Spider To The Fly

The city of New Orleans welcomes me back with the wail of sirens and the smell of water soaked ashes. At least it's nighttime. Just barely. Hands tucked in my pockets, I'm half dazed as I make my way through the streets. Bloody Oracle head case had to land me back on the other side of town. At least the walk gives me time to think. With each step, I'm getting more depressed and more angry. It was goddamn ridiculous that one vampire, one demon, one fucking anything, had such an effect on the whole world. Whoever made that rule was a sodding idiot. There were billions of people, trillions of demons, more dimensions and worlds that I could count even if I knew about all of them. How did one vampire have such power? And why the fucking hell was it me?

I hate this. There aren't words for how much I hate this. I'd rather go back to my days of murder and railroad spikes with soul intact and suffer the guilt than have this bullshit decision in front of me. Damn Oracle had made that clear enough. It was my choice. Always had been, always would be. There are screams off to my right. Probably some idiot tourist getting eaten. I don't fucking care. The whole world's going to get flushed down the universal crapper and it was my fault. I don't know enough curses in any language to express my frustration with this bloody mess.

Luckily, the first creature that crosses my path is a demon. A nasty one at that. Breaking a few bones for good measure, I vent my dissatisfaction with fate by rendering him to a bloody pulp and cracking his neck. There aren't enough demons, not enough violence in this world to ease my fury and despair. That's what it really is. Despair. That everything I've done, all my suffering, has been for nothing. That after all is said and done, I'm still better off dead.

Fuck it. Let the world fall in. Crash, burn. I couldn't care less. All I want is to get back to Faith and get the fuck out of this town. Let the demons come. Let it all fall apart. Can't possibly be more of a pain in my ass than the world is already. Angel has the Powers intervening on his behalf, making sure he stays undusted. Why don't I have a patron saint? Or demon, however that works. Why doesn't anyone out there give a fuck that I don't deserve this? That I deserve a break. A little intervention would be nice here and there. I'm not asking for anything fancy, just a nudge in the right direction and maybe a lucky star or two to shine down on my pitiful existence.

What a waste. Stop eating people, fight against every instinct and impulse I have, win back my soul. For what? If I'd wanted to die, I'm sure Harris would have obliged me years ago. Or even Harmony. Hell, there was no end to the line of people who had wanted me dead at some point in time. The demon hadn't even fought against the soul. Not much anyway. Not the way Angelus did and probably still does. I really hate this world. Fate's a bitch. If I ever find Dru, I'm going to kick her ass for making me.

Could I live with myself if I let Dawn die? Knowing I could have saved her. Would it weigh too heavily on my conscience? What about the rest of the Scoobies? The rest of the world. I'm not cut out for this. I've never been the leader, the Champion, the White Knight. Legendary dark warrior sure, I was good at killing people. Doesn't mean I'm capable of shouldering this kind of responsibility. Bugger this. I'm not going to do it.

Rounding the corner, my heels striking angrily against the pavement, I see the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. Part of Bourbon has been blocked off. With a frown, I push my way through the crowd of curious onlookers to find out what's going on. Full Moon Rising Occult Books and Supplies has been reduced to a smoldering framework, completely gutted by fire. Sick with worry, I edge my way to the tip of the crowd and strain to catch what the police are saying. Explosives used. No bodies found. I allow myself a moment of relief, knowing that Faith and Verek weren't among the blackened rubble. At the same time, true fear begins to sink its teeth into my heart. The Oracle, Alatheia, had told me they wouldn't be here. That my enemy had taken them. She didn't say which enemy. Fortunately this isn't the Hellmouth and the list of usual suspects is blissfully short. I should have killed that bastard before I left New Orleans.

I turn toward the lake and the last known location of the undead monster who had slithered away like a snake. Maybe I'll chop him into pieces. How many would it take before he dusts? I've always wondered. Maybe a holy water bath. Burn the skin off of his cowardly bones. If he has Faith, he's going to wish he was never sired. If he doesn't? I'll kill the motherfucker anyway.

Finding him is easy. Twist a few arms, stake a few vamps; I'm on my way with a song in my heart. Once out of the populated areas, I vamp out and thrill to the siren song of the Hellmouth, if that's what it is. All I care is that it pumps the bloodlust to a high I've never known. I could take on the world. I am the world. Here comes Spike. There isn't even a wiggle from the soul. He's just as furious as I am for getting fucked in the ass by whatever Powers that don't know shit about anything are up there pulling my strings. He got dragged out of somewhere soft and warm to time share with a demon. For no good reason. I hope I'm screwing up a few more plans, breaking a few more of those goddamn laws no one knows about until afterwards. I hope I'm fucking things up so royally that I'll take this whole bloody world with me. Every last one of the self-righteous, hypocritical, holier-than-thou, rotten lot of sodding Happy Meals on pathetic stick legs just asking to be eaten because they're so fucking stupid.

Terminator guard doesn't even manage to get a punch in before I grab hold of his neck and use his thick head as a battering ram. Leaving him sticking limply out of the concrete wall, his skull crushed inside the crumbling cement, I stomp through the parking garage and into the familiar elevator. Third bloody floor. The lights flick on and off, little bell dinging annoyingly as I wait for it to climb the distance. I'm through the doorway before it has finished opening and halfway across the room before Cable's guards stop me with the warning of a few well-aimed crossbows.

"Where is she?" I growl angrily.

"Spike. Nice to see you back in town." Cable greets me coldly from behind his desk. "I trust you had a pleasant vacation."

"Blood and peaches. Tell me where she is."

"We're civilized people here, Spike." He leaves his desk and moves to the side, retrieving a crystal decanter. "Drink? I like a little scotch in my blood."

"Didn't come here to play tea party."

"I know. You're here because He wants you."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're a puppet, Spike." Cable laughs as he swirls the ice in his drink. "And it's time to meet the puppet master." He nods to his guards. I barely have time to tense before I feel something sting my right thigh. Looking down, I see a familiar green dart. Bloody hell, I hate those things.

It was hot. Humid. The streets pulsed with life and energy that Cara hadn't felt in the Midwest. Los Angeles was unique. Dirty, loud, angry and trying desperately to be the opposite. Bright sun, tanned skin, perfect faces. All a facade for the darkness that she knew lay just beneath the veil of night, a second past sunset and a layer of skin beneath innocent faces. She felt awkward. It wasn't hard. Even the homeless of L.A. were better dressed than she was and she stood out like a neon light, attracting the interest of the city's underbelly.

The third man who tried to talk to her using strange phrases and false sympathy was stopped short by the barrel of her gun against his throat. She didn't have to speak. He vanished into the darkness and left her alone. Although she wouldn't have killed him, he was an innocent, she was glad he no longer followed her as she moved through the streets.

She had dusted the first two groups of vampires without interrogating them. Determined to get more information, she had saved the vamp in charge, tied him up and persuaded him to talk. That was how she knew about Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Her Watcher. At least the Council had given him the task of being her Watcher. She didn't need one. The vampires had been determined to find him, torture whatever information they could out of him, and hopefully prevent her from coming after any more of the hit squads. She'd given the leader a few extra bruises before she killed him just because she wanted to.

If Wesley had answers then she needed to get them. That meant catching the next train out of the pan handle state and following the tracks west. At least the nights were warm enough that she didn't need to look hard for somewhere to sleep. Anywhere that wasn't a puddle or covered with molding trash was good enough.

Angel Investigations was in the phonebook. She ripped the section of the map that she needed out of the heavy volume outside a convenience store and headed into the unfamiliar streets. The city was larger than anything she'd seen and even with a map, it took her a day and a half to search out the right address. She could only hope that she arrived before the vampires did. She had a lead on them since she'd killed the first group heading to the coast but they would move fast and probably recruit local demons who knew the city.

Glancing down at the map in her hand and back up to the warehouse on the right side of the road, she peered into the darkness as she looked for an address. Light was glowing cheerfully from the windows. Several cars turned down the street, sending her hurrying off the road and skirting the edge of the adjacent buildings. Angel was the name of the souled vampire. She had read about him at the Academy before leaving England and knew that he was in Los Angeles. Perhaps this was his detective agency. It was a strange world where a vampire could be a detective. She had long given up trying to make sense of the world around her. It didn't need to make sense to be a Slayer.

She watched the warehouse for nearly an hour. People went in. People left. The lights in the windows turned on and off, moving from one plane of glass to the other. When the ambient traffic died down, she crept forward and prowled the far side of the building. The trip to the coast had given her time to heal completely, her movements smooth and pain free. Boots whispered against the cement as she eased into a crouch, peering through one of the ground floor windows.

Two figures. One male, one female. The man was medium height and build with the shadow of a forming beard and neatly trimmed hair. He was dressed casually in jeans and a button up shirt. Standing at his side and pointing at something on a yellow notepad was a thin woman with long brown hair and glasses. He frowned as she gestured with one hand, talking animatedly. Glancing up at the second level, Cara noticed several offices and the shadow of another figure against one of the inner windows. There were three cars in the covered parking area. Minimum three people but there could be more. She waited.

Within ten minutes, a dark skinned man sauntered out of the office and down the stairs. Tossing a cordless telephone from hand to hand, he joined the conversation. His voice carried better than the other two and Cara caught bits and pieces of words. He was asking them what they wanted on their pizza. She remembered having pizza at Buffy's house. Extra cheese. Her grip on the stake in her hand tightened involuntarily. They appeared to be human. Which one was Wesley? Scanning the rest of the room, she noticed the large collection of weaponry. All in immaculate condition. Silently, she left her window and crept around the corner to get a better look at the arsenal. It wouldn't hurt to get a glimpse of what she could be facing. Swords, battle-axes, guns. Every type of weapon was on display. She was impressed.

The old brickwork had deep grooves between the blocks, lending themselves to easy hand and foot holds. Moving away from the window, she tucked her stake back into the worn knapsack and began scaling the outer wall. Hand over hand, she pulled herself up. There was an open window on the second floor, leading into one of the darkened offices. Careful not to make unnecessary noise, each motion slow and controlled, she eased herself through the open window and onto the floor inside. Crouching low behind the large wooden desk, she waited patiently in the darkness as her heartbeat returned to its regular rhythm.

It was elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. Masculine. Classical tastes. She took note of the statues and the paintings on the wall. Old books with ornate bindings and supernatural content in the bookshelves; heavy drapes on either side of the windows. Most likely the vampire's office. Angel. Curiously, she wondered if the records were as wrong in their accounts of Angel as they had been about William the Bloody. The Slayer of Slayers who had chosen not to kill her, who had and hadn't killed Faith. She shook away those thoughts. They didn't matter.

Hinges creaked as she edged the door open. She couldn't hear any voices. Quietly, she slipped through the opening, moving forward on fingers and toes as she followed the wall. The familiar smell of pizza wafted up from below. They were eating. Soft music cheerfully played in the background. Toward the center of the pathway, she leaned out far enough to see through the banister. The three humans were sitting on the floor, surrounding two open pizza boxes. A green skinned demon with red hair had joined them, lounging easily on the floor. Strange. Deathwok demons were fierce warriors. This one, dressed in a darker green suit, appeared to be quite relaxed among the humans. She pushed forward, straining to hear their conversation.

"Wouldn't hurt to have more muscle around here," the demon commented. "With Angel and Cordy babysitting the Hellmouth."

"I just hope getting Dawn away from the Hellmouth helps." Shaking her head, the woman tapped her notepad. "And I may actually have some hard data about the energy waves. It's buried in the noise but I think I can use a transform to bring it out."

With a shrug, the man with the shaved head reached for another slice of pizza. "Don't mean to be the doubting Thomas but what good would that actually do for us?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted.

"Many rituals are bound to disturb the energy patterns," answered the second man in a soft English accent. That must the Watcher. "We could track them. Or be able to sense the use of portals in the area."

"So basically, it's just really cool and I wouldn't understand. Like all that string mumbo jumbo with the alphabet soup dimensions."

The woman laughed and tossed a napkin at him. "You would understand it if you paid attention."

Cara listened as they bantered back and forth. It reminded her of the group in Sunnydale. In fact, they made several references to Buffy and her friends. That was unexpected. How were the two groups connected? She hadn't gotten any other information about the man who could be her Watcher. She still didn't believe she needed one at all but there was the possibility that he could teach her more about this world. About why Buffy Summers fit into it and Cara didn't. About the senselessness of one girl against legions of the undead. About pizza and brownies. And those fat-free yogurt cups that Willow was fond of.

"When's this Slayer supposed to show up?"

"Iverson didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to contact her." The Watcher wiped his hands neatly. "I'm half convinced that they're actually sending her here to kill us all. After what happened in Sunnydale, it's hard to trust the Council."

"Like you ever trusted the Council, Wes."

"In the beginning, I did."

"Before they tried to kill you and Faith?"

Cara stopped mid crouch, frowning at the change in conversation. The pieces finally clicked into place. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had been Faith's Watcher. He had been a disgrace to the Council for losing Faith and later joining Angel. Her information was sketchy but she remembered reading about him. They had sent her to a Watcher who had been responsible for a rogue Slayer? Did they believe that she was like Faith? Was she like Faith? The Council had considered Faith and Wesley two of their greatest failures. Did they also believe her to be a failure? For some reason it wasn't a pleasant thought.

She curled against the wall, pulling her knees against her chest. The cloth was stiff with old blood and tape. Her skin was dirty, knuckles scraped and scabbed over. Frowning, she remembered the blue jeans and blouses Buffy had worn. Cara had thought they were frivolous and inappropriate for slaying. Was there something wrong with the way she looked? What did it matter what she wore? Suddenly picturing all of the curious looks she had gotten from strangers, she reached tentatively for her hair, tugging at one of the dark tufts. She'd cut it without using a mirror. Did it matter? She didn't know what mattered anymore.

The easy conversation below her was muted, punctuated with laughter or sudden exclamation; it was worlds away from the sober exchanges that Cara had known. Avery clucked over her wounds and weapons, the nuns pitied her, random strangers thanked her in voices just as torn as the fabric on their bodies. But there was no laughter in her world. It was called friendship. Maybe. She wasn't sure. Did every human being have someone to laugh and eat pizza with? Or was this rare, unique? So many people were alone. She saw them every day, staring into empty spaces that should be filled with friendly faces and something that she couldn't identify, couldn't name, and didn't understand. Something was missing.

Her legs began to cramp from their tight position against her chest. Stretching them silently, she considered her options. The vampires would be coming and it was her duty to protect the innocents. She wasn't sure if it applied to the demon but he seemed to be a friend and ally. Impulsively, she added him to the list of people to watch over. Should she make herself known or continue to stay out of sight? Staying hidden was safer but wouldn't get her the answers she needed.

A loud bleating ended her reverie and she tensed, peeking over the edge to see the group below scramble to their feet. The bald man was already moving, pizza left behind, and pulling a crossbow down from the wall and looked around quickly. "Vamp alert!"

"Angel said there was a nest a few blocks to the north getting a little frisky." Even the demon picked out a weapon, holding it a bit awkwardly. "Glad you cats had that security system installed."

"They must be crazy to attack here."

Wesley twirled a sharpened wooden pole easily in a figure eight pattern, warming up his wrist. "They know Angel's gone."

Cara heard the sound of breaking glass. The vampires must have broken through the windows below her. She could hear growling and watched the humans ready themselves for the attack. No quips, no jokes. She focused on the Englishman. Cool, confident. There wasn't a trace of fear on his face and he held his weapon with skill. Keeping low, she reached back into her knapsack and pulled the familiar weight of the pistols into her hands.

"Which one of you is the Watcher?" A low growl rumbled through the room.

"Just stepped out. We'll tell him you dropped by." The crossbow fired with a sharp click and the whistle of the bolt flying through the air.

The ground floor turned into chaos. Cara counted nearly a dozen vampires rushing out from beneath the walkway. The humans were handling themselves well but they wouldn't be able to fight all of them. She needed the practice and moving targets were always better. Pushing off of the wall, she vaulted over the banister, landing on the floor below with a thud. Several of the vampires turned around, yellow eyes glaring at her before they charged.

Adrenaline flooded into her system. She struck out at the first vampire, boot connecting with his chest as she simultaneously buried a bullet in his skull. He crumpled to the ground, still undead but immobile. Slipping out of the grasp of another, she shattered his kneecaps with two shots and moved on to the next. Blood sprayed across her knuckles as she slammed the gun into the side of the monster's face, pivoting and lifting to catch his head in the crook of her leg. She pushed off, twisting his neck with a sickening crack as she swung over his back. Landing firmly, she whirled around and fired into the backs of the remaining vampires still attacking, careful not to send an errant bullet into one of the humans. Vampires exploded into dust. It was hardly a fair fight. Los Angeles vampires were lazy with the heat and the ease of finding prey.

Ignoring the shocked and wary looks from the humans, she turned back to the vampires she left on the ground. One of the guns slipped back into the bag and she pulled out the stake to finish them off. It just felt better. More natural. When they were all dust, she slowly turned toward the humans and watched them carefully.

"You must be Cara," the woman said nervously.

Cara didn't respond. She didn't know who to trust. When Wesley stepped forward, she lifted her gun quickly. He stopped and raised his hands in surrender.

"We won't hurt you," he said soothingly. "I'm Wesley. This is Fred, Gunn, and Lorne."

Cara frowned as he introduced them. The others waved or nodded their greeting. Keeping the gun pointed toward them, she glanced around at the broken glass and vampire dust. She could leave. She had killed the vampires, done her duty. She didn't need a Watcher.

"We just want to talk with you. Perhaps we can help you."

"I don't need you," Cara responded stiffly.

"That's quite obvious. But we might be able to help you find what you're looking for." Wesley made no attempt to get closer. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Cara hesitated and glanced at the empty pizza boxes. It had been several hours since she had eaten a slice of bread and an apple handed out at a homeless shelter. She wondered what it would be like to eat a real meal again. To not search out food and shelter like the rest of the people who lived on the streets. Was that too much luxury for a Slayer? Like the dream of a bed that had soft pillows and a blanket. A warm fuzzy blanket like the one Dawn had tossed carelessly on the couch of the Summers home seemed a luxury beyond imagining now.

"We have tons of stuff. Bagels, coffee." The woman smiled timidly. "And lots of places are open all day long so if you wanted something else. Chinese, Mexican. What do you like?"

Cara blinked; she was pointing a gun at them and the woman was asking her what kind of food she liked. There were types of food? Confused, she took a step back and tried to shake off the strange feeling pooling in her stomach. She didn't belong here. She belonged on the streets, in the shadows, with the eyes staring out of cardboard castles and clinging to life without hope. This was too soft, it would take away from her calling, distract her from her duty. Or would it? She didn't know. Friends, family. Slayers didn't have those things. They didn't need them. Buffy had them.

"Wes?" The man, Cara wasn't sure which was Fred and which was Gunn, glanced toward Wesley. "Don't mean to sound like a stereotypical male, but I thought Slayers were supposed to be, you know." He gestured helplessly. "It's just that, well, Faith and Buffy, they're major league hotties. Figured being beautiful was part of the package."

"Gunn. Not exactly the right thing to tell the nice lady with the gun," the demon whispered loudly, giving her a tense smile.

Cara watched them. Humans were strange. Everything was strange. She was tired of not knowing what was going on. Of not understanding. She lowered the gun slowly, keeping it loose at her side in case they weren't actually as nice as they seemed. Nothing was ever what it seemed.

"We have tea!" the woman who might be named Fred exclaimed suddenly. "If you like tea. You're from England, right? I don't think it's real English tea, but it's better than nothing, right?"

"Does Buffy trust you?" Her question seemed to surprise them and she saw Wesley's expression change quickly.

"She does. You could call her and ask if you like." He motioned to the handset resting on the floor. "We're not going to hurt you or try to kill you." He took a hesitant step toward her. "I know the Council hasn't exactly been honest with you. Just have something to eat and stay the night. You can leave in the morning if you want to. We won't stop you."

Deciding that she was relatively safe, Cara slipped the gun and stake into her pack. "Brownies." They stared at her blankly. "I like brownies," she added, uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

"We might have some. I'll check." The woman smiled again before hurrying through one of the doorways.

"Do you need a change of clothing?" Wesley asked.

Cara looked down at her clothes and frowned. She didn't know. "Do I?"

"We'll find something for you. Would you like a shower? There's a bathroom upstairs." Wesley took another step in her direction. "Occasionally, we have clients who need a place to stay for a few days."

"How 'bout I get the spare set up?" the green demon asked brightly. "Just heading for the stairs, sweetheart, no need to pull out the pistolas again." He kept his hands up as he crossed to the stairs and started up to the second floor.

Cara stood stiffly, suddenly very conscious of the dirt on her skin and bloodstains on her clothes. She didn't understand why or how but she knew that there was something wrong with them. Something wrong with her. She could feel it and see it in the way they looked at her. The way people looked at the men and women who lived on the streets. More than the misplaced pity she got from the nuns. More than the thinly veiled disgust from neatly pressed suits and leather shoes. They looked at her as though she was something foreign and dangerous. She wanted someone to tell her why. Tell her what was wrong with her. Explain why she felt the way she did.

"Here you go," the woman chirped as she returned. "No brownies but there were a couple of chocolate donuts. And a sandwich from lunch that I didn't eat because I changed by mind and had the soup instead. You're welcome to it if you want it. It's vegetarian. And we can always order something for you."

Cara watched curiously as she approached, holding a paper plate out nervously. Taking the plate, she stared down at the wrapped sandwich and chocolate donuts. Glancing up at the group, she remembered they had sat on the floor in a circle to eat their meal. Easing down into a cross-legged position, she curiously unwrapped the sandwich and examined the sprouts clinging to the bread. Picking it up carefully, she tentatively took a bite. It was different than anything she'd had before. Delicious. Suddenly starving, she began to eat in earnest.

"She looks like she hasn't eaten in days," the woman whispered. Cara didn't care that she was talking about her. She didn't understand half of what they said anyway.

"She probably hasn't." Wesley was frowning. "Perhaps Lorne can read her. Help us get a better idea of what's happened to her. Are there any spare clothes for her?"

"She's pretty tall but I think we have some that might work."

"Find something comfortable, loose. Something she could fight in."

"Do you think she'll need to?"

"I don't think she knows how to do anything else." Wesley's face was unreadable. "She'll feel more comfortable if she's not restricted." The woman disappeared up the stairs.

Gunn, or Fred, moved closer to Wesley. "Probably shouldn't have made that comment. I'm sure she'll clean up. New hair cut and she'll be fine."

"I don't think looks are important to her." Wesley shook his head. "She's been on her own for weeks."

"Why do I get the feeling the Watchers weren't giving us the whole story?"

"They rarely do. Just make sure to give her space. And don't make any sudden moves."

Cara finished off the sandwich and started on the donuts. They weren't as good as brownies but it was still better than stale rolls from the handout line. After she had cleaned the plate, she looked up to find the entire group watching her intently. The woman held out a stack of clothing, waiting until Cara got to her feet and took them.

"I'll show you where the shower is. We don't have anything fancy, just soap and shampoo."

Cara followed the woman up the stairs, idly listening to her cheerful chatter. They reminded her of Sunnydale. Strange and human. If Buffy trusted them, maybe she could too.

"She's lovely."

Ares stepped out of the shadows as the image of Chronos solidified on the opposite side of the bed. He acknowledged the presence of the Incarnation of Time with a nod, returning his gaze to the sleeping form of the Slayer. She was curled among the blankets like a child, innocent and full of life. Blood and dirt had washed away to reveal unevenly tanned skin, scars, and bruises. A smile raised the corner of her lips even in sleep and one hand clutched the corner of the pillow as though frightened it would disappear.

"As fierce a Slayer as I have ever seen," Chronos said softly, tilting his head to the side as he watched the girl.

"She has the heart of a true warrior," Ares responded with pride.

"And she deserves the death of a true warrior."

"It is the way of this world. The way of honor."

"It is a pity," Chronos sighed. "Should she live, her children would undoubtedly be strong warriors as well. And it is always sad to lose one with such purity. Such power."

"There is no other way, comrade. Death comes to all soldiers." Ares shifted, his heavy boots brushing against the carpet and the sound of his heavy camouflage fatigues whispering in the darkness.

"And if she dies accidentally? Bad shrimp? Influenza?"

"She will not." Ares stiffened defensively. "She will die in battle. As is befitting her kind."

"You have no guarantee," Chronos said casually. "She could die in a hospital without any monsters or demons. Her heart could simply stop. Cease to beat."

Ares frowned. "Do you know her end?"

"Only the Fates know that. And they hardly keep us in the loop." The last was said with the taint of sarcasm. They certainly hadn't bothered to give any of them a heads up about Spike and that didn't boost his level of confidence in their attention to the detail. Too much time spent looking at the big picture, balancing the scales, and not enough following each of the threads to their logical conclusion.

"What do you want?" Ares may have been single minded but he wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination.

"Just pointing out the inevitable. You can't control her destiny."

"We cannot become involved in the affairs of man."

"Even for her?"

"Even for her." There was something akin to sadness in War's eyes as he turned his attention back to the Slayer. "There will be others."

"Not Slayers. There will be no more Slayers." Chronos brushed a hand over the girl's forehead without touching her. "She is one of the last. Only three will remain. The lines are being destroyed as we speak."

"That was not part of the bargain."

"It's a matter of interpretation." Chronos pulled the chair away from the wall and sat down. "No more Slayers could mean that once the three are gone, no more will be called. No more Slayers could mean that each and every one of them, and any chance of renewing the line, are eradicated from this world. It's all about angles."

"Caine," Ares growled. "He cannot do this. She is rightfully mine. The Slayers are mine."

"I'm afraid he can. He's well within the bounds of the agreement and no one really cares about this world. About this Slayer." He gestured to the bed and it's sleeping occupant. "It's a bit harsh, I agree, but the Fates deemed the trade worthy. This girl, this true warrior as you call her, and others like her, for one vampire with a soul."

"What?" It wasn't every day that the Incarnation of War was surprised. Chronos wished that he had a camera.

"Yes. I can see that you missed the memo. I heard there was a lovely amount of bloodshed in the deserts of Sumer. Or is it Iraq these days? I haven't been there in so long."

"One vampire?"

"With a soul. His demon conquered its nature. Joe was quite pleased. You know how he loves insurmountable odds beaten by the underdog." Ares' stance was so rigid that Chronos began to wonder if he'd frozen in place.

"It cannot be. She is beyond price."

"Unfortunately, that isn't for us to decide. Although I am inclined to agree with you." He watched the blankets rise and fall with her breathing. "A good haircut and some make-up and she'll be quite adorable. In an earthy sort of way."

"What can be done?" Each word was clipped and sharp as Ares began to pace, a caged tiger angry at the world outside his bars.

"Not a thing."

"Then why are you here, Chronos? I know you."

"As you said, we can't interfere." Chronos watched him for a moment, listening to the soft padding of his boots. It always amazed him how a form so large and powerful could be so quiet. "Even if we could, why would we? It's just one world among worlds without number." He saw War's dark eyes dance over the girl's face.

"A true warrior, a brave and courageous heart is rare," Ares began softly, slowing his pace and stopping at the side of the bed. "This world has become weak and cowardly. Even the Slayers have lost sight of the battle. But her." One large, calloused hand reached out to touch the healing wound on the Slayer's forehead. "She is pure."

"She may not remain so pure. This human world has a way of creeping into the most solid of hearts." Chronos smiled, knowing that it even he, an Incarnation, had not been impervious to the touch of humanity.

"Her soul has always been strong. She will remain so even when emotions and mankind have begun to reclaim her. I will not lose her." With a tenderness that seemed incongruous with the image of war incarnate, Ares combed his fingers through her dark hair. "The end of this world is coming. I have sensed it. She will fall."

"She doesn't have to."

"No one can stop Death."

"True. But even He is willing to bargain." Chronos stood up slowly. "You can save her."

"I cannot interfere."

"If you don't, she will not die a warrior's death."

Ares frowned, struggling internally as he looked back and forth between Time and the sleeping girl. "I do not understand. How can there be any other way? What can I do? My hands are bound."

"There is one thing you have control over, friend."

"I have only warfare."

"There is one more thing in your hands." Chronos began to fade into the darkness.

"What is that?"

"Peace."

Ares stood in the dark, watching the Slayer sleep. Trying to comprehend the staggering magnitude of Chronos' suggestion. It was true. He could not assure her the death and honor she deserved. This was her world and she would fight for it with every drop of blood in her body. His warrior. His warflower. This was her world. Strong fingers brushed through her hair one last time before he turned away. Turned his back on the girl lying on the bed. On the chaos and confusion that would soon overtake this world. Turning away from what he was and what he stood for. On war itself.