Chapter One
Two years later...
By the light of the lamp on the table, Dawn turned a page in the novel. Daughter. The word arose from the page like a phoenix. Dawn snapped the book closed. Her chest felt tight. She blinked, unsure of where the uneasy feeling had originated.
"Dawn?" Xander glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "You okay?" He cocked his head, looking at the spine of the book she held. "Jane Austin too much for you?" Without waiting for a response he shuddered. "I know the feeling, I had nightmares about it for weeks."
"'Bout what?" Willow strode into earshot, holding a stack of leather-bound books she had just finished compiling from the back of the Magic Box.
"Austin." Xander responded.
"Powers?" Willow asked, eyebrows raised.
"Jane." Xander corrected, eliciting a shudder from the redheaded witch.
"English Lit. doesn't discriminate, unfortunately," Dawn informed them, ignoring the uneasy feeling she had succeeded in suppressing. "Jane for everyone."
"Spread the horror," nodded Xander "education should be outlawed. We doesn't need no learnings."
"Well if you'd like a change," offered Willow, setting the stack on the table, "maybe you could help me go through this reference material."
"Ah, reference material," Xander smiled, "second only to the index in excitement."
"I like research," Dawn argued, selecting the top volume. For effect, she blew the dust off the spine. "Even if I am researching... The Soul and Eternities in Hell by.. Some name beginning with an H..." she squinted, "I think."
"What's this for, if I might inquire?" Xander asked, frowning, selecting the next tome.
"Well," began Will hopefully, "what with all this talk of... miscellaneous characters retrieving souls from who knows where, I realized just how little we actually know about the mystical mechanism which comes into play at death, specifically, that which determines the destination of the soul in question."
"According to this," Dawn responded, engrossed in her book, "'The soul is an entity, devoid of moral or ethical responsibilities, but which becomes the indestructible cartouche of the actions and inactions of the individual.'"
"See?" Will offered, "learning, fun, yes?"
Xander squinted, his head to one side. "What's a cartouche?"
"'Furthermore,'" Dawn continued, the enthusiasm initially still present, but waning, "'the soul is that entity which, upon the moment of death, fulfills its single active responsibility, which is to review the life it has observed and allow the individual to experience the..." she paused for a moment, her voice losing any semblance of good humor, "...to experience the hell that is the inevitable result of all human action.'"
"Wow," Xander's eyes were melodramatically wide. "What a tragic individual. I wonder where he is now?"
"Th-that's only one interpretation," Willow argued, "listen to this," she read from the book open in front of Xander. "'The soul: that which transgresses the body and abides in a state of eternal bliss or sorrow, depending on the nature of the individual who possessed it.' See? Not so bad."
"Yeah but look at this," Xander pointed to the following sentence, "'The soul is a fragile form, partial to demonic or otherwise evil influence. If an individual's life is marred by an act of pure and vivid evil, the soul will be condemned upon the individual's death to serve in an eternal hell of equally pure and vivid agony.' Lovely." Xander grimaced. "They know just how I like my agony."
"'A-Acts of evil which result in damnation..." continued Willow, a disturbed edge in her voice, "include adultery, theft, murder of any kind-' this guy's a quack," she objected. "Who would consider theft a damnable act of pure and vivid evil?"
"Wait, it get's better," Xander grinned now that his book was giving everyone the willies. "'...murder of any kind, suicide or attempted suicide, the practicing of demonic rituals or the summoning of spirits of less than divine origin,'" he chuckled "'including the practicing or condoning of witchcraft.'"
"Hey!" Willow closed the book before the grinning Xander could continue. "That's not funny!"
"What're you yelling at me for? The quack has spoken! Fear the words of the quack!"
Dawn, meanwhile was reading further in her own faded reference. Finally she spoke up. "'The death of the individual marks the irreversible condemnation of the soul to a perpetual state of regret for things left undone and shame for things ill done, intentional or otherwise. The varying degrees of human hell range from the incomparable agony experienced by the soul of a form of utter evil, to the quiet sadness experienced by the soul of an innocent child-' this guy is sick!" Dawn winced, looking up from the book. "He thinks children who die go to hell because they will forever regret not living to adulthood, which, by the way, would just lead them to a worse hell for not having died younger."
"There's like a whole flock of quacks in here," Xander mused. "Is that the right term? Flock of quacks? Maybe gaggle."
"Gag is more like it," Dawn corrected, reading more. "It says here 'the only souls to escape the misery to come are those who have achieved spiritual enlightenment while alive, and have come to be at peace with that which they have done and will never do. Unborn children also do not experience hell, as it is not within their capacity to understand the nature of what they have lost. All things demonic which are allotted a mortal span are inherently without soul, thus their deaths result in their return from the nothingness from which they sprang.'"
"Who sprang from the whatnow?" Buffy walked in, a towel over her shoulders, her sleeveless shirt showing the smallest bit of exertion sweat. Giles, not far behind, looked considerably more exerted.
"We're exploring the views of the soul in a book written by a quack, spelled with an H." Xander informed them. "So far, we've gathered that everyone's going to hell, except foetuses and Buddha."
"Is that so?" Buffy, having spent several months dead, inquired. "I wouldn't mind having a discussion with this quacky H guy."
"There's more," Dawn said, insistently, "'the last category of living entities, Specters, are defined as all living, corporeal forms of natural tendencies other than those of evil, but devoid of souls. These beings, though few and far between, include repentant demons, humans who have been robbed of their souls, and those who have been conjured.'" She stopped, silent and reflective for a moment. The others held their breaths, waiting to jump in with 'he's a quack,' but Dawn continued. "'These beings are allowed the same fate as their evil cousins-'" she broke, just for an instant, "'-and are condemned to nothingness upon the instant of their death.'"
There was a very pointed, eggshell silence for a moment or so. Finally Xander spoke up. "Speaking of quacks, has anyone seen Spike?"
"Dawn," Buffy slid a hand around her sister's shoulder. "I hope you're not basing anything on this nutbag."
"Buffy is right," Giles affirmed. "It would be in the poorest form as a researcher to base anything on solely one source. You would need first to check the author's credentials, to see if he is... what we might call a quack. Then cross reference his material with other source material before drawing any conclusions."
"Not really helping," Buffy warned. She turned back to the teenager, still reading the text. "You know better than anyone the junk that any old wanna-be prophet can jot down in a leather bound book for kicks. Besides, I guarantee there are a dozen contradicting texts in this stack alone," she patted the still hefty tower of dusty leather.
"You don't have to worry about me," Dawn managed an entirely convincing dismissive laugh. "You've been to heaven and back and you're a total jerk."
Buffy took the jibe in turn. "Well, then you've got nothing to worry about. Except my wrath, if I ever catch you going through my closet again."
"As soon as it contains at least one article of my clothing," Dawn defended, "it becomes joint territory."
Just then, the small bell above the door chimed as Spike strolled in. "Evening," he said, "just thought you blokes might want to know, there's a large spider-like thing roamin' n' ransackin'... the whole deal." He sighed contentedly, drawing his shoulders back and angling his head to one side with a satisfying crack. "Well, I'll be off then, just given' you lot fair warning." And he headed out, raising the collar on his black leather duster. "Ooh, chilly in'it?" And he was gone again into the night.
"Spider-like thing?" Xander asked. "I think that's new."
"New or old, it's splatter on the newspaper when I get to it," Buffy dashed away from the table, leaving her towel in Giles's capable hands. When she had retrieved a sizable axe, she headed for the door, paused and looked at the bunch still sitting by the bookshelf. "Are you coming or not?"
"Sure!" Xander leapt to his feet, dashing for the weapons trunk, Giles likewise followed.
"Will?" Buffy asked, eyebrows up.
"Mmm... not me, thanks, I hate spiders. So crawly, and in this case, large and terrifying." She shuddered and returned to reading.
"Suit yourself," And the three armed, dashed out the door.
Dawn, meanwhile, knowing full well she wasn't even invited, reached for another book.
"Dawn, listen to this;" Willow was at her computer screen, the preferred method of research. "It says here that the soul is an inherently good being, requiring nothing short of full demonic conversion to taint it. That's not so depressing, now is it?"
"Not as depressing as this: 'those beings created through the manipulation of magical essences for purposes either good or evil are non-entities in the eyes of fate and are not the subject of prophecies, as they do not host souls, and they are therefore not players in the acts of life, good or evil.'" She had tried to keep the sarcasm in her voice throughout, but it had failed somewhere without her realizing it. Having been created herself as a human form to hide an ancient power, the Key, from a hell god, Dawn saw an unhappy line of reasoning forming in her own mind. She was aware that Willow was now standing at her shoulder, squeezing through her thick sweater. She continued to read. "'Furthermore, the children of Specters, having been sired by one or more beings without souls, will likewise be Specters, and will fall from consequence, playing no part in the battle between the forces of darkness and those opposing them.'" Not quite sure how to react to something like that, Dawn remained silent. This was the third independent author to describe Specters in a similar manner. Dawn had a feeling that without some sort of intervention, the tiny bubble of uncertainty about her own nature which resided inside her, would soon swell to a gaping chasm that would swallow her whole.
Sensing this, Willow shrank to her knees, facing Dawn as she sat, staring blankly into the witch's eyes. "Dawn, listen to me. You are unique. There are just as many wackos out there who would say that witches all burn for eternity in a fiery pit, in fact there are probably more references to that than to Specters. Considering I've never even heard of a Specter-"
Dawn listened to the speech, but did not hear most of it. She was too busy thinking about an image which had just forced its way into her mind. An old lady, sitting in a floral chair, knitting. A fire crackled in a fireplace. A young woman and two small boys were in the room also. The boys were playing by their grandmother's feet. They looked up into their grandmother's eyes, and as she looked down at them, as she looked into their tiny innocent eyes...
"Don't worry about me," Dawn dismissed, not as convincingly as before. "I don't believe a word of it. Before this there was a chapter on the uses of earthworms in curing the plague," she lied. As if to give her words credence, she closed the book before her and stood. Willow also stood.
"I think I'm gonna get some air," Dawn started towards the door.
"Do you think you should be out there while that big nasty is on the loose?" Willow asked as Dawn opened the door.
"I'm not afraid of spiders," she smiled, turning back to Willow, "besides, I'm just going to stand right outside the door-"
"Dawn!" The distant warning from Buffy came too late as the long hair covered leg thrust its way into the lit store, pinning Dawn against the door. It was followed by a hideous head covered with beady eyes, glittering with iridescent mucus. The mandibles on the lower part of the head closed deftly around the stunned teenager and before she could utter more than a squeak of fright it swept her out into the street.
"Dawn!" Without even pausing at the weapons chest, Willow stumbled around the table and raced out into the street after her. By the time she had located the hulking mass of hairy spider, Buffy had raced down the street on the other side and was on top of it. She clambered up its back like it was a circus elephant and at first tried taking swings at its thick knobby abdomen hide, but when it ducked its head low and Buffy heard Willow shriek, she raced towards the creature's head and lodged the axe firmly between a pair of eyes.
The spider hissed and staggered to one side. Buffy had to squat low on its back to keep from falling off, but raised the axe for a second, third and fourth stroke. By the time its legs had given out, it was impaled on many sides by both Xander and Giles's weapons. It released a final quivering hiss and then was silent.
Buffy sighed in satisfaction and easily jumped down off the hairy carcase, only to see Willow crouching by a prone figure. Instantly, Buffy raced forward, her heart pounding as she heard Willow's quiet crying. She knelt to the side of Dawn's motionless body, the four dagger sized spider fang marks in her shoulder and chest already filled with blood. But the blood was not flowing.
Buffy couldn't breath. She didn't know how they all got back into the Magic Box, but she knew she never took her eyes off her sister's unblinking gaze. An unbearably painful memory welled up inside her. Joyce was lying on the couch at an awkward angle, her face pale, her eyes locked in an unblinking stare with the ceiling. "Mommy?"
Then there were candles. Giles and Xander were in the shadows, watching. Everywhere there were candles, flicking, dancing. Dawn lay among them, in the center. Buffy knelt to one side, Willow to the other. Willow chanted. She had managed to stop crying, managed to keep her voice steady enough to get the words out.
Buffy listened but she heard almost none of it. Something about Osiris and a boat. Something about darkness. Buffy at last closed her eyes to make the dry stinging go away. She felt the heat of a tear running down each cheek. It wasn't supposed to go this way. Buffy was supposed to look after her little sister. To protect her. But with her eyes closed, she felt none of the comfort of her own mind, none of the power or inner strength she possessed was there when she called it. She was a little girl, alone, with no family. She hadn't even said I love you. With a hand across her face, among the dancing candles and shadows as Willow chanted, farther away than she had ever been, Buffy cried. She doubled over taking Dawn's hand in hers, clasping it tightly. Warming it with her cheek, with her tears.
Finally, as the pitch of Willow's voice grew to a desperate entreaty to the gods, the candles flared brightly and it sank into Buffy's consciousness what Willow was trying to do. She took in a breath, to say something, anything to her best friend, when the hand squeezed back.
Buffy jumped, nearly knocking over a candle as Dawn's eyes fluttered open, her wounds gone, her breath regular. Without hesitation or consideration for her sister's condition, Buffy lifted Dawn to her by the shoulders and hugged her tight.
"Don't you ever do that again!" She sobbed as she embraced tighter.
"I'm sorry," Dawn managed weakly, with all the breath she could draw in Buffy's tight embrace. "I won't, I'm sorry," she closed her eyes and hugged back.
Willow sighed heavily and collapsed into Xander's arms. Giles went about blowing the candles out.