"Come in." Mr. Trick looked up at the knock on his office door. Delilah stepped in and closed the door behind her. They stared at each other for a long second, the air crackling.

"I believe," Delilah said, "that I have some good news."

'Bout damn time," Trick grunted. "Whatcha got?"

Delilah took a deep breath. "Do you remember the report we got right Thanksgiving? The discovery from Syria?"

Trick leaned back. "Mmmm-hmmmm. Some piece of paper at an old monastery, if I remember."

Delilah nodded briskly. "It's taken a while, a lot of cloak-and-dagger shit, but we have confirmed that it is a directory of some sort. We're running final checks to dot every 'i' and cross every 't', but we are confident that it will confirm how many sections the objective has been divided into and, although we're less sure about this, give us a pretty good idea of where they are. We appear to be moving into the end game."

Trick smiled under hooded eyes. "That is nice. That is very nice. How is this-" he waved a hand to indicate the sound of the rain "-affecting the process?"

Delilah shrugged. "It's definitely slowing us down, but this is the key that breaks the code. If we're right, it's now about 'when', not 'if'."

Trick nodded. "I like the sound of that." He made a shooing motion with his hand. "And, Delilah?"

She turned, her hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Set up something nice for everybody. Even with God's own piss coming down, there should be something we can scare up."

She smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

"How long are we going to remain here?" Coyne asked. The Reverend turned a baleful glare upon his henchman. Coyne suppressed a shudder and conquered his instinct to step back. "Tempers are running hot. Maybe some time outside would cool things down."

"No." The Reverend turned away. "Until this plague passes, we do not walk abroad."

"A plague? It's rain. It's not holy water. Existing on rats is not good for morale. We-"

The Reverend turned from the window with a ferocious speed that caught Coyne by surprise. He felt the cartilage of his esophagus compress under the pressure of the Reverend's grip.

"Rain? Not holy water? You fool. This is so much older and stronger than anything you know or can imagine. To go abroad courts madness. We stay here." The Reverend was still for a long moment, then released Coyne's throat and stepped back. "If you are determined to test this, then go, but be aware that you will not be returning. This contagion cannot be brought among us."

Coyne gathered his wits. "Okay, but everyone's on a short fuse now."

The Reverend turned away. "It will get worse before it gets better."

Willow looked through the window into the ISS room. Tyler Pittman sprawled at a desk, his jug-eared head resting on his folded pipe-cleaner arms. Willow sighed, closed her eyes, and set her jaw. She counted slowly to five, then opened her eyes and twisted the doorknob, a smile pasted to her face.

The red Sebring rolled slowly up the street, throwing rooster tails of water up on either side. The rain roared and thundered on the car's roof; even with the wipers going full tilt, Cordelia could barely make out the garage door. She pressed the button on the opener and a black rectangle slowly appeared in the runny gray silhouette. She pulled in and the decibel level dropped immediately. She killed the engine and skirted the Jag and the Lexus as she splashed through the run-off.

"Mom? Dad?" she called as she kicked off her rubber boots in the mud room. She listened for a reply as she hung her wet jacket on a peg. She heard nothing. "Great," she muttered.

Cordelia stepped into the kitchen and immediately slipped on a half-melted ice cube. She caught herself and gave a disgusted shake of her head. "Great, Mom," she whispered. She looked around the kitchen. A bowl containing melting ice cubes sat on the counter. Queen C blew out a breath and went into the dining room. It was empty. She trekked through all the rooms in the house: all empty. She ended up outside her parents' bedroom. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was dark, but a thin line of light leaked out under the door to the en suite bath. Cordelia knocked on the bathroom door. "Mom?" she called. "Mom?" There was no answer. She closed her eyes and reluctantly pushed on the door.

"Well, maybe I should get injured. See if they send me a teacher like you."

Xander stifled a groan. "Mom. Let Mr. Warner in and stop… whatever it is you're doing."

Jessica looked over her shoulder at her son. "I'm just being polite. Maybe if the teachers had looked like him, I woulda been more interested in school."

Xander rubbed his free hand over his eyes. "Mom, he's right there. He can hear you."

Jessica harrumphed and turned back to the door. "These kids. No sense of humor." She cast a withering glare at her son. "I'll let you two get to the books. Call me if you need me I'll be in the kitchen." She stalked out of the room.

"Mom, the kitchen's that way… never mind." Xander plastered a smile over his mortified countenance. "Sorry about that."

Stefan Warner stepped in from the porch, trailing a considerable amount of water as he did so. As he looked for a place to put his jacket, he took a look at the Harris boy. On his best days, the kid was something of a shambles, but now…

Xander had lost weight; his clothes swamped his frame. Never the stereotype of a California beach boy, he was even paler than usual. His skin had a papery look, and his hair was greasy. The cast on his arm looked huge and heavy. As Warner unshouldered his book bag, the boy struggled to his feet, his bad knee augmented by a metal crutch.

"So," Warner said into the awkward silence, "how are you doing?"

Xander shrugged. "I feel like I got run over by a train. Oh, wait, that's right. I did get run over by a train."

Warner nodded. "It was a dumb question. I'll spot you that." He hefted the book bag. "Ready to get started?"

"Sure." Xander gestured to a chair. "Let's begin our latest futile crusade."

Warner unsnapped the bag. "Attitude is important."

"You're going out tonight?" Joyce stood in front of the door, hands on her hips.

"Yeah. It sucks, but patrol doesn't wait." Buffy gestured toward the window. She was dressed in an enormous yellow raincoat. Matching rubber boots reached nearly to her knees. "Although this could make it easier. After all, it'll be easier to kill the undead while they're laughing at me."

Joyce shook her head. "If you're going out in this, you're going to be prepared, although I think that patrol is not meant for nights like this."

"Mom, it's exactly for nights like this." Buffy pointed toward sheeting water hammering the window. "This isn't just rain. Do you really think this is just a storm? This is weirdness, and when weirdness rears its head, I deal."

"Come hell or high water."

The Slayer's mouth quirked. "I never thought the high water part would get here first." She hefted her duffel bag. "Well, trust the Gorton's fisherman."

"Don't be out too late."

Buffy giggled in spite of herself. "Mom, I have to give it to you. You make slaying feel boring."

Willow flinched and tried to concentrate on the passage in front of her. The sound or vibration or whatever it was made it impossible to focus. It hovered at the edges of her consciousness, which was bad enough, but the way it kept coalescing, coagulating into almost-something and then breaking apart was maddening.

She threw down her pencil and thrust her hands into her hair. She breathed heavily, slowly, willing herself to calm down. She looked across the room and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over her dresser.

The thought hit her like a train. Was it possible? Could it be done? She shook her head. It was worth a try. The present situation could not continue. Willow got up slowly and crossed the room. She kept her eyes on her image in the mirror as she reached the dresser and drifted down, resting her hands on the worn grain. She leaned forward, staring intently, blocking out the periphery of her vision, looking into the reflection of her eyes, only her eyes, until they filled her vision. She stared through-

She slipped. There was a vertiginous instant, and she was there, there in the gray shapeless roiling wherever. She, whatever form she was there, reeled and began to fall away, and then…

The rain. It was still there, not the same, but something she could recognize, something she could hold onto. As she wobbled in that strange non-place, Willow recognized the sound. It was part of the rain, the heart of the rain. It gave the rain meaning. Flashes of color, pale pinks and steel-blues began to flicker in and out view, but the flashes seemed to be outlining something. Willow leaned forward (or thought she did), trying to make them out-

She fell back onto the floor of her bedroom with a heavy thump. Woozy, she lifted her head and glanced drunkenly around the room. "Excuse me," she said to no one, "I have to pass out now."

And she did.

The lightning was close, so huge it lit the room with a blue cast for a split-second. The booming crash of thunder was almost simultaneous. The aftermath of the blinding flash created left a shadow burned on the retina; someone was on the front porch. Matti Hollis frowned and slipped a knife under her sweatshirt as she wondered who it could be. Unless it was Stefan, it was probably someone up to no good. She touched the knife at the small of her back. Assured that she could reach it quickly, she set her feet and yanked open the door.

Cordelia Chase stood on the porch. She was drenched to the bone and shivering. Water ran off her hair and dripped from the saturated jacket she wore. Her pants were plastered to her legs and sagged from the weight of trapped water. Even on the porch, under some semblance of shelter, a run-off puddle collected at Cordelia's feet. Hollis looked past the girl, searching for a car at the curb or in the drive. She saw none.

"Girl, what are you doing out there on a night like this?"

Cordelia lifted her head and a chill raced through Matti Hollis; the girl's eyes were blank and dull, staring at nothing.

"Cordelia," Matti said, "are you all right?"

The former queen of Sunnydale High stumbled back a step.

"Cordelia." Matti packed as much command as she dared into her voice. The girl stopped, dazed as she swayed slightly. Matti spoke very slowly. "What… is... wrong?"

The girl's face crumpled. Tears flooded her eyes and coursed down her pale face, distinct even against the rain. She made a sound halfway between a gasp and a hiccup, then lurched headlong across the threshold as Matti stepped forward. She extended her hands by instinct as Cordelia collapsed against her. Matti wrapped the girl up in her arms, feeling Cordelia's convulsive shaking. Matti realized that the girl was sobbing, incoherently mumbling into the teacher's sweatshirt. Matti shifted slightly, trying to make out the words.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Cordelia repeated over and over.

"It's okay, it's okay," a confused Matti Hollis said in her most soothing voice, holding her weeping student. She waited for the sobs to subside, but they didn't. Matti became aware that her own clothing was absorbing the excess of Cordelia's water-logged ensemble. She tried to disengage, but Cordelia grabbed handfuls of her sweatshirt and clung to Hollis. Unwilling to physically break free, the teacher awkwardly held the stricken girl and hoped that the knife hidden at the small of her back would not fall out onto the floor.

Matti had no idea how long they stood there, but her arms were numb and her legs quivering when the shaking and crying finally ceased. She started to step back, then realized that Cordelia was dead weight. The teacher cautiously tilted the girl's head back. Cordelia's face was slack, her eyes closed. her breathing rapid but regular. Matti shifted her weight and scooped Cordelia up in her arms. The teacher staggered for a step, then steadied herself and headed toward the spare room.