Chapter 1
Faith

The vampire made an incredibly feeble attempt to attack, moving like a drunk on stilts. Faith felt a little disappointed. She hadn't kicked him that hard, and if he didn't put up a better fight than this, it'd all be over way too soon for her liking. The night had been quiet, and this idiot vamp wasn't much more than an appetizer. She kept pummelling him for a while, avoiding the final blow, but he wasn't good enough to make it the least bit interesting, and finally she tired of the whole thing and plunged the stake in.

The vampire exploded in a cloud of dust. A rush, as always, but not satisfying enough.

She put away the stake and dug her cell phone from her jeans pocket, pressing speed dial 5. Robin had better not be asleep.

He wasn't, though it took six rings for him to answer.

"Get your ass over to my place," she told him. "I'm gonna fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked."

"Hello, Faith," he said. "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy right now."

Oh, crap. She hated it when he messed with her. "Busy doing what? Grading papers at 2 AM?"

"I have a friend over."

"Well, ask her if she's interested in a threesome."

He chuckled. "Good night, Faith."

"I'm gonna get laid tonight," she said. "With or without you."

"That sounds like a good idea," he agreed. "Oh, and Faith? It's a guy."

"Huh?"

"My friend's a guy."

"Hey, whatever floats your boat," she said, hanging up on him. She kicked the nearest headstone. Damn. First she was faced with a sub-par vampire, and then Robin bailed on her. Seemed like she'd have to raid the night clubs for company tonight. What a hassle – and by this hour, she was bound to end up with some total loser.

This night was so not working out for her.

She tucked away the cell phone and picked up her jacket that she'd left draped over a grave. Well, she guess she knew a couple of places nearby that had a decent clientele. But if her date tonight came with pimples and loud, off-putting wails, she would hold Robin personally responsible.

Faith woke up in the bright morning, but kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she'd see if she opened them. She tried to remember the guy from last night. He'd been boring in bed, that much she remembered – not fumbling or anything, just so bland and predictable that she damned near had to finish on her own. Why had she ever brought him over...?

Oh, yeah. He'd been gorgeous. That oughta teach her what a pretty face was worth.

Slowly, reluctantly, she rolled over on her side and cracked an eyelid open.

There was no one else in the bed.

"Thank you, Jesus," she breathed, opening the other eye as well to make sure she'd seen that right. He must've snuck out while she was sleeping, and she never even heard him leave. For once, falling asleep after sex didn't mean she had to face the awkward morning after stuff.

She sat up and grabbed her pants from the end of the bed. As she put them on, she hummed off-key to herself.

The phone rang from the living room, and a voice asked, "Do you want me to get that?"

Faith stopped cold. Oh, shit. The guy. He was still here. He was in the kitchen, which meant... oh, God, no, there had to be another explanation. He wasn't making her breakfast, was he?

"No, that's okay," she called as soon as she had found her voice. "I'll get it."

She ran into the living room, careful not to look towards the kitchen, and picked up the phone. "Yeah, hello."

"I have something you might be interested in," Robin's voice said from the other end of the line. "Want to come and see?"

"Why should I?" she asked, listening to the sounds in the kitchen. Yeah, that was definitely the percolator running. "You didn't come over last night."

"Well, you didn't bribe me with an ancient, funky-looking sword."

"Sword, huh?" That did sound interesting. Faith dared a peek over her shoulder. No prettyboy sticking his head out from the kitchen. Yet. "I kinda have company."

A puzzled silence followed, and then Robin asked, "What, still?"

"Yeah," Faith groaned, hearing the toaster pop up toast. She added in a low voice, "I think he's making me breakfast."

"Oh, dear," Robin said wryly. "Okay, come when you can, then."

"Twenty minutes okay?"

"Don't make him cry."

"I'll try not to. Later."

She hung up, hesitating for a moment before heading into the kitchen. A couple of years ago, she would have simply kicked the guy out, with physical kicking if needed. She didn't want to do that anymore – but ancient swords were a whole lot cooler than vapid fratboys.

He was standing there now, everything she remembered from last night, except his hair was a bit mussed and his feet bare. And he was frying eggs.

Seeing her enter, he gave her a radiant smile and asked, "How do you like your eggs?"

"Uh, over-easy," she said automatically. Bad move. Answering him was a bad move, because it meant accepting that he was making breakfast, that taking her things out of her fridge while she was sleeping was cute and caring and not freaky at all. "Actually, I... kind of have to leave."

His face fell. "But what about the eggs? And I've made coffee... and toast."

As if that was her fault. Twerp. She imagined kicking him repeatedly in the head until he lay unconscious on the floor, and then pouring the coffee over him. "You can always..." Leave it, she wanted to say. It was her food, after all. "...Take it with you, I guess. I think I have bags and stuff."

He looked down on the eggs, pouting. "I thought chicks liked this stuff."

Oh, Jesus, did he really expect her to play What Women Want with him? She forced herself to smile. "I've. Got. Someplace. To. Be." She found an empty soda bottle and poured the coffee into it. Then she stuffed the toast in a bag and handed it all over. "Sorry. Do you want a box for the eggs?"

The strategy seemed to work – she loaded him up with boxes and bags and forced him to retreat. By the front door he stopped, though, and tried another bright smile as he asked, "When can I see you again?"

Okay, she now officially took no more responsibility for making this moron cry. "You can't," she snapped. "This was a one night stand. Key ingredient? It only lasts one night. Then you leave. Bye!"

She pushed him out the door and closed it in his face, careful not to check if there were any tears in his eyes. That way she wouldn't have to lie about it.

Leaning against the door, she counted to one hundred slowly. The last thing she wanted was to accompany him down the street. Then she opened the door and peeked out. He was gone. Seemed that he could at least take a hint as wide as a barn door.

She took her jacket from the chair where she'd thrown it the night before and headed out. She could use the slayage – at least there, things didn't get so damned messy after the kill.

Her bike was standing out on the street, and it was soaked. Damn. If she had known it'd be raining, she would've taken it inside. Should've done that anyway, of course, but it was hard to remember that kind of thing when you were about to get groiny with someone.

She'd bought a helmet along with the bike, but she barely ever used it – what was the point of being a Slayer if you kept padding yourself up like a scared civilian? So she just tied her hair into a ponytail and zipped up her jacket before getting onto the bike.

Half an hour after the phone call, she knocked on Robin's door. She could hear him rustling inside, but it took a while before he opened.

"That was fast," he said, blinking at the morning light.

"I said twenty minutes," she pointed out, going inside.

He nodded. "You made him cry, didn't you?"

"Not that I noticed," she said cheerfully, glad that she could hang up her jacket so she didn't have to look him in the eyes.

"Uh-huh," he said dryly. "Want to come in and look at the sword?"

"You know I do."

She followed him into the living room. It was pretty messy, and there was a large box standing on the floor, but she still noticed the sword right away. It lay on the coffee table across piles of papers, and she picked it up, butterflies in her stomach.

The sheath was made of wood and had been covered in leather once upon a time, but now there were only darkened patches of it left. One of those patches had some writing, but upon closer inspection it turned out that the writing was in runes or something, so Faith quickly lost interest and drew the sword, tossing the sheath aside. Robin cried out in alarm and caught it, giving Faith an accusing glare. "Do you always treat historical artifacts that way?"

Faith didn't listen – she was looking at the sword. It was fairly long with a broad blade, and had a few more runes at the hilt, as well as a sun inlaid on the pommel in silvery metal. The blade was a bit discolored but... she tried the edge. Yeah, still sharp.

"Okay, kinda tight," she said. "I don't get what's so funky about it, though."

"Tight's the word," he agreed. "That hilt is way too small for most people's hands. At first I thought it was meant for a three-finger grip, you know, keeping your pinkie on the pommel..."

"You get that excited about fighting, huh?" she asked, turning the sword over.

"Funny. Thing is, it's meant for a full-hand grip all right. Just for someone with really small hands."

Well, it fitted her hands just fine. "A girl?"

"It's way too heavy for a girl." He gave her a wide grin. "That is to say, a normal girl."

It took a while for the penny to drop. When it did, her grin became even wider than his. "A Slayer?"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Cool." She swung the sword around slowly, testing its weight while making sure not to take it too close to Robin. She'd never been all that into swords, trusting force to take her where technique couldn't, but this felt strangely like family history – like the sword belonged to an older sister. A much older sister.

"So, how old is it?" she asked, trying to imagine the girl who had carried it.

"Not all that old. They just dug it up from a grave back in Newfoundland, so it looks older than it would if it'd been hanging at a museum all this time. Definitely predates Columbus, though. Guy who sent it said it was Viking, probably twelfth century."

"An American Viking sword, huh?" she said. The Slayer became clearer to her view then: a broad-shouldered blonde Valkyrie with a woollen dress and a horned helmet – no, not the helmet, she decided. No sister of hers was gonna look that much like a dork. "Awesome. So what do the runes say?"

He frowned. "What runes?"

"Over here," she said, holding carefully at the blade to show him the hilt. "And on the sheath."

Robin picked up the sheath and turned it over in his hand.

"No, on the other side," she said, pointing with the tip of the sword.

He started turning the sheath again, but suddenly flinched, dropping the sheath on the floor as if it had bitten him. "What the hell?"

"What's wrong?" she asked, coming over to look. A red mark was forming on the palm of his hand. Coming closer, she stared as inside the mark, black lines turned up, one by one. It looked like someone was carving letters into his skin.

"I guess those are the runes in question?" he asked weakly.

She nodded, dumbfounded by what she saw. As far as she could tell, they were exactly the same - not even mirrored, like they should have been if they had been burned on his palm from the sheath.

Since when did sheaths burn people, anyway?

"The sword must be cursed or something," Robin said, and tried to joke: "Lucky as always."

"The sword's not cursed," she argued, gripping it tighter. It didn't feel cursed. Just the opposite: it felt like something she was supposed to hold, like it had been made for her. "It didn't burn me. Look!" She showed him her unburned right hand. "It's the sheath. Or maybe it's you."

To try the latter theory, she stooped down and prodded the sheath carefully with her fingertip. When nothing happened, she ran her fingertips over the faded runes, and then her palm. Still nothing.

"Okay," she said, standing up straight. "It's you." That wasn't a very comforting thought either. What did the sheath have against Robin?

"Yes, because historical artifacts burn me all the time," he deadpanned, though she could see the fear in his eyes. "It's an allergy. Come on, Faith, you know it's not me."

"Maybe it's just the first person who touches the sheath?"

"I touched it before," he pointed out. "As did you. And the archaeologist I got it from sure as hell touched it when he sent it over."

"Well, the first to touch the runes then," she countered. She hated when he got all logical and superior with her. So he was a few years older. She could still kick his ass.

He flexed his fingers, staring at his palm. "We got to find out why this happened. Not to mention what it means. I'm calling my guy."

"You do that," she said.

As he picked up the phone, she looked around the room for food. Nothing. There were piles of junk on every shelf and table, but nothing edible among them. She even lay down on her knees and checked under the sofa. Only dust under there – and not very much of that either.

That was the trouble with fucking an adult – you had to make it all the way to the kitchen to find a decent snack. Maybe she shouldn't have been so quick to dis Mr. Breakfast. Or at the very least she shouldn't have let him leave with half of her food. Sighing, she went to see what Robin kept in his fridge. Maybe if she was really lucky, there'd be a bag of chips or something.

There wasn't. That didn't surprise her – there hardly ever was. Obviously no meat either, or pizza, or anything really worth eating. She shut the door and tried some cupboards, taking an apple without much enthusiasm. The guy was a bachelor; would it kill him to eat like one? And then she found the box of pop tarts. The unopened box of pop tarts.

"Bingo," she said, ripping it open and sticking two of the pop tarts into the toaster. When Robin joined her, she was munching away, enjoying the delicious taste of sugar, fat, and white flour.

"Guess there's a real person under that health nut exterior after all," she greeted him.

"Actually, those are for you," he said, smiling a little.

She stopped chewing and stared at him wide-eyed. "Get out of here. You bought pop tarts just for me?"

He shrugged. "It was either that or hearing you complain that there was nothing fit for a Slayer to eat. I figured, if I have a superhero hanging about, I may as well make sure she's happy."

"Good boy," she said, grinning to show him just how happy she was. She held out a pop tart for him to eat, and although he rolled his eyes, he did take a bite. Just one, but that was still a victory – in time, she might be able to rid him of nasty habits like health food and flossing.

"So, were they cursed?" she asked.

"I don't know. The guy had been fired."

"Fired?" That sounded ominous. "For what?"

"For selling historical artifacts," he replied with a grimace that showed he was aware of the irony.

She snorted with laughter, but very briefly, because on second thought, it wasn't all that funny. Not if there really was a curse. "Can you get in touch with him somehow?"

"I don't know. I hope so." He made an apologetic face. "I'll probably be on the phone a lot today."

She nodded. As if she'd have any complaints about that. Anything that'd clue them in on what the hell was going on was a good thing, especially if it stopped bad things from happening to him. But she didn't say that. She couldn't think of a way to say it that wouldn't sound like she expected him to die.

Her concern surprised her. She had a hard time believing in a curse, considering how good it had felt to hold the sword – why would someone curse a sheath and not a sword? – but she found it way too easy to believe Robin was in danger.

Which, what else was new, right? There were in danger every night. That was the whole point. Slayage without danger would be impossible... not to mention boring.

"Are we still on for tonight?" she asked.

"If I don't turn into a fire-breathing dragon, sure," he joked.

A voice echoed in her head: It'll be quite the celebration, my little firecracker. She shuddered at the memory.

"Want me to stay and keep watch?"

"Would you? I've got a cattle prod I could lend you."

"And you never told me?" She clicked her tongue, her voice light and teasing, but only to get them both in a better mood. That 'would you?' had been too relieved. Now she knew for certain that he was as worried as she was.

"Any change?" Faith asked several hours later, when the sun had set.

Robin raised his hand, palm facing Faith. The marks were still red in his hand, but there was very little swelling, and he most definitely hadn't turned into a fire-breathing dragon. "Either it's a very slow-moving curse, or that sheath was just a little wary of strangers. I'm fit to fight."

"Great!" she said, but when they mounted up, she brought the cattle prod as well as her stakes, just in case. And she left the sword in Robin's apartment. She was dying to take it out on a trial run, but all things considered, it wasn't worth the risk.

They took his car to an abandoned store in the Clark-Fulton neighborhood. Rumour had it there was a vamp nest in the store, and it sure as hell looked like one, with the windows all covered with brown paper and duct tape. Then again, if every crappy house was a vamp nest, there should've been a Hellmouth in Southie.

There was no denying it, though – something was living in that place. While the windows were taped shut, the door was slightly open, and there was light coming from inside. Could be simple squatters, but she still made sure to keep her stake ready as she headed inside.

The first thing she heard was a muffled but imposing voice saying, "...Sunnydale. Are we supposed to just sit here while they destroy this town as well?"

She turned and gave Robin a thumbs up. Definitely vampires. No squatter would sound that self-righteous, and she doubted a squatter would talk about Sunnydale's destruction either. The sound came from behind the store room – a storage area, maybe, or an office.

"We must protect our feeding grounds," the voice continued, and boy, she didn't think she'd ever heard someone that pompous who wasn't a Watcher. Maybe he'd been one before he was turned. That'd be a hoot, fighting a Watcher vampire.

"...dispose of the Slayer rubble..."

Blah blah blah. With all that rambling, she was surprised the vamps didn't stake him themselves.

She motioned for Robin to get closer. If they attacked while the vampire was still talking, there would probably be enough snoring for them to remain unheard until the very last moment.

She walked to the back of the store and listened by the door. There were murmurs of agreement from in there, but she couldn't tell how many the vamps were. Oh well, they'd just have to take a chance. Counting on her fingers, she signalled to Robin, 'One, two, three,' and then the two of them kicked down the door.

The speaker turned out to be a tall, bearded vampire with a haughty, thin face and glasses. And he was wearing a suit, for crying out loud. There were about six or seven other vampires with him, but she didn't have time to count them – she started pummelling the one closest to the fallen door, a stocky little thing that dressed like a frat boy. She'd had enough of those to last a lifetime.

At first the vampires seemed unconcerned – they attacked, but like a cat attacks the mouse, like she had often attacked single vampires on graveyards. She could feel them slowly catching on to what was happening. Their fighting style became more intense, more frenzied. They might like to talk big, but as neighborhood vigilantes went, most of them weren't exactly impressive. A few were pretty good, though, among them the speaker himself, amazingly enough. He might look like a stiff, but he sure as hell didn't move like one, and she was starting to find it increasingly difficult to resist his attacks. She was pretty sure she could take him out in the end, but the rest of the vamps, clumsy or not, made it pretty damned difficult.

Robin was in trouble too. He had his hand around the throat of a feisty blonde thing who fought like a girl – but like a very strong girl. Out of the corner of her eye, Faith saw the vampire chick kick Robin in the balls and break loose. It would have been funny, if it didn't mean Robin was left gasping for air with a bunch of vamps ready to finish him off. Faith gave her opponent a jumping kick, and upon hitting flesh pushed off so she flew over the heads of the vampires, landing on the ground before Robin.

"Want him, you go through me," she said, plunging her stake into the closest vamp.

The others seemed to appraise the situation for a second, and then the leader opened a door, whistling at the others to follow him. They slunk through it fast as rats, and though Faith tried to follow, by the time she reached the door it slammed in her face. She started beating it. Lead casing. Damn. Damn damn fucking damn. She pounded on the wall next to the floor instead, sending pieces of plaster and concrete flying.

"Leave... it..." Robin gasped from the floor.

She gave the wall a few more punches and then returned to him. "You okay? Did you kill anyone?"

"Just the one," he replied, trying to get up though he was still clearly in pain. "You?"

"Two. Four of them still out there. Damn!"

He managed to sit up. "Your hand is bleeding."

She looked down on her hand, and he was right, the knuckles were bloody. "Oh."

"We'll get them some other night," he said, taking her hand to examine it. A tickling sensation spread under her skin, and the wound closed before their eyes.

She pulled back her hand. "Whoa. Did you... I mean, was that..." She stared at her knuckles, as pink and whole as if there had never been anything wrong with them. "Did you do that?"

He looked as baffled as she felt. "I don't think so."

"I do." It seemed like a reasonable enough explanation. He touched her, her wound healed, thus he had made her wound heal. Sure, Slayers healed fast even when left on their own, but not that fast. There was some mojo stuff going on, and she was willing to bet that he was it.

"Come on, Faith," he protested. "I have no special powers, you know that. Why would I suddenly have the ability to heal you with my touch?"

She raised her eyebrows and turned his hand over, poking the marks in his palm with her nail.

His eyes widened. "Oh."

"We wanted to know what was up with the sheath. I guess now we do."

"It's a guess, that's all," he said. "We don't even know for certain that it was me."

Faith rolled her eyes. Fine, if he wanted more than circumstantial evidence, she'd give it to him. She grabbed her stake and plunged it right through her own hand, and before she even had time to think about how much that hurt, she grabbed Robin's hand again.

Just like before, the edges of the wound closed together so fast, within seconds it was as if it had never been there. There wasn't even any blood.

"Are you insane?" Robin asked.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"And what if it hadn't worked? What would you have done?"

She shrugged. "Bled."

That made him laugh, and he looked down on his hand with a sense of wonder that caused her to grin as well. She knew that expression, she'd seen it in the mirror the whole summer she turned 17. It was the 'wow, I'm a superhero' expression.

Funny, really. Robin was past thirty, and he was a hell of a fighter, best you could get if you were talking male and human. She would have expected him to be all jaded: 'Yeah, superpowers, whatever, where's that curriculum I was working on?' But no, he lit up like a little kid.

She pulled him closer and kissed him on the earlobe. "Congratulations. Guess you're a big boy now."

He shook his head, still chuckling quietly. "I'll try to get in touch with my contact again tomorrow. Just so I can find out what's going on."

"Well, it's too late to do it tonight," she said. "Want me to come home with you? Celebrate?"

"Ha!" he said. "Faith, if you think I'm up to anything sexual after the stunt that vampire pulled on me..."

"Still, hurting, huh?" she asked with a grimace. Then a thought occurred to her. "Think you could use your new power on yourself?"

He thought about it, and evidently considered it worth a try, because he put his hand on his fly. After a few moments, he took it away and, with an apologetic glance, stuck it inside his pants instead. Both of them waited.

Finally, Robin sighed deeply and took his hand up.

"Nothing, huh?" Faith asked, torn between disappointment and a wish to sound sympathetic.

"Apparently not." He stood up, his movements a little uncomfortable but not much so. "We'll have to call a rain check."

She hurried to her feet as well. "We could... celebrate... anyway?"

His eyes rested on her face. "Without sex? Are you sure?"

Now, what kind of a question was that? He made it sound as if she only ever came over to his place for sex. Which, she had to admit, was a large factor, but so was the food, and the slayage, and the occasional soap on cable.

"You got booze, right?" she asked. "And something to eat that isn't healthy?"

He swept the hair away from her face and then leaned in, letting his lips trace her jaw line. Shivers ran down her body. Damn, it wasn't right of him to tease her like this when he didn't intend to follow through – but she couldn't bring herself to mind.

"I might have something, yeah," he murmured in her ear.

She smiled. "Good. That's settled, then."