CHAPTER ELEVEN
Risk Factors
(July)
By July, the heat in Moonridge had grown oppressive and, short of practicing the time-honored Southern California tradition of seeking respite in an air-conditioned building, inescapable. Scorched brown hillsides surrounded the canyon, streams and culverts that in the spring had carved silvery swathes through the parks and greenbelts had run dry, and the sun hammered incessantly upon the suburban anvil below.
Dawn watched as Eric retrieved his car keys and then absent-mindedly scrolled through messages on his phone. He'd grown distant over the last few weeks, work had been even busier than usual, and she found herself each day counting the hours until he'd return from the office, or for the kids to finish with their summer camp sessions, or for anything to break up the lonely monotony. She felt as though the stagnation of the empty hours of her daily routine were driving her mad, bit by bit.
"Eric," she prompted him.
Without looking up, he perfunctorily replied, "Dawn."
"I was thinking," she began, "we should get away this summer. Maybe Hawaii? Or, if we want to really try something new, an Alaska cruise?"
Eric tucked his phone away and stared dispassionately at her. "Work is pretty murderous at the moment, sweetheart, but maybe in a few months."
"I'm just going a little stir crazy, that's all."
Eric tilted his head at her in contemplation, then replied, "If you're bored, you could always reach out to your sister."
Not this again.
"Eric," she said, "it's complicated."
He held up an apologetic hand. "Forget I said anything. That's for the two of you to work out." He smiled at her, then walked over and kissed the top of her head. "I'm just worried about you, that's all. You seem … preoccupied, lately."
Dawn internally screamed, no begged, to force words from her throat that would give Eric some window into her thoughts, into the terrible, pressure that seemed to have descended upon her waking hours, but she found herself unable to voice them.
Where would I even begin?
Eric frowned down at her, then continued, "I was hoping you might be able to relax this summer."
"Relaxation sounds nice," Dawn agreed. "I'm working on it."
Eric's phone buzzed in his pocket. He retrieved it, stared at the screen, then glanced at her. "I have to go. Dinner out tonight?"
Dawn forced a smile. "That sounds great."
He kissed the top of her head again, then his wingtip shoes beat a steady staccato rhythm as he walked towards the front door.
After Eric's departure, an eerie quiet fell over the house, and Dawn felt a momentary sense of panic as she found herself desperately unsure how to occupy the subsequent hours. She walked to the kitchen and stared at a half-empty bottle of merlot tucked away on the far side of the kitchen counter. Her desire to pour herself a glass was roughly equal to the nagging urge to peek, yet again, out the front window. The temptation to call Buffy, or Xander, or anyone, gnawed at her, but she found herself physically unable to reach for her phone or to contemplate driving somewhere by herself. It was as though her brain was scrambling for freedom, for release, for anything, but something was stifling her thoughts and wrapping her in a cocoon of inaction.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She retrieved a wine glass from the cabinet and reached for the bottle.
. . . . . . . . .
As his car idled in the driveway, the creature Dawn knew as her husband, Eric Aurum, phoned the sender of the text he had just received.
"No, Mindy, as I believe I have mentioned repeatedly these past months, neither I nor your employer wish to increase the offer or threaten to withdraw it," he said in an even, but stern, tone. "We've shown as much as interest, and lack of patience, as we dare … any more and the Rosenbergs, stubborn nuisances that they are, will grow suspicious." He listened to the voice on the other end for a moment, and his voice was thick with anger when he replied. "It is your organization that established the parameters by which the Valknut was to be acquired, not me. We cannot steal it, we cannot take it by force, and we cannot threaten or bludgeon them into accepting our buy-out proposal. It must be a willing bargain … willing … in all respects."
As he spoke, despite the blazing morning sun, shadows pooled around the car and spread like enormous wings upon the sloped concrete of the driveway. Plants on the periphery of the darkness grew brown and desiccated, and worms squirmed free of the dirt in a futile effort to escape.
"One more thing," he said, "I found your boss's lackey's interest in my home life amusing, for a time, but now it's becoming a nuisance. Tell him to keep Joshua on a leash, or I'll take care of it myself."
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
. . . . . . . . .
"Kate," Angel said as glanced up in surprise from the map he'd been working on.
Kate, clearly taken aback by the display in front of her, blinked a few times as she surveyed the lobby of Moonridge Investigations. Maps festooned with colored thumbtacks, stickies upon which notes had been scribbled, and countless sharpie'd "Xs" covered nearly an entire wall, while yet more charts occupied every available square inch of both the coffee table and lobby desk.
"Have you taken up treasure hunting?" Kate asked, "or is this any of this going to help us find our serial killer?"
"It just might," Angel said defensively as he leaned back in his chair. "I assume this isn't a social call, so what can I do for you?" He justified his truculent phrasing as simply being tit-for-tat for Kate's own demeanor towards him over the course of the year.
After all, you're the one who made it clear you don't want to be friends …
If the stress of being assigned an unsolved serial killer case in Moonridge, a town seemingly beset by bizarre crimes on a daily basis, was getting to Kate, it didn't show. If anything, she looked younger than she had in January. It might have been that she'd let hair grow out a bit and had started dying the gray a richer, more gleaming shade of blonde, or maybe the switch from …
"Angel!" Kate barked.
Angel flinched and dropped his pen in surprise. "What?" he stammered.
"Did you hear what I just said?"
He could feel heat rising to his face as he realized he hadn't been listening.
Kate rubbed at her eyes for a moment, then repeated herself, "I found out why Spike took out that nest." When Angel didn't appear to recognize what she was referring to, she impatiently continued, "You remember the sorority? Moonridge University? Bunch of dead coeds?"
"Oh, that's right, "Angel replied "Sorry, it's been non-stop vamps and demons the last two or three months." He stood up and moved to the front of the lobby desk. "What did you find out?"
"The two students that we rescued were in pretty bad shape, and neither of them have been particularly forthcoming … probably because both have families with Sunnydale experience in keeping their mouths shut about weird shit. However, one of them finally had something interesting to say." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "At least, I suspect you might find it interesting."
"I might," Angel replied. "What did she say?"
Kate pulled out her phone and began tracing her finger across the screen. After she found what she was looking for, she looked up again. "Does the name 'Drusilla' mean anything to you?"
Angel felt his blood run cold, and his heart … the beat of which he still wasn't entirely used to … began to thrum in his chest. "Drusilla …" he intoned slowly, almost reverently. "I haven't heard that name in a long, long time."
"Who is she?"
Angel once again struggled to find a reply, but this time it was shame and guilt that held his tongue.
"If you're trying to think of a lie," Kate interrupted his thought, "I'm pretty sure I know you too well for that."
Angel quickly shook his head. "Not a lie, it's just unpleasant to talk about." He sighed, then decided there was no reason not to tell the truth. "I sired Drusilla, back before. You know, when I …"
"When you didn't have a soul, I get it," Kate said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Is she bad news?"
"She is," Angel said. "She's a powerful vampire, gets psychic visions on occasion, and she has a way of figuring out the exact worst time to turn up."
"Like now?"
Angel nodded. "Like now." He fixed Kate with a puzzled stare. "What does Drusilla have to do with that nest?"
"Apparently Spike, after killing two of the vampires, spent some time torturing and questioning the third." Kate smiled, but rather than cheer, Angel thought he detected a hint of grim satisfaction. "Quite a bit of time, actually, and the surviving sorority victim said that Spike used some sort of acid during the interrogation."
"Probably holy water," Angel speculated.
"That's what I figured, too. Anyway, a lot of Spike's questions were about this Drusilla."
"What kind of questions?"
"Whether she was in town, whether someone matching her description was making herself known to vampires, questions like that." Kate gestured at the maps on the wall. "You think she might be behind all of this?"
"I doubt it," Angel replied. "Drusilla was about the personal, the intimate … wanton carnage was never really her thing." He shrugged. "But who knows. Maybe? This is all probably academic, though, as I have a feeling that the vamp Spike tortured didn't know anything about Drusilla."
"That's right," Kate responded in surprise, "he didn't. How'd you know?"
"Spike and I don't see eye to eye on much," Angel explained, "but if he knew Drusilla was in town, he'd tell me … at least, I think he would. We all have a certain amount of history."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a ringing phone.
Angel glanced at the office line, but otherwise ignored it.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Kate asked.
He reached out and turned off the ringer. "It's either going to be a potential client that Xander and I don't have time for, or it'll be some lunatic asking for Buffy so he can complain about a campaign issue."
"If she wins the election, you'll kind of be the First Lady of Moonridge." Kate flashed a genuine smile for the first time that Angel could recall in a long, long time. "That thought amuses me."
"I'm glad," Angel said. He was about to see if there was anything else Kate wanted when the lobby door swung open and Xander entered.
Angel glanced at his watch, then looked up. "I thought you were going to help me chart the attacks during last night's patrols?"
"And I fully intend to," Xander replied as he glanced up at the maps adorning the wall. "Though I don't think you missed a spot." He looked over at Kate. "Good morning, Detective Lockley."
Kate glanced at her own watch. "Good afternoon," she corrected him.
Xander rubbed his hands together nervously. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? I sure hope it isn't so that we can head to another murder scene that I'll never be able to get out of my head for the rest of my life."
"Not this time, but I was hoping that you might have found a lead in one of your old files." She flashed a borderline accusatory stare in their direction. "If he's still alive, he'll kill again. You two know that, right?"
"We do," Angel replied. "Xander and I spent over a month tearing apart each and every Angel Investigations file I could find searching for a lead, or even a hint, that might point us in the right direction."
"And?"
"I've never investigated killings anything like these, there were no unaccounted-for demons with purple skin, and the bad guys who have a grudge against me big enough to leave a trail of bodies through the L.A. basin are the type of folks who already know where I live."
Kate opened her mouth to reply, but this time it was her own phone that interrupted the conversation. She retrieved her cell, reviewed the incoming message, then sighed in irritation as she slid it back into her pocket.
"Problem?"
"Water leak in the place I'm renting," Kate said.
"Do you need any help?" Xander asked. "I'm happy to come check it out."
Kate shot him a look of annoyance. "It's a leak, not a demon. Besides, my dad was pretty handy around the house and he taught me how to avoid getting ripped off."
"Xander's a contractor," Angel explained. "Or was a contractor."
"You guys wear a lot of hats," Kate mused. "Private detectives, contractors, map-makers, …"
Angel and Xander glanced at each other as Kate continued to rattle off a variety of career descriptions, a few of which were flattering, and some of which most decidedly were not.
. . . . . . . . .
As Kate approached the apartment complex in which she'd made her home during her sojourn in Moonridge, she drove past a small, battered RV and slid her car into the assigned slot beneath a carport roof. As she exited the vehicle, for a moment she thought she saw one of the drawn blinds in the interior of the RV move slightly, then fall still once more. She froze and carefully checked the window for further signs of movement. Upon seeing none, she slammed her car door closed, headed inside, ignored the elevator, and climbed the two flights of stairs to her one-bedroom apartment. She braced herself for the unpleasant sight of workers scrambling to repair the leak which, reportedly, had flooded her entire unit.
Oddly, though she found her door slightly ajar, there were no signs of maintenance work. She pushed the door open, stepped into her living room, and found no plumber, no apartment manager, and no indication of water intrusion, at all. Puzzlement gave way to suspicion, and then a footfall on the drab, green carpet that lined the hallway outside her door alerted her to someone's approach. She simultaneously reached for the sidearm tucked in a holster beneath her suit jacket and whirled to confront whoever was drawing near.
A precise, economical swing of something blunt and heavy connected with her temple. Her gun clattered on the tile of the entryway as she collapsed to her knees, and stars danced in her vision as she struggled to rise and turn towards the attacker. A second blow, less forceful than the first but just as adroitly administered, struck her in the throat. She protectively clasped her hands over her windpipe as she fell on her side and wheezed in agony.
A hooded figure, with unhurried steps, calmly closed the door to her apartment, then walked towards her. He picked up her gun, nonchalantly tossed it towards the far wall, then knelt over her prone form. Kate watched as he reached towards her face with gloved hands, looped a thin plastic cord around her neck, and yanked it viciously tight. She attempted to pry the noose free with her fingers, but before she could secure a grip on the plastic, he flung the other end of the wire over the thick, metal bracket of the overhead lighting and began to pull.
Her head still swimming from the first blow, it was only instinct that caused her to rise to her feet in an effort to prevent being strangled. Steadily, with strength that belied his frame, the assailant pulled on the cord until only the barest tips of Kate's shoes reached the ground. As she half-dangled from the noose, her feet scrabbled frantically against the tile and her hands clawed at the wire in a desperate attempt to reduce the weight her neck was being forced to bear. She opened her mouth to scream, but the cord had pulled itself so tight that muffled wheezing was the best she could manage. Speech of any kind, let alone crying for help, was impossible. The edges of her vision clouded and blurred as she struggled to force even shallow breaths into her lungs.
"Stand still," a voice behind her instructed. It was a normal voice, neither particularly low nor high pitched, and the inflection was one of dry amusement.
Kate ignored the command and continued trying to grasp the slick wire of the noose. She saw a brief glimpse of purple, scaled skin, and deep-set yellow eyes as the assailant stepped in front of her. He looped the strangling cord a few more times over the bracket, neatly tied it off, then drew back a gloved hand and thrust the end of a metal baton into her solar plexus.
The only dim thought Kate could manage as her body attempted, in vain, to double over, was that she was about to die. The unyielding noose cut off her already meager supply of oxygen as she convulsed from the blow, and once again it was only by instinct that she managed to get her feet under her. She wheezed in desperate, wrenching agony, as she tried to force shallow breaths into her spasming lungs.
"I hope you learned your lesson," the figure said as he moved closer. He smelled faintly of old leather tinged with something else that she couldn't quite identify … something unpleasant. She felt him reach into her clothing, empty her pockets, then toss aside her car keys, phone, wallet, and cuffs. A surge of revulsion welled as he crouched and slowly, deliberately ran his hands down her legs.
Probably looking for an ankle holster … as though I could reach one right now.
She tried to speak, but only hoarse, strangled whines escaped her throat. The intruder held a gloved finger against her lips and patronizingly shushed her.
"You don't mind if I look around, do you?" he asked in that same placid, uncaring voice. Only by keeping her jaw pointed directly at the ceiling could she manage shallow breaths, and thus it was only out of the corner of her eye that she could watch as he connected a device to her computer, retrieved her cell phone and connected it to the same device, then finally searched through a stack of files piled on an end table.
Cautiously, so as not to draw his attention, she relaxed her legs and tested the strength of the two parallel strips of metal that affixed the lighting bracket to the ceiling. Other than a few scraps of paint and drywall flaking free, it didn't budge.
Ignoring her agonized wheezing, the hooded figure finished ransacking her belongings, then walked over and appeared to take a grim satisfaction in observing her predicament. The noose traced a line of fire around her throat as she tried to gaze downward in an effort to catch a better glimpse of his face. To her frustration, the black cowl combined with the awkward angle made it impossible.
"Detective Lockley," the creature … given its purple, reptilian skin she assumed it had to be a demon … said softly, "it seems like no matter where I go, there you are. Dogging my steps, treading in my wake, interfering in my projects." He reached down and slipped something free from his hand, probably a glove, then he ran a curiously dry and leathery finger along her neck right below the strap that was slowly strangling her. She considered reaching out and trying to grab his arm, but she doubted she'd be able to put up much of a fight.
"Your files are most interesting," he continued, "and I look forward to reading through them at my leisure. Your insights as to Angel's current status among the living, in particular, are enlightening." The bastard continued in a congenial, conversational manner, as though her life wasn't, literally, hanging by a thread only a few feet away. "I had assumed some measure of Angel's former strength remained, but I thank you for confirming it." Kate heard him sigh in satisfaction, then he stepped closer. "Angel has hurt you so terribly. I can see that, just from watching you speak to him. It radiates from the stiffness of your back, from the tightness of your face, by the way his every innocuous comment irritates you just so. I know what a burden hatred is, but don't worry, very soon I will relieve you of all your worries."
He held the baton up before her eyes, then a seam appeared in the smooth metal as the demon slowly pulled the device apart to reveal a gleaming blade. Kate knew without testing the edge that it had been honed to a razor's sharpness. She tightened her hands against the noose and decided she'd have time for one desperate gamble.
"Before you die," the man said in a conspiratorial, almost friendly tone, "you should know that Angel is responsible for what is happening to you. Your last thoughts should be to blame him."
Blood trickled from the palms of her hands down her wrists as she tightened her grip upon the cord. With a desperate heave she gripped the noose and swung to the side … not towards her attacker, but away from him. Kate twisted in mid-air, extended her feet, and stretched.
For a moment, she thought she had misjudged the distance, then her toes hooked beneath the kitchenette counter, and she hung suspended in space. Dimly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the demon lunge for her with the blade, then as her vision began to dissolve into blackness, she used her feet to pull herself towards the counter.
The overhead lighting brackets were more than strong enough to hang her from, but the supporting struts were designed for downward force, not for sideways movement. As Kate wrenched herself towards the sink, first the strip on the far side of the fixture tore free, and then the one nearest her.
The sharp howl of pain from the attacker as the metal fell from the ceiling and landed on his head was the sweetest sound she had ever heard in her life. She ignored the blood soaking her hands and throat, ripped the cord free, and with greedy gulps inhaled blessed, life-giving oxygen. Dust and plaster filled the air as the prone, purple-skinned creature thrust away the wreckage that had knocked him over.
Kate scrambled on hands and knees towards where he had tossed the gun, and as her hand closed around the grip, she expected to feel the skewering sensation of a blade. She flung herself against the wall and pointed the barrel in the direction of her would-be murderer.
The door to her apartment was wide-open and he was gone. She kept her gun trained towards the hallway for as long as she could, but as the adrenalin wore off, the pain in her throat became unbearable. When spots once again started to dance along the edges of her vision, she reluctantly put the gun down, retrieved her phone, and dialed for help. Speaking was agony, but with measured, painful words, she was able to provide her name and address to the emergency personnel on the other end of the line.
Her phone fell from nerveless fingers as she sat back against the wall and waited for the ambulance to arrive. When she heard the siren, it was as though she gave herself permission to pass out.
. . . . . . . . .
"I can keep an eye on the register, we don't need to close for lunch," Willow offered as she looked up from her laptop and with a queasy stomach watched Oz continue to devour a meatball sub.
Oz plucked an errant pepperoncini off the wax paper that the sandwich had been wrapped in, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed before replying. "We can afford a half an hour of downtime so that I can eat lunch with my beautiful wife, even though for the first time in months she's apparently not hungry."
Willow didn't want to tell Oz that the sight and smell of him eating was nauseating her increasingly sensitive stomach, but if he didn't finish the hoagie soon, she'd have to. Thankfully, he appeared sated at the halfway mark, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he wrapped up the remainder of the meal and tucked it into the fridge.
Oz sat back down and looked at her. "You seem preoccupied," he said. "What's on your mind?"
Willow folded down the laptop screen and considered the question. "I mean, what isn't?"
"Let's start from the beginning," Oz said patiently. "You've been burning the candle at both ends, so I assume Buffy's campaign is a big part of it."
"That is taking more time than I expected," Willow admitted.
"I know you're worried about the apocalytes," he continued.
Willow held up a hand in protest, "I haven't been on the sites, I promise."
"I know," Oz said, "and that's probably why you're worried."
He's right.
Oz continued, "I think you're a little bit peeved that Giles, Faith, and either of the Buffys haven't brought the new slayers by to say howdy … ever."
"That is kind of a slap in the face, isn't it?" Willow asked. "I mean, I know Colleen, or knew her … I gave her slayer powers. Hell, I gave them all slayer powers! They can't at least drop in?"
"Willow," Oz reminded her gently, "we're the ones who said we wanted to be done with all of that. Remember?"
"That doesn't mean they can't say 'hi,'" she said bitterly.
"If you're uncomfortable with reaching out, I can call Giles," Oz said. "Maybe have the slayers come by for Sunday sing-a-long? I could play some tunes on the guitar, they could sit with the kids and try to mellow out?" He smiled at her, and although she wanted to, she couldn't find it in herself to smile back.
"Don't forget Richard Wilkins," Willow said. "I think about him a lot … probably too much."
The smile vanished from Oz's face. "Me, too. Which brings me to one more thing that's probably on your mind …"
"I know you want to accept the offer to sell," Willow said as she predicted the next topic he would bring up.
"It's a fair offer," Oz said.
"It's more than fair," Willow admitted, "it's generous, but I'm just … not ready." She reached out and patted his hand. "I think I'll get there."
"They won't wait forever," Oz reminded her. "I've fielded the calls, so you don't have to, but I think they're going to put a deadline on their bid very soon." He looked around. "Will, I get it, I really do. We built this place, we love it, but this isn't our life." He looked down at her steadily growing belly. "Our family is our life."
"It would be different if I didn't feel like I was abandoning everyone," Willow said. "The Watchers Council is just the absolute goddamn worst, pardon my language, Buffy just now seems to have realized she isn't a slayer anymore, Xander's issues with his eye are still scaring the crap out of me … everything is a disaster."
"We do have new slayers to help," Oz said, "also, as of late, our newest Buffy hasn't been such a … a …" he searched for the right words.
"Bitch?" Willow prompted him.
They both laughed.
"Willow," Oz said after the merriment had died down, "I want us to make a decision, and what I propose is this: if you want to wait until after the Buffy's campaign, win or lose, that's fine, but we take the offer."
As he calmly gazed at her, Willow noticed that the gray in his goatee and the sides of his hair was more pronounced than she'd recalled.
"How's that for a plan?" he asked.
Willow closed her eyes, forced down the raw sense of panic she felt at the notion of selling the Spirit Square, focused on Oz's voice, and it was as though a subtle, but profound, weight shifted inside her. "That's what we'll do," she finally announced. "Just … not quite yet."
"Fair enough," Oz said as he stood up. "I'll leave you to website-ing, or whatever you're doing, and open us back up for business." He gazed at the piled boxes of the room. "I'll miss this place, but not the re-stocking."
"Me, too," she said as she stared at him with moist, red eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "You really are the best."
Oz rubbed her shoulders for a moment, then left to reopen the store.
All of Willow's good cheer vanished the moment she flipped up her laptop screen. Multiple webpages displaying the encoding of various Wilkins-related sites spilled forth a steady stream of symbols both arcane and mundane, and for seemingly the millionth time in the past months, she wanted to scream that she had made no progress on deciphering the layers of magical encryption.
She grabbed the edges of the laptop tightly, resisted the urge to fling it across the room, and tightly closed her eyes, not in an effort to remain calm, but in acceptance of her frustration and anger. When she opened her eyes again, the light in the room had grown shadowed and muted, as though a black film had descended over her vision.
Without conscience thought, the words of an inhuman tongue bubbled from her lips. Her fingers twisted in tune with the spell she was casting as coruscating, blindingly bright wisps of red energy emanated from her fingers, sunk deep into the computer, and from there, coursed on channels both electronic and ethereal into the heart of Wilkins's enchantments.
As she pushed against Wilkins's spells and plunged deeper into the magic, Willow realized even as the thrilling, cascading torrent of power filled her, that she had lost control. A second later, panic gripped her as she recalled the dangers of mixing alien, demonic magic with a very human pregnancy.
What am I doing!
She wrenched herself free from the intoxicating thrill of the forces at her command and realized two things: she had achieved, even if only for a moment, a glimpse into the motive behind Richard Wilkins's designs on the mayoral election, and that a warm liquid trickling from between her legs was running down her inner thigh.
She reached beneath her dress with a trembling hand, felt the warm fluid, and held her fingers aloft to the light.
Blood.
She wasn't sure if it was paralyzing horror at the sight, or her pregnancy causing the backlash of arcane energy that Giles had warned her about so many times, but Willow found that only by grabbing the edge of the table could she keep herself from slumping off the chair and falling to the ground.
"OZ!" she screamed in pain and terror as a sharp pain lanced through her mid-section. She protectively cradled her stomach with one arm and screamed again for her husband as the agony began to come in waves.
It felt like a lifetime, but was in fact only seconds later, when Oz's arms were embracing her. She babbled incoherently in response to his questions, but his look of confusion vanished when he saw the blood on her hand. He glanced down and his face went chalky white when he realized that a pool was forming beneath Willow's chair.
Seconds later, Oz's cell phone was in his hand, and he was dialing 911.
The anguished look of betrayal in Oz's eyes when he spotted the red, crackling currents of occult energy that sparkled along her laptop keyboard was in many respects more painful to Willow than the excruciating cramps in her midsection.
. . . . . . . . .
Oz, ashen-faced, stepped into the hospital's waiting room. His eyes were downcast as they all rushed over to surround him.
"Is she awake?" Buffy asked.
Giles put a hand on Oz's shoulder. "Is there anything we can do?"
"Who did this to Willow?" Xander growled. Other faces in the hospital waiting room turned in surprise at the ferocity of his question. Buffy desperately hoped no one noticed the dull, ruddy light gleaming from his eye.
The door to the waiting room burst open, and everyone who had been on patrol scrambled inside. Faith and Connor began peppering Oz with questions as they rushed over, while Colleen and Buffy's younger counterpart hung back with Spike, who had folded his arms and was leaning against the wall. Buffy knew him well enough to recognize that, despite his calculated display of indifference, concern was etched on his face.
It also wasn't lost on Buffy that Dana and Jess apparently hadn't bothered to make the trip. She'd have expected even acquaintance slayers to drag their asses to the hospital in a gesture of goodwill … at least Dawn had the excuse that she apparently wasn't picking up her phone.
"Are there too many of us?" Olivia asked quietly. "If you want, we can give you some space?"
Even though Buffy adamantly did not want to leave, she forced herself to nod in agreement with Olivia. "Anything you need, we're here," she said. She had to force the next words from her throat, she was so petrified of the possible answers she might hear. "Are … are Willow and the baby, okay?"
"They're okay," Oz said quietly. "They're going to keep Willow overnight to monitor her, but whatever happened, it looks like they're going to pull through."
The gasps of relief were audible throughout the room. Buffy felt as though her heart could finally start beating again, and Angel put his arm around her shoulders as she wiped away tears.
"They have no idea what happened?" Angel asked.
Oz slowly swiveled his gaze to stare at Giles. He remained silent for a few seconds before he spoke. "They can't find any medical reason for it," he said. "But I'm pretty sure Willow knows. She can tell you herself."
Buffy wasn't sure if she'd ever heard Oz sound so broken.
An instant later, she realized why.
Oh, no, Willow … magic? You couldn't have. Please tell me it wasn't that.
Then a wave of shame hit her. What was she doing, involving Willow in an election against Richard Wilkins? She should have just let her go, should have begged Willow and Oz to sell the Spirit Square, forced her to retire somewhere.
Angel tightened his arm around her shoulders as she tried to fight back sobs. Crying wouldn't help Oz or Willow.
A nurse wearing a starched uniform and a peaked white cap leaned over the reception desk and stared in their direction. She spoke to them firmly, but kindly, "Folks, visiting hours are almost over, and you are way past the visitor limit." She gestured towards the doors leading into the hospital. "Mrs. Rosenberg can see guests, but no more than three, and you've got about fifteen minutes." The nurse stepped away from the desk and disappeared.
Oz looked around, found an empty seat, and sat down.
"You guys go ahead," he intoned absently. "I'm going to clear my head for a bit."
Olivia sat down on one side of him, grasped his hand, and then Angel sat down on the other side and looked up at Buffy, Giles, and Xander. "You guys go ahead," he suggested. "The rest of us will stay out here, see if Oz needs anything."
Oz stirred slightly at the mention of his name but didn't otherwise respond.
"Your wife is bloody tougher than she looks," Spike said to Oz in about as close to a sympathetic tone as Buffy had ever heard him manage. "Also, you know … she can always whip up a spell to make herself better." He held out his hands and wiggled his fingers in a pantomime of spellcasting.
A combination of narrowed eyes, reproachful gasps, and muttered whispers were sent in Spike's general direction.
Spike blinked in confusion. "What'd I say?"
Buffy was about to order Spike to shut up when she realized that Oz was slowly, haltingly, chuckling. The sound held little mirth.
"I guess you're right, Spike," Oz announced in a voice heavy with bitterness and regret. "You kind of said it all right there, didn't you?"
"Maybe I'll wait outside," Spike suggested.
"Not a bad idea," Giles agreed.
. . . . . . . . .
Willow's room was private and featured a utilitarian window, a wall-mounted television, and a metal tray that folded over the hospital bed and draped across her lap. Her hands were folded neatly across her stomach, and uneaten, still-covered dishes of food sat in front of her. An IV rack hung with plastic tubes and transparent bags of clear fluid stood behind the bed, but it was the sight of Willow in a hospital gown that almost sent Buffy into a spasm of tears. She choked back the sob forming on her throat and tried to smile as she patted Willow's arm.
"We're here, Will," she said softly as Giles and Xander walked to the other side of the bed. The setting sun cast a dusky, red pall over the room. As Buffy squinted at the window, Xander noticed the gesture and closed the blinds, leaving the room illuminated only by the fluorescent lights above. The faint aroma of antiseptic was cloying in the enclosed space.
"Willow, how are you feeling?" Giles asked gently.
Xander reached down and rubbed Willow's foot. His left eye no longer glowed red from anger, instead it and its human counterpart were wide with concern.
"How am I?" Willow finally said as she looked at each of them in turn. "I don't even know where to begin." Buffy bent over and hugged Willow as she began to cry. "I lost control, Giles. You warned me so many times, and I knew, I knew that I had to be careful, and without even thinking, in a moment of frustration, I almost killed my baby."
They all hugged Willow as a torrent of convulsing sobs wracked her body.
"I almost killed my daughter, and I haven't even had a chance to meet her," Willow haltingly said as she fought back tears.
Buffy searched, and found, a box of tissues. She handed it to Willow.
"But you didn't, Will," Xander reassured her. "I can't imagine how scary this was, I really can't, but the nurse said that you both are doing okay."
Willow shook her head and used the tissues to wipe her tear-streaked face and blow her nose. "You know how magic works, Xander. Heck, you should know better than almost anyone." She stared at Giles. "Giles knows what I'm talking about. Remind them … remind Buffy and Xander."
Giles frowned and glanced down at the floor. "Willow, I don't think that self-recrimination is a useful tool at the moment for your recovery, or for …"
With a slashing gesture of her hand, Willow cut him off, "Tell them, Giles. Please, tell them so they know what I'm worried about."
Giles removed his glasses and hesitantly cleaned them before he replied, "Magic and its consequences are unpredictable," he admitted. "But one spell, one lapse, that does not mean that something terrible has happened." He slid his glasses back over his nose and resumed holding Willow's hand. "All we can do is move forward. You are not the first witch to make a mistake of this sort, and you know as well as I that not every such story ends in tragedy."
"I saw the blood, and I thought my child was dead," Willow said in a hoarse, ragged voice as she fought to keep at bay another round of sobbing.
Buffy grabbed Willow's hand and forced her to meet her gaze. "Will," she said slowly and solemnly, "we'll get through this. You're fine. The baby is fine."
Willow sniffled loudly into a kleenex before replying, "I've never been so frightened. I don't know if I ever want to cast a spell again."
"What happened anyway," Xander asked. "Did something attack you? Vampire? Demon?"
Giles and Buffy shot him a reproachful glance.
"What?" Xander asked. "If it was enough to frighten Will, maybe we all should know about it?"
"It wasn't anything like that," Willow admitted. "It was Wilkins's websites."
Oh, Willow, no, no, NO!
"I think I'll be okay handling the election from here on out," Buffy said. Upon seeing Willow start to protest, she shook her head. "I'll be fine. You focus on getting better."
Willow's features grew drawn, and the sadness vanished to be replaced by something else.
Fear.
"You can't handle the election yourself, Buffy," Willow warned her. "This election, it's about Wilkins being elected mayor, sure, but it's not about his vanity, or his powerbase, or anything like that. It's a spell, like nothing I've ever come across."
"What do you mean?" Giles asked.
Willow looked at him. "What I saw, before … you know … the blood and the ambulance and all of that … it was worse than I thought."
"Willow, are you sure you want to talk about this now?" Buffy asked.
"We need to. This election, I saw glimpses of what Wilkins is doing; he's wired a spell into every aspect of his candidacy. The votes, they're going to empower something, something terrible. I think if people vote for him, it won't just be ballots that they're giving him, it will be something more."
"What?" Buffy asked as a gnawing sense of dread began to eat at her. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not quite sure," Willow admitted. "Pieces of their souls, maybe, or parts of their lives. In all of his websites, buried beneath the empty promises and glib talking points are enchantments that will rob some of the life force from everyone who votes for him, and that energy will be used for one, awful spell that's underlying literally everything that he is doing."
As they listened in rapt horror, Buffy found herself wanting to beg Willow to stop, but she had to know what Wilkins's endgame was.
"And what's the purpose of it all, Will?" she asked. "What's this spell going to do?"
"Is it the snake-demon transformation?" Xander asked. "He seemed really attached to it … maybe he's going to try it again?"
Willow cast her eyes downward and absentmindedly played with the tissue in her hands. "Like I said, I only got a glimpse, but I know it has something to do with water."
Buffy blinked in surprise. "Water?" She grabbed a bottle from Willow's tray and held it aloft. "Water, like this?"
"Yes," Willow said. "His protection wards snapped down before I could get anymore."
Giles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's a bit vague, but at least now we have something to go on."
"Water?" Xander asked incredulously. "How is that something to go on?"
Buffy felt like throwing the bottle at him. "This conversation is all about being constructive, Harris," she reminded him in a sing-song voice while smiling broadly with widened eyes.
"Right, sorry," Xander apologized. "After all, how many different types of magic water can there be? We'll figure it out."
"We'd better," Willow murmured softly. "Cause when I brushed up against whatever is behind Wilkins's conjured jumble of enchantments and rituals, I felt something old, something with roots that predate all of this," she gestured about the room.
"All of what, Will?" Buffy asked.
Willow looked at her with frightened eyes. "Humanity, for sure. But I think, also, the Earth itself … maybe this universe."
Giles rubbed Willow's arm comfortingly. "We'll figure it out."
"It's thin," Willow admitted, "but it might be all we have to go on. Whatever I did triggered wards, protective enchantments, and alarms up the wazoo. Nobody is going to be getting back into those websites again anytime soon."
There was a soft knock out the door, and then the same nurse they'd seen in the reception area poked her head in.
"Visiting hours are over," she informed them.
. . . . . . . . .
"Maybe don't to try to talk, just use this pad and write to me," Angel suggested as he laid a pad of paper and a pen on the bed near Kate's hand.
She shot him a murderous glare, then picked up the pad and flung it across the hospital room. It struck the wall and rustled to the ground.
Angel had seen people he cared about get hurt before, yet he found himself unprepared for the sight of Kate's battered face and bruised throat. Trickles of red blood had seeped into her eyeball from a bruise that extended from her eyebrow to her temple, and an oozing, scabbed wound stretched around her entire throat, with the worst of the damage right under her jaw. The palms of her hands had been bandaged with thick, white gauze, and judging from her grimace every time she inhaled deeply or shifted on the bed, he guessed that she'd broken a few ribs, too.
"Or we can chat," Angel offered.
Kate closed her eyes and winced as she cleared her throat, then she stared at him and with a hoarse, wheezing rasp, spoke, "Thank you for coming."
He instinctively reached out, held her hand, and was gratified when she didn't pull away. "Kate, of course I came."
"How did you get here so quickly?"
Ever the detective.
"I was at the hospital for someone else," Angel said.
Kate's eyes widened. "Him?" she rasped. "Did he attack someone else?"
"No," Angel replied. "A friend is here for something unrelated. I received your text and came right up."
"You were wrong," she said. "The serial killer is a demon."
He opened his mouth to argue with her, then thought better of it. "Purple skin?"
The wound around her throat twisted grotesquely as she nodded in reply.
"Could you see anything else?" he asked. "Anything that might help me figure out who he is?"
Kate shook her head, then held her throat as she slowly spoke again, "Happened too fast, hit me too hard."
"Was he big?" Angel asked.
Kate shook her head.
"Regular sized?"
Kate again nodded.
Angel glanced over at the fallen pad. "I don't suppose you might be able to draw his face?"
She rolled her eyes before replying. "Can't draw." She shuddered in pain, then continued, "Copied hard drive and phone. Talked about you. Knew you, knew me, too. … from before, I think."
"Before what?"
Kate shrugged. "Don't know. I felt like …"
Angel leaned closer as Kate's voice grew soft and halting. "Felt like what, Kate?"
"Felt like I should know him."
Yeah, I know the feeling.
"Me, too," he said.
. . . . . . . . .
"No, I didn't ask Spike about Drusilla," Xander informed Angel as he opened his front door and walked inside. "Your text kind of slipped my mind while I was trying to comfort Oz on my way out of the hospital."
Emmy peeked her head over the couch with a worried look at Xander's mention of the word 'hospital,' then she nervously watched as he sat down on the couch next to her.
She mouthed the word hospital at him, and he quickly covered the cell phone's microphone. "It was Willow, but she and the baby both are fine." He pointed at the phone. "Just one second, I have to finish up with Angel." Xander resumed speaking into the cell, "You're sure the wards around the office and our homes will keep this guy out?"
Emmy was close enough that she could hear Angel answer in the affirmative.
"That's a relief," Xander replied.
Emmy waited impatiently for Xander to finish his conversation, then verbally pounced on him the moment he ended the call. "What happened with Willow?"
"Willow had an …" Xander hesitated and looked away before continuing, "an accident."
"An accident?"
"Yeah," Xander said. "There was a little bit of blood, and she was scared, but she's doing okay now. They're sending her home tomorrow."
"And what does any have to do with needing wards around where we live?"
"Different issue," Xander explained. "Remember that serial killer that a few months ago we thought was looking for Angel?"
"How could I forget?"
"Well, he attacked Detective Lockley today."
Emmy sat upright on the couch. "Oh my god, but she's alive?"
"She is," Xander replied. "And she was able to identify the killer as a demon." Xander gestured towards the street. "Since it's a demon, and apparently not a super-sized monstrosity version, those wards Willow put up last year and the ones Giles has been adding over the last few months will keep out any non-human 'with ill intent in his heart,' or something like that.
"That's reassuring," Emmy said as she snuggled against Xander and rested her slippered feet on the coffee table. "Are you still driving in with me tomorrow for that follow-up with Dr. Hu?"
"Not tomorrow," Xander replied. "I want to make sure Willow is fine … we'll have to reschedule."
Emmy tensed and opened her mouth to argue, but upon seeing the stubborn set of Xander's jaw, decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, Willow was in the hospital.
"Okay," she conceded. "But you are rescheduling, right?"
"Absolutely," Xander promised.
Emmy snuggled closer to Xander and glanced towards the downstairs guest bedroom. "Where's Faith? Another night on the town, or is she on patrol?"
Xander picked up the remote, stared vacantly at the television for a moment, then put it back it down. "I think Faith's having a bit of a tiff with a couple of her fellow slayers."
"Maybe we should have all of them over for some sort of get-together?" Emmy suggested. "Try to mingle?"
It took her a few moments to realize that Xander had begun to laugh.
. . . . . . . . .
"But Kate's going to be okay?" Buffy asked as Angel finished his glass of water.
He nodded and set the glass in the sink. "It doesn't look pretty, but she'll be fine."
"That's a relief," Buffy said. "And she's sure it was a demon?"
"Yup," Angel replied.
"All this time, haven't you been sure that it wasn't a demon?"
"Thank you for reminding me," Angel said.
"What now?" Buffy asked. "Since Kate got away, maybe he'll leave town?"
Angel shook his head. "I doubt he's going anywhere." He rubbed his eyes in frustration, then continued, "I feel like the answer as to why this demon has such a hard-on for revenge is right in front of me, and I'm just not seeing it."
She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight. "We have to do better."
Angel looked down at her in surprise. "Wow, way to kick a guy when he's down." Angel's voice took on a nagging, scolding tone. "What about all those girlpower articles on letting your man show his vulnerable side?"
"I'm not talking about this specifically," she said. "I mean in general we, meaning both of us, have to do better. Willow almost lost her baby trying to help me, we should have offered to have Giles ward Kate's apartment when she first got here …"
Angel interrupted her, "How would I know the serial killer who wants me dead would also target Kate? She and I haven't been together in years."
"You still should have offered to ward her place," Buffy said as she fixed him with a stony stare.
"She'd have said no."
Buffy lightly tapped Angel's chest then retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. "You still should have offered."
"But I thought the killer was a human!" Angel protested.
Buffy tilted her head at him and silently drank from the bottle of water.
She's right.
"I should have offered," Angel admitted.
Buffy put the water bottle on the counter and grinned in satisfaction. "Thank you for finally agreeing with me. The plain truth is that we're making too many mistakes."
"So how do we do better?" Angel asked. "We've got at least two teams on patrol every night, and I get so many voicemails asking for help from Moonridge Investigations that at this point I just delete them without listening."
"We start by not letting things slide," Buffy replied.
Angel shot her a quizzical look. "Like what?"
"We can start making sure we voice our concerns, for one thing," Buffy said as she looked up at Angel. "Tomorrow, I'm telling Willow and Oz to sell their shop, and the next time I see Dana and Jess, I will politely, but very strongly, inform them that their lack of cooperation isn't good for anyone." She took another sip of water. "I've got some wake-up calls to give other people, too."
"Dawn?" Angel asked.
Buffy grimaced and nodded. "Dawn most of all … we need to stop worrying about respecting boundaries if it's putting our people in danger, and we need to care more about keeping them safe than we do about giving them space."
Angel's solemn, considering stare continued for an uncomfortably long time before he spoke, "Should I hold you to that?"
"I absolutely hope that you do."
. . . . . . . . .
Richard Wilkins pursed his lips, shook his head in disappointment, and began stacking the myriad photographs of Faith Lehane spread across his desk. "If anything, I'm even more perplexed about what I ever saw in her," he informed Mindy as he set the stack of photos aside. "They need to keep digging … find some footage or pictures of her at an event where she might have been happy."
Mindy's hands trembled and her skin shone a particularly pale shade of silver as she replied, "I'll let them know."
Wilkins rapped his fingers on the table in irritated frustration. "Heck, I'd settle for some photographs of when she was younger." He gestured towards the stack. "Ms. Lehane looks too jaded in these, like she's already well on her way to being the cynical, world-weary creature that I met a few months ago." He clucked his tongue in disappointment. "High school age would be ideal … that's when this universe's version of me knew her, after all. If there's going to be spark of affection, or maybe even recognition, images from that era of her life would represent the best candidates."
Mindy resisted the urge to chew on her already well-gnawed fingernails. "The earliest photos we've found are during her incarceration, after she awoke from that coma."
"By then it was too late," Wilkins mused with a sigh. "The damage to her psyche was done."
He stood up, walked over to the window set in the stone of the castle wall, and stared out. "I'm putting a lot of faith on a mystical loophole, Mindy. You know that, right?"
"Research …" she stuttered, "… is absolutely positive that your predecessor in this universe established, for magical purposes, a link with Ms. Lehane sufficient to …"
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Mindy, I've been over it with the R&D boys a couple dozen times … I've seen their work, I trust their work, but it's always better to not play games with spell components, wouldn't you agree?"
"Maybe if you met Ms. Lehane?" Mindy suggested. "Casually, I mean, outside of work? Get some dinner and drinks, see if that helps?"
Richard Wilkins guffawed loudly. "I thought of her as a daughter, not as a drinking buddy or, heaven forbid, a romantic partner. What do you take me for, a miserable old lech?"
All of the luster vanished from the silver of Mindy's skin. "Of course not, sir, I'm sorry."
He turned from the window and smiled warmly. At the sight of the smile, Mindy fought to keep a crippling, numbing sense of terror from overwhelming her.
"I'm sure the auguries are right," he said, "but if I try to cross the threshold of the Stavkirke, and Faith Lehane isn't up to the role I need her to play, it isn't going to be pretty."
"It will work," Mindy said.
Please let it work.
Richard Wilkins turned back to staring through the window
"At least we'll have the Valknut soon."
"Have the Osbornes sold?" Mindy asked as she blinked in surprise. "I hadn't heard."
"They will," Wilkins assured her. "In the end, we didn't have to do anything to help them make their minds up, the recklessness of the Osborne witch will do the job for us."
"That's good news, sir."
"Have you seen Joshua?" Wilkins asked in a disarmingly benign tone.
Mindy froze in fear.
Don't lie. Whatever you do, don't lie.
When she spoke, her voice was a quavering squeak. "I'm not entirely sure," she lied.
"Mindy," Wilkins said in a slow, gravelly voice.
"I believe he may be patrolling near Dawn Summers's home again," Mindy squeaked. "Making sure that Mr. Aurum isn't causing any problems."
Richard Wilkins stared out the window in silence.
. . . . . . . . .
The clarion notes of a high-pitched voice startled Faith mid step. After fighting back the urge to retrieve a stake from her jacket pocket, she put her hands on her hips and fixed Todd Wells-Clarke with a piercing stare.
"Surprising a slayer is a great way to get shish-kebabbed. You'd think a Watcher would know that."
He smiled at her and spoke again in his reedy English accent, "Ms. Lehane, it has been far too long since you and I have had the pleasure of a face to face chat."
"I told you last time that Faith will do," she said as she glanced up at the condo that represented her destination. She made an educated guess as to why the next leader of the Watchers Council was wandering that particular street. "You were talking to Dana and Jess, weren't you?"
"Guilty as charged."
Faith stared at Mr. Wells-Clarke, she could never bring herself to think of him as 'Todd,' and appraised his appearance. He wore a fresh-pressed, tan suit, immaculately polished black loafers, and rimless spectacles that glittered in the moonlight. She also noticed that his once brown hair had gone almost entirely silver. "You're a Watcher visiting the home of three slayers," she said, "and you're wandering around, by yourself, without a weapon?" She admonishingly clucked her tongue at him. "Now, if you were a Potential, what should I say to you?"
"I imagine you'd be overjoyed that, after nearly two decades of searching, another Potential has finally been found." Upon seeing that Faith was not amused at his jape, Wells-Clarke pantomimed an embarrassed cough and shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose you are right. I should have been more cautious."
Faith decided to get right to the point. "What did you want? With Dana and Jess, I mean."
Wells-Clarke hesitated a moment before replying. "I was unhappy with the way things were left between the Council and the two of them, and I am even more unhappy with reports coming out of this town. I felt a clearing of the air would be a very good idea."
"Huh," Faith said. "Don't they have phones for that?"
"I might ask you the same question," Mr. Wells-Clarke replied, "since you appear to be making the same trek to their doorstep. What, might I ask, brought you here?"
"Personal stuff," Faith said as she crossed her arms. "Not slayer related."
He removed his glasses and began to clean them.
Is glasses-cleaning a tactic they're taught at 'Uptight Watcher Asshole Academy?'
"I know about Mrs. Osborne," he informed her.
Faith blinked a few times in surprise. "You did? Really? Might have been nice if you, Dana, and Jess had paid a visit."
"Do not be too hard on Dana and Jess about not joining you and Colleen at the hospital," Mr. Wells-Clarke said as he continued to wipe non-existent dirt off the lenses of his glasses. "Our conversation lasted for quite some time, and I was quite insistent that we finish it, regardless of circumstances."
"Regardless of 'circumstance?' Willow was in the hospital. Do the Watchers even care? Think of everything she has done for all of us, for the world."
Todd Wells-Clarke slipped the glasses back over the bridge of his nose. "We have arranged to pay for Mrs. Osborne's hospital bills, quietly, under the auspices of insurance coverage. Despite your intimation to the contrary, the Council is fully aware that we owe her a debt for…" he paused to consider his words carefully, "… shall we say, past services rendered?"
"Nice to know you care."
He leaned against a walkway railing and glanced away for a moment before continuing, "The Council has quietly provided financial and logistical support to slayers, the ones we can find, at least, and to Ms. Summers and her friends here in Moonridge." He pointed at Faith. "We have also assisted you from time to time, as well. Haven't you found it a little odd that for someone who has accumulated so many traffic violations, you never seem to have a bench warrant issued in your name after failing to appear in court?"
"That was you?!" Faith gasped.
"It was indeed."
"Well, thanks," she said in a mollified tone. "Since you're here, can I assume that maybe we'll be getting a little more support? As many slayers as you can send, we could use them."
Todd Wells-Clarke's expression grew serious, and his face was drawn as he replied, "Quite the contrary, Faith. Given what is happening here, we think it is more important than ever that the Watchers Council reaffirm its position that Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles, and all of the rest of their little … 'team' … cannot go it alone." His words were polished, precise, and in Faith's opinion, absolute bullshit. He continued, "Everyone needs to agree to Council oversight, or they cannot expect Council cooperation." He fixed her with a steely gaze that belied his prior geniality. "That includes you, Faith. I didn't want to send a messenger or use a cell phone, I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that this excursion has to end. Come back to us. Come home."
"Excursion? Oversight?" Faith asked as she raised an eyebrow at him. "I think you mean, 'do what we say.'" She shook her head dismissively. "Buffy hasn't been game for taking Council orders in a long, long time, and I don't think that's ever going to change."
"What about you?" he asked. "It's bad enough that you've stepped away this long, but you've dragged three other slayers with you. Faith, this isn't the way to go about helping to fight the good fight."
"If you cared about helping, you'd, you know, help," she said. "As in, stop insisting that everything be done our way, and just send us some fucking manpower."
"That's how people get killed," Todd Wells-Clarke said as he moved away from the railing and stood upright. "Our door remains open to you, Faith, always, but it is a door. Anyone who wishes to work with us will need to walk through it."
"Are Dana and Jess leaving?" she asked.
If they are, we're royally fucked.
His face looked oddly flinty and cold as he swiveled his gaze towards her. "Despite the colorful and frank language they utilize when speaking of you, they seem to hold you in quite high esteem."
"Saving people's lives will do that," she informed him. "Maybe try it sometime, before we all get killed down here trying to save the world."
"Do take care of yourself, Faith," he said. "I worry about you. Make Buffy Summers be reasonable … and be reasonable yourself."
"Tell Andrew I said hello," Faith replied.
"I most certainly will."
