out the sodding paperwork, and put in your two cents. William Davis has mail to open and emails to send, explaining where he's been and why. It's not hard. Haven't been around this long without learning the fine art of bullshit. Despite my irritation at the frivolity, the hum of the laptop is comforting and I enjoy the feel of the keys beneath my fingers. It grounds me, reminds me that there is a world beyond the night of creepy crawlies. There's a chance of something resembling a normal human life for this vampire with a soul. Can't say much for Peaches but I don't remember him ever really embracing the madding crowd. With the exception of the pre-Angel days, in which he ate quite a few of them.

Essential damage control taken care of, I head into the shower and hope the pounding of hot water will ease away some of the inflexibility in my limbs. Life is never dull. It feels anticlimactic after the last few weeks. Big Bad turned out to be just a man. Sick bastard but still just a man. Virtuous Buffy had sent him off to jail like the hero she was instead of killing him. She didn't have it in her to kill someone in cold blood. It was one of the things that had drawn me to her, the dedication to right and wrong. Even if I had been the embodiment of wrong at the time, it was still admirable. Admirable? Bloody hell. Sod William and his gentile vocabulary. Catch myself saying effulgent and I will find a way to get him out of my head.

The scent of magnolias catches my nose as I dry off. Wrapping the towel around my waist tightly, I run a quick hand through my hair before leaving the bathroom. She's sitting on the bed in the clothes I found for her in New Orleans and a denim jacket smelling faintly of lavender. Boots tap against the carpet nervously and her cheeks are flushed.

"You alright, Slayer?" I'm surprised when she doesn't respond, glancing back at her as I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "Verek sent some stuff for you. Shirts, couple pairs of jeans." Still no answer. "Faith? When she finally moves, it's to shrug away the denim jacket and toss it onto the table at the end of the bed. After dressing carefully in denim and soft cotton t-shirt, still rusty and grimacing at the complaining muscles, I drape the damp towel over the doorknob and sit down beside her. "Somethin' happen, luv?"

She shrugs, looking down at her hands. "I hit Buffy."

I'll have to tread cautiously with this one. "She deserve it?"

"No." She shakes her head but the corner of her mouth curls into a partial smile. "Maybe."

"She means well, pet. But she can be an amazing bitch when she puts her mind to it." One arm around her shoulders, I give her a friendly hug. "She hit you back?"

"She tried."

"Kicked her high and mighty ass?"

"Just a little." She's really smiling now as she looks up at me.

"Looks good on you." My fingertips brush over her bottom lip softly. "You should do it more often." She takes my hand, warming my skin with hers, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. Dark eyelashes at half-mast and just a hint of teeth as she bites at her lower lip, not quite looking at me and not quite looking away. Nervous. Vulnerable. If I were human, my heart would be a jackhammer inside my chest, cheeks burning with the racing blood in my veins. I can almost remember the way it felt. Can almost feel it.

The way I can feel the heat beneath her skin as it colors her face and hear her heart beating rapidly. Tracing the line of her jaw, I let my fingers drop to her throat, pressing against the pulse underneath. Warm fingertips slip down my forearm, barely making contact. Entranced, I follow the line of her neck to the hollow at the base and along the delicate arch of her collarbone, pushing back the soft cotton material of her t-shirt to slip my fingers underneath and curve over her shoulder. Her eyes are closed now, full lips a breath apart as I move my hand along her spine, massaging the tense muscles of her neck. Letting my other hand glide down her side, searching out the tight muscles of her lower back and working them out with easy circles. Just helping her relax. That's all this is. Helping her relax.

I can feel her breath against my lips; short, quick, hot. So close. Just a whisper away from mine, drawing me closer like a siren. A whirlpool dragging me under. Irresistible. The rhythm of my hands has turned unmistakably carnal. Can't do this. Can't not do this. It's wrong. It has to be wrong. Vampire, Slayer. Worlds of wrong. Too far gone. I passed right and wrong three miles back.

"Open your eyes," my voice is husky. I need to see her. Need to know. Dark eyes flutter open. She's as lost as I am. And she's terrified. The right thing to do would be to back away, let go of her and just get as far away as possible. Right thing. My brain isn't functioning. There isn't a single doubt in my mind that if I do this, there will be no going back and she'll turn my life upside down. It's going to hurt. It's going to burn. And God, I want it. "This isn't just tonight, Faith. I won't ever be just tonight."

She blinks, uncertainty playing across her face. I can feel her trembling against me. "I don't...I can't." Her voice breaks and she tries to look away. "I don't know if I can do that. This. I've never," she stops, eyes beginning to shine with tears.

"Not asking for eternity, luv." Caressing her cheek affectionately, I catch her eyes again and watch the turmoil unfold inside her. "Just be here. All of you. With me."

"Just Faith." She smiles, lost in a memory somewhere I can't reach.

"Just Faith."

"I can do that."

It's all the answer I need. I'm dizzy with the effort of holding back in the length of the single heartbeat that it takes for me close the distance and feel her lips burn into mine. She's spiced honey and wine in my mouth. Our first kiss was tender and comforting. This is hunger and passion. There's no way one night will be enough. I can't get enough of her taste, her heat. We're wrapped around each other, pulling, fighting to be closer, to get more. I'm on my back, her legs pressing tightly at my sides, her lips on my skin as she struggles with my t-shirt. Twisting beneath her, I flip her onto the mattress, yanking the blue cotton over her head and pushing myself up to take in the sight of her bare breasts.

"You like?" She smiles up at me lasciviously, bucking her hips against mine.

"You have no idea." Still incredulous that she's actually lying beneath me, warm and wanting, I'm afraid to touch her. She pulls me roughly down into a kiss, linking her legs around my waist and throwing me easily onto my back. A few of my ribs protest and I wince at the sudden jabs of pain.

"Sorry." She shifts her weight to her knees and looks down at me apologetically.

"They'll heal." My hands move of their own accord, caressing, sliding, burning across her skin. Suddenly desperate to know every curve, every dimple, every bit of her body. Memorize every contour, the way her muscles contract, moving under my touch. The line of her breasts, shadowing the ribs beneath them, firm in my hands as I study her, worshipping her.

"We could wait." Her voice is breathless and she's still grinding against me.

I shake my head quickly. I'm at the limits of my control already and there's not a bloody thing in this world that could convince me to let her go now. "Switch." She hesitates for a moment before lying down again. Probably used to be on top. More her style. "Trust me." She smiles a little self-consciously as I settle my weight on top of her, taking time to kiss and nip at her neck and shoulders. Moaning, she strains against me impatiently, fingers curling tightly in my hair.

"What are you," words catch in her throat as my tongue rasps against a taut nipple. "Waiting for?"

"Called foreplay, luv."

"Fuck it." She's writhing, clutching at my shoulders, nails digging into my skin. "Just...Spike...God...oh God."

We're back to rolling and clawing at each other, mindlessly stripping away the remaining clothes. I'm surprised when she returns to her back, pulling me with her and lifting her hips to meet me. Sinking into her is falling into the sun. Part of me wonders if I'm going to burn to ash just from being inside her. So different. Hard and soft, cold and hot; fitting together perfectly. I'm drowning in her. Her voice is spilling nonsensical words in my ears. I can't hear them over the racing of her blood. Fangs cut into my lip, I turn my face away from her neck and the pulse I can feel through the skin. It's been so long since I've tasted human blood, Slayer blood. I can feel the growl resonating inside my chest at the thought of drinking from her. The more I get, the more I want. The taste of her skin, salty with exertion. Slick heat engulfing me, driving me until there's nothing left in my shattered mind but the sensation and the sound of her heart. Finding a rhythm, finding what quickens her pulse. Learning the subtleties of her body as she coaxes and teaches me, demanding satisfaction.

Muscles clench around me, she's gripping my arms painfully, leaving bruises on my pale skin, and screaming my name. My name. I'm burning up from the inside out. Shaking violently and roaring my own release, I collapse, spent and burnt to the core, onto her searing body. Cradling her tightly, I roll onto my back, pulling her with me. For a long time there is only the sound of her breathing and a single heartbeat. I can feel the marks of the whip as I stroke her back gently. I'm still spinning. I may never stop.

"This is the part where I leave," she whispers, one finger tracing patterns on my chest.

"Stay."

"Say it again."

"Stay." I can feel her smile against my skin.