Chapter 4
Unnoticed, even by his own kind, Spike padded through the darkness. Slipping between the trees and tombs as perfectly and silently as a shadow following its maker, he disturbed not a blade of grass and startled no creature with his passing. The very moon was ignorant of his presence. It felt good. Power, like fire, rolled through his guts, his limbs, and once again he was a Lord - no, fuck it, he was a King. He bared his fangs at the night. Imagined sinking them into something hot and squirming. Shivered with the thought. Rrrrrr... Oh yeah, he was back; he was bloody well back all right! Spike. William the Bloody. Plunderer of China. Killer of Slayers. All these things and more. He was the Beast. He was the wild thing that crouched, quiet and deadly, at the heart of the blackest myth.
A bloody savage untameable monster, yeah!
He spotted a pair of Undead working the south entrance and paused to watch them pounce on a pair of lovebirds strolling passed the gates. Proudly vamped out and rushing their Prey in roaring glory, they had to chase them half way down the block before he saw all four go down in a thrashing of limbs. The screams were piercing; almost drowning out the heavy bass snarling that accompanied it. He could hear it though. As clear as a fucking bell. He shivered. It was a less subtle and refined method than he preferred, but bloody hell if he hadn't felt its power in his very marrow.
He remembered hunting like that himself, when he had been much younger and bloody death was new. That night, so long ago, when Drusilla had saved him from Angelus and unleashed him on an unsuspecting London. That first kill. Dru's squeal of proud delight. His own preening swagger afterwards. And then fucking like wild things in the mess left behind. All fangs and claws and nastiness.
That night had seemed to go on forever. Rollicking and rambling around the old city, getting stoned on death and destruction and becoming the wild animal that he could feel snarling inside once again. He remembered bringing his princess tokens of his love and gratitude, torn fresh from still kicking Prey, just how she liked. He remembered the blood, like the finest silk, that covered her lips. He remembered biting at those lips...
Oh yeah.
He wanted those feelings back.
He wanted them now.
Turning back into the cemetery Spike began searching for a suitable ambush site, something appropriate for a return to glory. It took a while. Since being chipped he had taken no more than a passing interest in such things. What was the point in rubbing his nose in his own impotence? But now he took delight in it. Tonight it might happen. Something had happened that had made the Slayer want him and be terrified of it. Did she know something about him that he himself did not? He was sure something was different. He felt good. He felt hungry.
He was going to eat.
He found a tree, overhanging the west entrance. It had good thick branches and so much foliage he would be hidden from everything, even the Slayer. Scaling it, he crouched on a branch and looked out into the streets. He sniffed the air. There was promise on the breeze and he was in a mood to be patient.
Soon enough though he heard and smelled Prey approaching rapidly from the city. They were heading straight for the graveyard. Mmmmm... Wait a minute... Bollocks, it was the Slayer. And her Watcher. Three others lunchables though, but they would be more trouble than they were worth at the moment, what with being scented with magicks and protected by the Slayer and all. He did not want a confrontation with Her tonight anyway. He wanted a nice quiet kill, free from distraction.
A few minutes later the unwelcome party marched underneath his boots. He watched them go with ambered eyes. Watching the Slayer really. He could smell her from where he was and he inhaled, sharp and deep. Fear. Anxiety. It perfumed her scent like a spring bloom. His eyes narrowed and a rumble built in his chest. Sweet. Only his clenched fangs prevented some seriously violent, cover blowing purring. So sexy. What he wouldn't give for a taste of that...
With an effort, digging his claws deeply into the branch he clutched, he did not pounce. Not now. Not yet. Soon though, he promised himself. Very soon.
What was that?
Someone else was approaching. He could hear the faint scrape of foot on pavement. It was an alone someone. A small and light and tasty someone. A soon to be past tense someone. Nostrils still tingling with Slayer fear Spike silently gathered himself. This was it. The acid test. The powerful feelings were still with him and he drew confidence from them. How could he be feeling this way if not because things were somehow different? If he were not somehow different?
And here they came.
Lunch.
He watched the small figure scurry underneath his tree, and suddenly he felt a light fluttering in his belly. His palms began to sweat and he felt the unusual urge to breathe, fast and uneven. What the...? It was nerves! He was nervous. Bloody, fucking, stupid, bollocks'ed-up-shit, sonnavabitch, wanking, sodding, bloody-buggery, FUCK! He was nervous! Unbelievable. William the Bloody had killed thousands of Prey and not one, but two Slayers and here he was having a panic attack over a tiny mortal that he could easily crush with a single pinky. Indignation and shame flushed his cheeks a faint pink. Rrrrrr. Oh I'm not having this! It was one thing to be physically neutered, no shame in that, but quite another to find his mind had followed suit. Oh no way, no fucking way! No, no, no, no, no.
And he was launching himself from the tree branch with a ferocious movement. The leap was perfectly timed and he collided with the Prey, bringing them both crashing to the ground. He was careful not to crush the human with the force of his collision though. He had something to prove now. He was going to play and show the whole sodding world that William the Bloody, that Spike, was back and as bad and mad and dangerous to fucking know, as he had been that first night in London. The graveyard would be red with blood and flesh by the time he was finished.
He would make his Undead brethren wonder and dread again.
They would write songs about him once more. Compose praises and sing them into eternity. Choirs celebrating him even as the sun went supernova and destroyed the world. No minion would be born that did not learn his name and give voice to it in their nightmares. He smiled, fangs flashing as they caught the moonlight. For all eternity they would howl, call his name to the bloody moon, and invoke the Terror that was William the -
"Oh sodding hell, its you. What are you doing back here?"
"Get off me Spike. And what are you doing?" Dawn wiggled out from underneath him and glared. She brushed at the dirt on her knees. "What are you doing dropping out of the sky like that? You could have hurt someone." Spike climbed to his feet, still vamped out. Frustration boiled through his body. He clenched his fists by his sides.
"That was the general idea!" He growled.
"What? You can't hurt-" then the girl went pale. She stared at him. "What... What about your chip?" She asked, eyes going wide as saucers. She took a step back and Spike felt a slow smile spread over his face. Well, well, well, the night may not be a total loss after all. He licked at his lower lip and bit down on it, stalking toward her. Slow and easy. Not stopping until he was almost standing on her feet, he delicately touched her face with one black tipped claw. Ran it lightly down to the pulsing artery in her neck. It felt hot and alive against his cold flesh, so he kept his finger there despite the small warning ache (dammit!) gearing up inside his skull.
"Still interested in being Turned then, little bit?" Maybe he could take on the pain and win?
"What?" Small voice.
"Turned, you know: become a vampire, like me." He bent closer. Yellow eye to blue. "We could have some fun you and me. Stir up a right hornet's nest and show that sister of yours a time. Oh yeah. So," he leaned in closer still and sniffed at the pulse point. Tasty. Fear and blood mingling and spicing up the air. The pain throbbed brighter. He looked back into her eyes. "How do you want it then? I can do it fast, I can do it slow, I can even knock you out if you like. Wouldn't recommend that choice though, dying is not something you really want to miss. Biggest event besides birth and your first kill, after all."
"I... I..." The girl stuttered. No bravado now. No swagger or pout anymore, oh no. But no matter, all that would return and then some, after the event. Give her old Mum a right little shock it would. He could just imagine it, hell, he'd done that kind of thing a few times. Always good for a laugh. Heh, heh, heh: poor Joyce... Yeah, poor Joyce. Joyce with her little marshmallows and her open never-disinvited door.
"How's the mortal toil going then Mum Joyce?"
"Spike! It's raining. Come in before you catch cold. Oh, do you vamp- er, peop-… catch uh cold?"
"Its all right Joyce, you can say it you know. Me: vampire. Don't have any issues with what I am. Beats bein' a Raag demon anyway. They're nasty buggers they are, all covered in mucous and such- No dress sense either."
"Right. Sure. So do you, peop- I mean vampires, catch cold?"
"You know me Joyce: don't catch anything I don't mean to. Your eldest not about then?"
"Buffy is at Mr Giles' tonight."
"Heh! My sympathies. So... How about a bit of company?"
"Sure, you can help me unpack these pieces. Wait a minute have you been smoking again?"
"Moi?"
"Spike... In my garden? Again? After last week?"
"Oh, don't sigh at me like that. Fine, I'll stop alright?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"You're lying."
"Heh, heh, heh. So, how about putting the kettle on then?"
Rrrr - no! He was a vampire, not some bloody Undead puppy. Dammit. He would not think thoughts of sugar and spice and everything fucking nice. Sugar and spice was blood down his chin. Nice was the feeling of flesh breaking under his razor sharp fangs. Marshmallows played no part in a vampire's world. Even if they were the little white tasty ones that soaked up the hot chocolate like they were-
...!...
RRRRRRRRRRRR!
He pushed forward, fangs tingling. Dawn was frozen. A trembling little flower, rooted to the spot. It was funny; he had not expected Dawn to be the paralysing kind. He thought the Summers' bloodline would have given her a little more spunk. A little more bite. A little more something.
Then he was pressing a deadly kiss to her baby sweet skin at just about the same time Dawn found some of that Summers' intestinal fortitude and kneed him forcefully in the crotch. And at just about the same time the chip went off. With a roar Spike staggered back. BLOODY FUCKING SHIT! Pain arced between his balls and his brain like an electrical current and he saw white for a heartbeat. Raw, pure, sweet as a mountain stream, snow blizzard hurt. Tender as a chainsaw. Sharp as Dru's nails in the deep London winter. His nerves screamed. Sonnavabitch! Sonnava-sodding-wanking-bitch!
I'm burning in the sun...
Then the blinding pain was fading and he found himself still standing, not prone like he thought he should have been. One hand was pressed to his head, the other doing a damn fine impression of a codpiece. And there was the source of his hurt. All five foot nothing of skinny little mortal girl, hands raised in front of her, forefingers forming a cross. He could see her shaking in her tiny little loafers. Tiny little Dawn in her tiny little mortal booties...
...!...
He laughed.
A tight bubble of hilarity burst high in his chest. It shouldn't be funny, but it was. He should be pissed as hell, but he wasn't. Instead he laughed until his ribs hurt along with his two most prized body parts. If his family were to see him now... Angelus would think his bloodline had gone bad – the infection he had visited upon his Drusilla, tainting her blood and now her little pet William has caught the madness from her like consumption. He stopped laughing. Angelus.
Spike straightened up and looked down at the girl, letting his human face out once again. Game over.
"Well hey - ." He drew in a lungful of air and pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows. Think, think, think. "April fool!" He finished lamely, letting the air out in a rush.
"What?" She stuttered after a moment. "It- Its not April."
"Really?"
"No... No, and, and... You scared me Spike!" White in the face for a whole load of new reasons now. She dropped the finger-cross in favour of forming two small hard little fists. "You shouldn't joke about things like that!"
"Hey, evil, remember. Big, bad and nasty vampire." He cocked his head. "You seemed to like it earlier."
"That was different."
"How? Because you knew I was all chipped up?" He shook his head. "Don't tease if you can't follow through little bit: gives a fella the wrong idea. Lucky I'm a gentleman and all." He looked at her as she blushed. "What are you doing here anyway?" He glanced in the direction that the Slayer had taken. "Following big sis?"
"I followed her to Giles' place, and then the Magic Box and then here. She won't tell me what she's doing, but I know it isn't normal patrol stuff."
"Well isn't that just rude. I think your big sister is getting airs and graces."
"Huh?"
"What's say you and me set her straight." He grinned tightly; the night was suddenly looking interesting again. Not waiting for her confusion to resolve itself, Spike grabbed Dawn's hand and set off after the Slayer.
Edward Frost tripped over his feet, again. Giles heard the oof from the rear of their group as they moved through the graveyard. Then a soft thud as knees hit the ground. Again. And again, the Watcher did not even pause. He was far, far too angry for that.
After coming down stairs and finding Ethan finishing off the hugely expensive bottle of whisky he had foolishly left in plain sight on his desk, and crumpling the pages of numerous ancient texts, he had been greeted by the equally grating sight of the Council's official agent. All five foot six of blond, skinny, puppy dog eager, tweed bound twit, standing in his living room. He could not have been more than 20. It was utterly, inexcusably and totally unacceptable. He had called the Council back and told them that too.
"... This is totally inexcusable!" He barked as the boy watched him with big blue startled eyes. The red gold of his aura was bright and guiless. It pulsed with potential, absolutely, but its honest purity was so distressing Giles had to look away. "I told you my terms for this assignment and you agreed. NO CHILDREN!"
"Mr Frost is not a child Rupert." Knightly had replied. "He has logged 24 hours field time, under the -"
"Twenty four!" Giles stuttered. "Twenty- Oh, well, why didn't you say so."
"There is no need for sarcasm. Mr Frost is the Council's selection for this mission. It was agreed: your terms and ours and no objections."
"Have you lost your mind Knightly?" Giles turned away fully away from Frost and hissed into the phone. "Don't you have any appreciation of how dangerous this is - Wait a minute, you do don't you? That's why you sent him isn't it; you don't want to waste resources. He's expendable."
"That is an outrageous accus-"
"Shut up Knightly, don't lie to me. You bastards."
"Edward Frost has completed all of the mandatory training required for active field duty and has accepted this mission. We have accepted him. And so will you." There was a pause on the line. "Look Rupert, he is going solely as a witness, nothing more. He will record the mission for our archives. That is all."
"He's going to get killed."
"That is not a forgone conclusion. He has shown himself to be an astute adept, he's intelligent and he knows how to follow orders."
"He's not coming."
"Oh yes he is. He requested this assignment, he is capable and he is going with you."
"He's no more than a child-"
"And how old is the Slayer?"
"That's different."
"How? Was she any more prepared for her first assignment than Frost? There is always a first time Rupert. For all of us."
"Not like this."
"Maybe not, but we are at war or have you forgotten? We are all soldiers and we all have to face our first battle at some point. We don't always get to choose when or where either.
"For all our differences Rupert, I am glad that his first taste of the front line will be alongside yourself and the Slayer." Giles held back the retort that was poised on the tip of his tongue. Knightly was being genuine. He absolutely considered Frost expendable, but at the same time Giles got the impression that the man would rather that he lived through this experience - that he had an attachment to the boy, that he liked him. And so he had put his sincere trust in both the Slayer and her Watcher to look after him.
Giles looked at the boy and frowned. His aura was still that fierce red gold and he was still staring at him. Oh they were a pack of bastards all right. Still, the more Giles peered at the boy, the more he looked into the flame coloured aura that bathed him body and soul, the more that strange potential impressed itself on his senses. There was something in him. Something.
"Alright Knightly, but just so we are clear: if he is not all that you say he is you and I are going to have a conversation."
Giles was rehearsing that conversation, right now.
Up ahead of him Buffy was leading the way to the site. She had been all business after returning to his house, dressed in black, carrying her small cache of supplies in the coat pockets of her jacket and a sword strapped to her back, underneath the jacket. Still worried, he could see that, feel it really, but she was as ready as any of them were. As any of them could be.
"What's with Tweedle dweeb over there?"
"That is Mr Frost. He is the Council's other representative."
"No, seriously, who is he? Oh, you are serious. Does his Mommy know he is out past his bedtime?"
"Buffy."
"Oh come on Giles, look at him. He's all tweedy and geeky and English and - Er... Okay, extracting foot from mouth. But you know what I mean. They can't be serious?"
"They are and we are just going to have to make do-"
"We could leave him with Xander."
"And you will explain this to Xander how?"
"Well... He's, he's your cousin-"
"Why does he have to be my cousin?"
"What are you two plotting out there? No fair starting the scheming early. I thought you fought respectable Ripper!"
"Shut up Ethan."
"This is it." Buffy suddenly called out from up ahead. She had come to a halt in front of an ivy covered stone crypt. An undecorated block of a mausoleum in the furtherest corner of the Sunnydale cemetery. The oldest section. The oldest tomb. It squatted, heavy and solid, blacker than the night that surrounded it, in a nest of weeds and rubble. Abandoned. No one visited down here anymore. In the entire time Giles had spent in Sunnydale he had never seen anyone, anyone living at least, come down here. These people had faded from the memories of everyone who now lived and breathed, even their own descendents.
Well, they were going to get some visitors tonight.
Giles approached the door and squinted at it. In the nightly gloom it looked impregnable - fused to its stone frame by centuries of gravity and mould and rot and mud. He unclipped his torch from his belt and pressed the switch. A pool of light splatted against the building and he ran it slowly over the door. The lock was a rusted useless chunk. Good thing they had not wasted time hunting for a key. He pushed at the wood. It was cold, moist and spongy, and when he pulled his hand back rotten flecks of it stuck wetly to his fingertips. Oddly normal. What were you expecting old man, a bright and shiny magickal portal that has somehow remained unnoticed for a few hundred years? He palmed his rune stone, pressed it to the door under his hand and concentrated, opening his senses. Tiny vibrations tickled his skin as the little charm shivered.
"What do you make of this Annie, Ethan?"
Without a word Anita drifted to his side and touched the back of his hand where it was pressed to the wood. His skin tingled with the contact and a tiny breeze wafted her scent his way: sweet roses and lavender. A distillation of everything he held dear. He turned his head.
In the gloom her aquiline profile was a silhouette: a fine smudge of velvet night and golden fog. And that soft sweet perfume... It was a beautiful reminder of a time when existence had been so real. When there was still hope of a choice. When there had been life.
A warm ember of memory fired his guts. Where had it all gone wrong? Life had been so simple. So full of promise.
So they had been living one level up from a cardboard box on the side of the road? So it had been cold and drafty and sometimes hungry? They had had each other and had gloried in that. They had been so free, so wonderfully unfettered and just wild with the ecstasy of it all. Power burst and poured from their hands. The night sky was theirs to play in. - to play with. To pluck out the stars one by one and paint the moon midnight blue... Where had it all gone sour?
They should never have left.
What an horrendous and unfixable error.
What a bloody loss -
The ember grew and suddenly he was ablaze with regret. They should never have left and it was all such a bleeding waste. And she had been there. She had been there all along. The voice in the back of his mind: go home Rupert - go home and live. Live? What did she think he was doing? What the bloody fuck-?
They should be back there.
Tearing up the night. Prowling around in the alleys and abandoned buildings. Running through their old haunts, a ragged band of feral animals, eyes on fire with the knowledge that they were young and powerful and free and insanely happy about it all. The Terror of the Underworld. Yeah. Like it had been. Once upon a time... Adrenaline burned his veins. He inhaled sharply and the cold air burned his lungs.
No. Wrong.
The air should be on fire. Blood and fire. Screaming. Howling and roaring.
Incantations, like a waterfall, tumbled and rushed through his mind. All jumbled and yet all screaming the same thing. The same sweet desire.
Power.
Power.
Power.
"Rupert!"
Eyghon.
"Rupert!" A sharp sting across his cheek and he snapped his eyes open. Her. The thorn in his paw. The splinter in his mind. A snarl formed on his lips. They should never have left...
He threw her hand from his and turned, feeling tall and imposing. Feeling big and feral. Angry. Full of... And the fury died.
Oh no.
"No. It got me - again." Giles let his shoulders sag. That damn Hellmouth, that damn blood. "Annie - "
"Hush." She pressed her fingers to his lips for a moment. "I know. I felt it. Boy, it really likes you doesn't it?"
"Giles?" It was the Slayer. Standing tense and alert and close by his side. Her aura was intense.
"Its alright Buffy. Just opened myself up a little too far." He sighed. "Well, its here. We've found our doorway, just as Tilea indicated."
"And was then never heard of again." Ethan suddenly butted in, voice brittle. "Well!" He pushed abruptly passed them and looked at the door. With only a minute hesitation Ethan pressed his palm to the door. The action was a hungry one. His touched the ancient wood with the expectation of a lover. And Giles watched the man's aura change hue from its usual earthy brown to a deeper, darker, angrier shade. With a sudden frustrated exhalation Ethan let his hand drop. He rounded on Giles, doing a very poor job of trying to hide his disappointment. "Can you handle it for now?" He asked, making it sound like an accusation. "It would really be better to wait to use the protection magicks, they have a limited lifespan."
"I know. And yes I can handle it." He looked at his Slayer, refusing to be riled by Ethan. "Buffy?" He motioned to the door. She hesitated and looked at the blocked entryway. Her apprehension sent a wave of shivers through her aura, but then she was moving. Padding silently, cautiously, to the simple wooden door. The movement reminded Giles of a cat picking its way across a foreign garden bed: wary of every ordinary leaf, every flower, every blade of grass. Gingerly she touched the door with a single fingertip, then her whole hand, and then her shoulders suddenly drooped. Good. Giles looked back at Ethan.
"Let's go."
"Aren't we there yet?"
"Almost, sweet bit. Almost."
"You said that a few minutes ago. You've lost the trail haven't you."
"I have not."
"Yes, you have."
"No I bloody well haven't. I'll have you know that William the Bloody has tracked far trickier things in his time than one itty bitty Slayer. I know every part of this graveyard, and so if I take us on a short cut to head her off, then I know what I am - OW!"
"Gravestone."
"... Thank you."
The rotted door gave like cardboard under Giles' axe, large chunks of it disappearing with every blow. And with each new crack, each gaping split, Buffy's apprehension grew. Her palms had started to sweat first, and then the slight cool breeze began to chill her damp face. Now, almost shivery with nerves she shifted her weight from foot to foot, never relaxing the hand that held her sword ready to strike, to defend her Watcher as he worked on the door.
Get a grip Slayer. Get a grip.
Beside her Anita stood silent, a watchful sentinel. Who was she? What was she doing here? Where did Giles get all these English women? And how many did he have for god's sake? Buffy snatched a quick glance and took in the long black hair, tied casually at the nape of her neck, and the seriously aristocratic features that presented a cutting profile in the evening gloom. Who was she, this woman who was so intimate with her Watcher? Her Watcher.
The Slayer clenched her teeth, feeling a sudden urge to move away from Anita, feeling the air between them turn sour. She should not be here. She should be at home making tea for Giles or reading his books and drinking his whisky. Anywhere but here. Buffy frowned. When the firefight started it was Slayer and Watcher - not Slayer and Watcher and Attachment. But the way he looked at this woman... Jenny Calender had not been so lucky.
Yet Giles was not stupid. He would not have allowed anyone to come on this mission that was not capable - regardless of how he felt about them. Buffy knew better than to doubt her Watcher's decisions. He had proven over and over that he was capable of the most hard-nosed, most brutally practical choices she had ever seen anyone make. Still...
At least Olivia had had the sense to butt out of the business end of Giles' life.
Buffy looked away from the woman. She had just better not get in the way.
Beyond Anita, pencil poised and motionless above a scuffed journal, Edward Frost stood shivering in the cold air. Him she found less than comforting. Maybe it was the fact that he was no taller than Oz but with none of Oz's presence, maybe it was the stutter or maybe it was the tweed, but Buffy wished he would just disappear. They should have paid a visit to Willow and Tara and had him 'poofed' back to merry old England. Then again, that would have meant explaining why the Wicca were not invited on this picnic.
Ethan had not offered to help Giles break down the door. He was standing a little back from Edward, arms folded across his chest. His silver necklace glittered like a string of cats' eyes in the moonlight. Ethan. Why did it have to be him? He was going to need watching for a whole load of different reasons than the proto-Councillor. She looked up at his face and found him staring at her. There was a cold gleam in his eye that was distinctly unfriendly. Maybe Willow and Tara could just 'poof' him right out of this dimension?
CRACK!
Giles was through. The axe head was buried up to the handle and Buffy watched him twist it and pull, dragging at the last bits of wood so that they bulged outward before cracking and giving. Buffy was sure she could feel her tendons straining in sympathy with the ancient timber. She felt tight enough for something to pop. Then the doorway was clear.
For the longest moment she did not move, holding her breath, but there were no spouts of rancid, evil fumes, no gouting arterial fountains of goo. Nothing emerged all fangy and feral and hungry for human flesh. No rush of hell burst free to consume her in hatred and rage and leave nothing but a raw desire to hunt the Undead - one of them in particular. She exhaled heavily. It was a welcome anticlimax.
Padding closer to her Watcher, Buffy peered into the black hole doorway. It smelled a little musty and deady - she was used to that though. It was all so oddly normal. She looked up to see Giles' face, damp with sweat, crumple up in that way it did when one of his books proved not to be as useful as he had thought it would be.
"Well, that was -" he started, but then something was coming out of the darkness.
A voice.
A very familiar voice.
"BUFFY!" Though the words were faint, they were intense with terror, and there could be no mistaking their source. They scalded the Slayer's skin with ice and the heat of her blood bled out in to the night. "BUFFY!"
"DAWN!" Buffy's scream was a reflex. Fear forgotten, she charged straight for the ruined doorway.
"Buffy - NO!" Giles' cry was like a distant echo in her ear, a meaningless noise.
Dawn.
Dawn - down in the Hellmouth.
Dawn - in trouble.
The thick putrid air within the tomb pushed against her entry; a fetid, rotting bubble. It offended all five senses, and the gifts of her Calling bristled like a threatened cat, but she ignored it all and forced her way through without hesitation. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way. Nothing.
"Dawn! Hang on, I'm coming!"
And she was gone. Swallowed whole by the tomb.