Herve Calderon pressed the button on his key and watched the lights flash on his BMW. He had to walk a good sixty feet across the parking lot, but he always parked a little farther away from the building on the assumption that people shoving to get a close parking space were people more likely to ding his precious Beemer.

And at the price he'd quoted for his latest tender of service, he would be able to afford an upgrade soon. Calderon was both grateful for and dismissive of the well-to-do obsessives who were willing to pay to have their apocalyptic itches scratched. It was certainly easier than organizing student archaeological digs.

He opened the driver's side door, tossed his briefcase onto the back seat, and was bending down to climb behind the wheel when a tremor crawled up his spine. He straightened abruptly and looked around the parking lot; the sun hovered just above the horizon and long shadows smeared across the concrete. His eyes slid along the bush-lined fringes of the lot, from the parts still in sunshine to the shadowed recesses at the far end. Nothing untoward was visible, no movement caught the periphery of his vision, but the tickle along his brain stem remained active. He stared for a few more moments, but no assailant materialized. Finally, he tamped down the unsettling sensation and got into the car, moving somewhat awkwardly as he tried to enter without taking his eyes off the growing shadows. Finally settled, he fired the ignition and pulled away, tires chirping slightly as he pressed the accelerator harder than intended.


"Good news," Delilah said, a smile decorating her lovely features. "We have a definite window of arrival." She placed a yellow slip on Trick's desk. "Middle of next month, roughly four weeks."

Trick picked up the form and scanned it. "Well, well," he purred, "that is fortuitous. Any word from the Mayor's flunkie about the other little problem?"

Delilah looked at the legal pad in her hand. "The professor is working on similar texts–"

"Similar? What's similar? We won't even know what we've got until we've got it."

Delilah nodded. "I asked that very question. Apparently, there is a market for this sort of thing, rich men wanting a ceremony that makes whatever trinket they've purchased seem more otherworldly, so there's a body of literature about it. What the professor is doing, if I understand correctly–"

"Which you better."

Delilah's knees buckled for a second. "-if I understand correctly, is looking through other rituals of broadly this type so that, when we have a copy of our text, he will be able to compare its structure to existing ones in order to speed up the translation process."

Trick nodded. "Okay. How's the surveillance detail?"

"A team of four picks him up when he leaves the campus, another four watch his house."

"Good. We don't want anything happenin' to our bouncing baby boy." He looked up as Delilah tarried. "Yes?"

"Well, sir… I don't want to seem pushy here…"

"Girl, you don't learn if you don't ask. Fire away."

"Isn't this professor sort of unnecessary? Doesn't this just make everything more complicated?"

Trick held up a hand. "You're asking why we don't just transliterate that shit and read it ourselves?" She nodded. "Excellent question, remember this answer for future reference. You can't perform a spell or ritual phonetically, not unless it's been specifically structured that way. You know, like booby-traps that trigger when someone speaks an everyday phrase?"

Delilah nodded again and Trick continued. "Real magic always has intent, Just saying the words isn't enough… you have to understand them. That's why we've always got a couple of people fluent in Latin, it covers mosta that shit. Don't have anybody who reads or speaks Hebrew though, so we got to cover our bases."

She pursed her lips. "But… if he's just doing it for money, doesn't that kind of… negate that aspect."

"You smart, girl, don't ever let anybody tell you different. He may not know that it's real, but he understands that language, and his reading will communicate the intent. Now, if he was the only cracker there, yeah, it's just a wet fart, but… the Mayor knows it's real, and I know it's real. Between everybody, we're gold." Trick smiled and pointed a finger at the female vampire. "You might be due for a promotion after all this is over."


Buffy shook her arms and ran her fingers through her hair. Ash sloughed off her black pea coat and floated to the ground as she grimaced and brushed her hands over the fabric. She had staked three vamps tonight, and all in close quarters. She felt a bit of grit on her tongue and spat, then rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand.

She was bone-tired and grubby. She was done with patrolling, and there was still time to get a good night's sleep, but it was Friday…

She slapped the sleeves of her coat again. "I wonder who's at the Bronze?"


It turned out Dingoes was at the Bronze. A nice crowd filled the dance floor and most of the tables were occupied. Buffy took a half-dozen steps inside the venue and did a double-take. A long folding table was set up along the back wall. Stacks of T-shirts were folded neatly on the top, and Xander stood behind it. He wore a gray T-shirt over his dark long-sleeved T. The gray shirt had a line drawing of a vaguely canine figure wearing sunglasses and playing an electric guitar. 'Dingoes" was written over the drawing, 'Ate My Baby' beneath. Willow had pulled a chair from a table and sat beside the table. She looked over, saw the Slayer, and offered a grin and a wave. Buffy wandered over to the table, perplexed.

"What is this?" she asked.

"I'm working the merch table." Willow's eyes sparkled.

"Actually, I'm working the merch table. You're providing moral support," Xander said.

Willow shrugged. "Moral support means I figure out the correct change."

"Hey, I resent that. I specifically priced these so that I didn't have to do any math." Xander leaned over the table and held out a hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Hey, buddy, no time for looky-loos. There are people who wanna spend money behind you, so either pick out a shirt or move along." The target of his instruction, a skinny boy who appeared to be about fourteen, curled his lip and moved on. "Wow, some attitude on that kid."

"You're being very robber-barony there," Buffy said, taking off her coat.

"Yeah, well, it turns out I have a strong late-capitalist streak when some of my cash is in the deal. Ladies!" Xander called out to two attractive girls walking past. "You guys need a T-shirt?" The girls strolled over. Both were brunettes, but one had light streaks in her hair. "Tell you what," Xander said, "normally these bad boys are ten bucks each, but I'll sell you two for ten if you agree to put 'em on now and wear 'em the rest of the night." He held up two shirts, one black, one white, with the logo from the head of Geoff's bass drum.

"We get a shirt for half price if we wear it now?" Blonde-streaks asked.

"Yeah, whadda ya say?" Moments later, a ten dollar bill went into the cash box and the girls walked away with two shirts.

"Uh, I don't think cheap T-shirts are gonna get you dates, Xan," Buffy said.

"Oh, you, thinking I'm that shallow." Xander shrugged. "I mean, I am that shallow, but not in this case. Those two ladies walk around the floor in those shirts, that little twerp who was here before and every one of his buddies will be begging me to sell 'em a shirt for fifteen dollars."

Buffy frowned. "I'm not sure I like this P.T. Barnum version of you." She turned toward the stage. "They sound good."

"Yeah, Oz is very happy. He says they're really finding their own voice." Willow bounced in her seat.

Buffy leaned against the wall. "So, are you guys…"

"I don't know. I'm happy for the band. I'm happy for Oz, I know it's important to him… but I wouldn't say everything's the way it was… before." Willow lifted a shoulder and kinked one corner of her mouth. "How about you?"

"Oh, I've been out…" Buffy made a quick up-and-down motion with her fist. A male voice from the crowd yelled "Wooooooo!"

Xander pointed a warning finger at the offender. "Hey, Ryan, that's enough of that. Cheap innuendo is my thing."

The Slayer sighed. "I'm frustrated. Slaying's always kind of a treadmill, evil being self-replenishing and all, but this… this is grinding me down. You'd think two vampire cliques fighting each other would make the job easier, but neither one's avoiding civilians, so instead of sitting on the sidelines and rooting for injuries, I'm covering myself with ash right and left."

Willow pursed her lips. "That does sound grim."

"Worse, I know something's coming, but I don't know what. The Master, yeah, bad news, but I knew what and where he was. Spike… Spike was pretty much a vampire cliche… head full of romantic bullshit and high on his own supply, dangerous, yeah, but pretty predictable, and…" Her chin quivered, and she clenched her fists until her fingers numbed. Willow reached out and grabbed the Slayer's forearm. The wave of emotion crested and crashed over Buffy, ripping and pulling at her, but it passed, and she still stood. "Even the plan to resurrect Acathla was pretty standard stuff, resurrect a demon that'll swallow the world… that's evil plot number 7A."

She blinked and scrunched her nose. Willow patted her arm. "It's okay," the teenage witch said.

Buffy nodded. "I'm just saying, an iceberg in the right place could solve all of this." She slid down the wall until her head was level with Willow's. "I mean, what's the Mayor's end game? If his plan works, what happens? Is he gonna bring demons into Sunnydale? Will he cross over into hell? Is it possible that nobody will notice anything except we have to elect a new mayor?"

Willow made a skeptical face. "I don't think that's an option.

Buffy tapped herself lightly on the forehead. "You're right," she murmured. "Nobody ever does this to fade away."

Willow leaned toward the Slayer. "Maybe you should take a timeout. Wanna dance?"

Buffy nodded. "I think I do."

They took to the floor for the rest of the set, and Buffy worked up a fine sweat. When the final notes of the last song faded away, her hair stuck to her neck and forehead and she was glad she'd worn a shirt with sleeves. Willow's dancing was more sedate; her cheeks were flushed, but no moisture beaded her brow. They headed back toward the merch table, where Xander was busy handing out shirts and collecting money.

Buffy stopped and stared, her lips pursed. "This is randomness, but seeing Xander as a T-shirt mogul sort of soothes me. It's like a confirmation that it's not just me, the world really is upside down."

"Yeah," Willow said, "all he needs is a goatee."


Buffy closed the gate behind her and crossed the tiles to Giles's front door. She took a deep breath and pounded her fist on the door, then stepped back and ran a hand through her hair while stifling a yawn. She had thrown on a red-and-gray plaid flannel, old but worn in just right, and a pair of olive-drab sweatpants with cargo pockets. It seemed the perfect outfit for a visit at an ungodly hour. The door opened a crack and one lens of a familiar pair of glasses peered out.

"God, Giles, paranoid much? What did you think, evil comes calling this early on a Saturday? Please." The door opened wider and Buffy's eyes widened at the sight of her Watcher. "Giles, are you wearing a… T-shirt?"

"Yes, well, I haven't been up very long."

"Tell me about it." Buffy pointed over his shoulder. "Are you gonna invite me in or are you suddenly afraid I'm a vampire, which I'm obviously not because, sun is up, and if I were I'd be sleeping in on the weekend."

"Yes, yes." Giles stepped back and opened the door wide. "I'm sorry, I'm just flummoxed. Why are you here?"

The Slayer put her hands on her hips and glared. "You haven't been at school for two days and I haven't heard a peep. I'm peepless. Are you sick? Are you hurt? Oh God, do you see what you've done? You've turned me into my mom."

"What? I'm so sorry, I… I quite lost track… You are right, I… there is no…"

Buffy's eyebrows drew together. "Giles, are you having a stroke?"

The librarian shook his head. "No, I just… I've been researching and lost track of time." He ran his hands through his hair, which was already in disarray and now bore a marked resemblance to a WW2 hedgerow. "I called the school, but, I'm so sorry, I forgot to call you."

The Slayer's expression softened. "It's okay. I was just worried about you." She sighed. "Next time, let's shoot for a point midway between Smothering Street and Abandonment Avenue, okay? Maybe Benign Neglect Drive?"

"You're right, you're quite right." Giles took a deep breath and seemed to snap into focus. "But I'm glad you're here. There are some things we need to talk about, so, if you will give me a minute to get dressed–"

"Giles, you're wearing regular pants and… slippers? How much more dressed do you need to be? I've already dealt with the trauma of seeing you in a T-shirt." Movement in the doorway to the kitchen caught the Slayer's eye. She pivoted, fists coming to ready.

"You?" she said. "Why are you here?"


Willow arranged the laptop atop her desk, making sure it was very close to the edge, then shifted her chair as close to the desk as possible. She still wasn't able to navigate well without being tethered, so everything needed to be very close for the experiment.

She looked at the computer, weighing possible outcomes. If this went badly, and she fried the motherboard, she was sure her parents would not be pleased; maybe she could convince them that HP had used faulty hardware. Still, there was no way to learn but by doing, so she picked up the hand-held mirror and…

She was accustomed to her room's appearance in the Never Never; she'd gone there often enough. The laptop sat on the desk, its case a brilliant black crackle and the screen composed of lighter gray sparkles. She reached out slowly (she still thought of it as reaching, although her actual physical body didn't seem to move) and stopped, feeling the vibrations of the computer's potential energy. She waited, hoping to bring herself into a sort of sympathetic state. She hesitated as long as she dared, then pushed in. The pixels of the case grew larger, gaps appeared between them, gaps that pulsed with a low, dull throb. She looked between the gaps and there it was. She had no words to describe it, but she knew, she knew this was the spot. She studied it for a moment, then pushed

A dazzling brilliance flared around her, and she zoomed out. The formerly blank screen was lit up, dazzling the eye with shifting colors and racing electronic blips and whorls. She threw up her arms–

And barely caught herself as her chair teetered on two legs. Willow returned to upright and held her breath–

And there was the home screen, bright and clear. Adrenaline flooded her system and Willow pumped both fists over her head for real.