It was a night for brownies. Joyce had been a nervous wreck until Buffy had called after her meeting at the library to report that all was well. With the relief had come a desire for chocolate. No one else was in the house, or she knew Dawn, at least, would be hovering over the cooling rack practicing her geometry by laying out the most advantageous cuts for pieces per person. Instead, Joyce sat at the table, hovering over the cooling rack, picking crunchy bits off the edges.
Was she as diminished as Ethan Rayne seemed to be? He'd been quicksilver menace and cunning while supervising the band candy incident. He should have seemed slimy and conniving, like Weasely Wally from her middle school, who liked to lurk around the girls' locker room after gym class, but Joyce's admittedly addled brain at the time had paid more attention to the nimble way his hands moved and the twisted humor of his smile.
Seeing that same man scared and scarred had been more disturbing than Joyce imagined it could be. It was such a grim reminder of the way life took its toll. She still limped slightly. She may never be as nimble again herself as she was when following the punk version of Rupert Giles through the streets of Sunnydale. Her teenage years were nothing she wanted to relive while she was thinking rationally, but the remembered thrill of that night still made her smile very privately.
She got up and took the dirty brownie-making dishes to the sink to rinse them out before putting them in the dishwasher. Dawn and Buffy would be home soon. It was a school day tomorrow, and there were lunches to be made and activity forms to sign and responsible mom things to do.
The knock on the kitchen door made her jump and drop the mixing spoon on the floor.
Knowing better than to just open the door, she peeked through the curtain. Oh, speak of one of the devils.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. "Hello, Rupert."
Rupert Giles stayed at the far edge of the back porch and smiled. "Good evening, Joyce."
She pressed her foot against the doorsill to remind herself where the boundary was. "Well. Um. Forgive me for not inviting you in for coffee."
His smile went from distantly courteous to amused acknowledgement. "That's quite all right, I didn't come by for a long visit."
Joyce managed to smile as politely as she could while managing not to show she was nervous about having him here. "What can I do for you?"
He looked away for a moment and frowned. "I was-going over some things this evening, and I remembered a promise I made you six months ago. I try to keep my promises."
She frowned herself. "Six months ago?" Back in the spring time, when they were all worried about Glory, just after her attack. Those long, frightening days and nights in the hospital, wondering if her life was going to end like her great-uncle's, trapped in a bed, a prisoner in her own body. Her memories were cloudy, but she remembered the weakness, seeing the children gathered uncomfortably around her bed, Dawn always inches away from tears and Buffy pulled in so tight around herself, her family collapsing around her while her damned duty did its best to crush her as well. And other visitors, deep in the night, poor Spike looking like a scared young man instead of a century-old monster, whispering to her in a voice filled with education instead of bravado. And someone else as well, when she was feeling particularly helpless but had just seen a possible escape. "Oh. That promise."
Giles nodded gravely. "Yes. I said I'd come back in six months and see if you still wanted to ask me for a particular favor."
Joyce wanted to be horrified at her six-months-ago self for even entertaining the idea of asking to die, especially when she was all but fully recuperated now, but the dread and helplessness were still too clear in her memory. The girls would have been so devastated, even if they were free of that burden. That was guilt to be mulled over in the luxury of her relative good health.
"Thank you for not taking me up on it," she said softly.
"You're quite welcome."
He sounded so much like his old self that she nearly forgot and invited him in. Nearly. He looked a great deal less civilized than he had last spring. He didn't seem to be making as much of an effort to downplay the changes. His hair was shaggier, and there seemed to be bruises fading on his face. His attention kept drifting away from Joyce, and whatever was on his mind was apparently disturbing. The problems of vampires were definitely not her business, but . . .
"Are you all right?"
He blinked and stared at her, honestly startled. "No," he said after a moment. "But it's nothing that should come anywhere near you."
"Will it come near Buffy?" She gasped at the pain on his face.
He took a deep breath, and the disturbing, otherworldly remoteness of a vampire was replaced by the resolution of the man. "Not if I can help it."
"Thank you." He looked startled again. "I never said that enough. You took Buffy into all that danger, but you always looked out for her, too. She misses you."
He winced and turned his face away. "And I miss her." A deep breath, and he looked back at her. "Good-bye, Joyce. I hope not to have reason to see you again."
Joyce winced herself, then nodded. "Good-bye, Rupert."
He looked at her a moment longer, then disappeared down the porch steps and into the night.
Rupert Giles walked blindly away from Revello Drive. He passed several people on the sidewalk, but he barely looked at them. Vampires had known for years now that hunting near the Slayer's home was idiocy, and he hadn't had to think long about absorbing that rule. In any case, he had made sure to eat someone before he went to the Summers house. He knew the visit was going to be difficult enough without adding hunger into the mix.
Ever since Drusilla's loss, he'd been obsessed with loss. When he'd first been turned, he'd been dazzled at the idea of the long years ahead of him to fill with experiences and learning. Then Drusilla had arrived, and he had imagined years with her-and, well, with Spike, if he was honest-entwined in the delightful perversions that were vampiric passion. Then she was gone, and he was as bereft as any child whose mother had been ripped away. Ever since, he had been unable to think of little but everything he had lost over his life and death. When his mourning for Drusilla ebbed, the remnants of the man wept for the loss of the sunlight and the friendships of the living man. The memory of the near-loss of Joyce had taken him as well, and he had remembered the promise he'd made her in her hospital room.
That promise was now void, but that came with another loss. Joyce could be nothing but potential prey, now, and such a thought was madness. He held enough of his old intelligence to know that moving on Buffy's family was the quick way to dusty death, and the best way to avoid temptation was to avoid those humans he used to call friends.
He paused in the shadows near the Espresso Pump. Open mike night again, by the sound of it. A flubbed guitar chord made him debate putting tonight's so-called singer out of everyone's misery. He absently flexed his fingers, once again enjoying the feel of joints as nimble as a young man's. His guitar occupied a corner of his room at Sunrise Grove, but he hadn't played it since he was turned. Drusilla had opened the case one night and run her fingernail along the low E string, humming along with the resonance. He should have played for her.
Another bad chord nearly sent him into the coffee shop to rip the player's fingers from his hands and rescue the helpless instrument, but he resisted the urge. Instead he turned and continued his walk.
Tendrils of magic lured him to a quieter part of town, to the chain link fence surrounding the old high school. The street lights on this block had yet to be repaired even after all this time, and the pile of rubble that still filled the site was a tangle of shadows and weeds. The gymnasium wing was mostly standing; the windows were blown out and the walls with their ragged tops were outlined against the lights of the rest of town. His library was a jumbled ruin in the middle of the wreckage. To his new senses, the scent of demon-Mayor blood lingered.
He had to smile at it all. Such a night that had been. There were rumors of rebuilding the place, of bulldozing it all flat, erecting a lovely new building on top, and pretending it had just been a gas leak and that budget issues were why nothing had been done with the site all this time. The current crop of high school students were occupying trailers and crowding the class rooms over at the high school on the other side of town.
Giles wondered if the current city administration knew what lurked underneath the rubble of the old high school. He leaned against the fence, threading his fingers through the holes in the chain link. It had always called to him, the Hellmouth. The darkness had teased a response from the chaos that still lurked in the depths of his soul, but he'd ruled that part of him and resisted any urges that wanted to come out to play. The pull was stronger now, though he was thankfully still master enough of himself to keep from following.
Something rustled behind him, something that moved against the wind. He turned quickly, swearing to himself that he'd let something creep up on him.
A tall young woman, with skin and features that spoke more of Africa than of America, stood there. She held her head easily against the pull of the very long braid that looped around her head and shoulders. Giles drew in a breath and smelled faint blood, and he heard no breath or pulse. She regarded him calmly, studying him in return.
"You are the Watcher," she said, her English accented with French and something more exotic. "They call you Ripper now."
He glanced around, looking for both other vampires and viable escape routes. "Yes, I am. And they do. You are?"
She smiled and let the fangs flow into view. "I am called Fleur du Mal."
He could only blink for a few moments. He'd expected someone-older. Her human face looked around the same age as Buffy when he had first met his Slayer. Her smile, though, was calm and knowing, and her bearing was regal.
He didn't know how to react to her. The residual Watcher was delighted and eager to ask about the inner workings of the Order of Aurelius, about where she had come from and what she had seen. The demon kept urging him to bow his head, to acknowledge the rumored power and obvious age. "Well. Um. Hello?"
The vampire face faded back to extremely lovely human. "You are definitely of Angelus' get. His line is notoriously bad at proper respect."
He frowned. "Shouldn't that be Darla's get?"
Fleur du Mal's smile twisted slightly. "Darla knew her place, however close to the Master that it was. Angelus lured her from the Master's side and laughed at the rest of us while he did so."
The thirst for knowledge broke free. "You knew the Master? That long ago?"
"I was taken to his Court when I was barely turned, and I learned the ways of Aurelius." She turned from Giles to study the wrecked high school. "The Hellmouth. Where our Master died."
"Not my master," he said automatically, then he winced.
She raised an eyebrow at him thoughtfully. "You acknowledge no master?"
The pain took him again, and he closed his eyes. "She's dead."
"Ah." Fleur du Mal was closer when he opened his eyes. "It's very hard, to lose your Sire. Especially for one so young. My own was destroyed a hundred years ago, but I remember my grief."
"Who was your Sire?"
She waved an elegant, dismissing hand. "No one who would have come to the Watchers' notice. His entire existence was service to the Master." She looked back at the school. "One can feel the Hellmouth breathing. Our-" She smiled slightly. "The Master coveted its power." Her gaze slid back to Giles. "And he was destroyed for it."
Again he felt the urge to cringe and to beg forgiveness for his part in the Master's destruction. But that wasn't his strongest impulse. "Yes, he was. I was terribly proud of Buffy that night."
Her chuckle surprised him. "He would have liked you, my Master." She lightly touched Giles' hand. "He prized intelligence and the ones who sought knowledge. Sorcerers were often part of his court, helping him with his research. I remember his library, a wonderful thing."
"He had nothing like that, here. After, well, everything, I went to where he'd been trapped. It was little more than a cave."
"He had other things than comforts on his mind at the time. But his library still exists, writings gathered over millennia. They merely await the hand of the next leader of Aurelius." She smiled and took another step closer. "I don't imagine there's another archive of the history of vampires to compare in the world."
The thought of all that knowledge was nearly erotic. "Most of the vampires I've met have shown little regard for history."
"Most of the vampires you have met are idiots. The rituals and traditions of Aurelius are preserved in writings from the beginning of time. Without them we are only old vampires hiding in a cave."
"A cave? Where?"
She lowered her voice. "A very ancient cave in France. There are paintings of creatures that died when demons still walked openly on the face of the world. And figures of little two-legged beings chasing the creature with spears and fire."
"Lascaux," Giles breathed.
"It is not only the humans who drew their hunts on stone walls. In the deepest parts of the most secret caves, the humans are the hunted. Only the barest light is brought to those chambers, where He Who Keeps tends the records. He was tracing the outlines of the Master's fall at the Hellmouth when I left."
An unbroken record of history going back centuries. Millennia. Giles felt breathless at the idea. "I want to see them."
"As is your right. You are of Aurelius. The lineage and the history are yours. I can take you there."
He was remarkably far into picturing the trip before the wording of her offer became clear. "I somehow doubt that this invitation extends to Spike."
She smiled and said nothing, though her smile acknowledged the point.
He wanted, oh, how he wanted. For the first time he felt he was part of the long tale of vampiric tradition that was the Order of Aurelius. Instead of trying to deduce the history from what fragments had been gleaned by the Watchers, he could go into the archives themselves, read the pages for himself, and learn everything for himself.
At the cost of declaring himself to be on Fleur du Mal's side, not Spike's.
The Watcher was willing to pay the cost. The scholar easily weighed the competing worth of an ancient library versus a foul-mouthed punk. But the demon remembered waking alone and frightened to a new, deadly world and the brutal, understanding comfort of a person who hadn't asked for the job. Then there were the memories of the hours when he and Spike and Drusilla were twined together, he being made a part of their unholy union, followed by kneeling with Spike in the dust of their Sire, surrounded by blood and ash, clutching each other as their loss overwhelmed the fury of battle.
He smiled at Fleur du Mal. "It is a very kind, tempting offer, but I couldn't possibly go without Spike. He has more appreciation for history than you might think, and he has respect for books."
Her smile twisted. "I see no place for William the Bloody in the courts of Aurelius."
"A pity."
Fleur du Mal sighed and shook her head. "It's unnatural, this loyalty you and your line have for each other. But then, all Angelus' get are mad."
Giles couldn't help snarling just a little. "If you ever have need of someone to betray Angelus, you have only to ask."
"Indeed? I will remember that."
She took a step away, and Giles glanced around again. "You're accepting my refusal of your offer so easily?"
"It was a small chance, but worth the taking. This matter won't be settled tonight. But soon."
"Spike has no interest in Aurelius or its politics. You could go home, and he would never bother you."
"He is an irritant. He muddies things."
"He survives things. And destroys things. Dismiss him at your peril."
Fleur du Mal studied him a moment. "You champion him from more than just blood loyalty."
"He has the attention span and impulse control of a toddler on bad drugs, which on occasion is the only thing that has saved this town. He can be very dangerous, if he wishes." He smiled. "Or if I remind him."
She raised her chin, then tilted her head in acknowledgement. "Indeed. For all that you are young, you have your own threat. Which is why I made the offer I did." She nodded once more, then turned. "It would be a pity for the order to lose one as unique as you," she said over her shoulder, "but make no mistake. You and William the Bloody are acceptable loses on my way to my goal."
"We never doubted it. Good evening, Fleur du Mal."
"Good evening, Ripper."
She faded into the darkness, and Giles made another rapid scan of the area before relaxing. He was not yet recovered from the fight with the Watchers, and he suspected Fleur had known she had a fair chance of defeating him if she wished.
No more time for dwelling on the past. Time to go home and force himself and Spike to confront the future.
Tara finished lighting the candles and the incense, then turned off all the lights in the dorm room, just as the light of the full moon poured in through the open window. "Welcome, Blessed Mother," she whispered with a smile.
Willow was gone again, but Tara had decided not to let her girlfriend's unpredictability distract her from the rituals she loved. The turning of the year was coming, All Hallow's Eve, and tonight was the full moon closest to that date.
She had wanted to do this skyclad, but the realities of dorm life dictated that she be wearing something in case one of her neighbors thought it would be a good time to pull the fire alarm. A few days ago she'd mentioned to Willow that it would be nice to hold the Samhain ritual out in the woods, and Willow had eagerly agreed. But Willow had disappeared after her last class, and, well . . .
Tara opened the window and took a deep breath of the evening. Beyond the chattering people on the lawn outside, beyond the smell of the cars, beyond the streetlights, was the world. She closed her eyes and began to sing.
"Persephone went into darkness The sun slides under the hill The sea draws off from the shoreline The world grows silent and still."
Her mother had taught her the words when she was a child, a song to mark all turnings and changes. Tara had whispered the lines at her mother's funeral, while the rest of the small church had sung about a stern God in his heaven who would damn you to hell if you didn't toe the line. Her father had always given her a pointed look during those hymns.
She knelt on the floor as she sang, holding her arms out to the moonlight. Magic drifted along her skin, turning about as the entire cosmos moved in an eternal spiral. Life flowed around her-Miss Kitty a small presence on the bed, Amy crouched in a corner of her cage with the spirit of a woman flickering amidst the tiny rat power. Outside, young life bounced and sparkled. Darker energy prowled nearby. Tara tried to care about possible danger, but she'd slipped away from her active mind when she had chosen to sail on the moonlight.
The Hellmouth churned, blanketing whole areas of the town in darkness. Spots of merry chaos dotted the area, flashes of red and yellow and, oddly, baby blue. Demons of various sorts. Some of them were violent and evil, others were just . . . other. A flare of fierce white shone in the middle of one gathering of chaos, a collection of yellow that rapidly shrank until the white stood alone. Tara urged a drift of protection towards the flare, and she felt Buffy look around in surprise.
Tara pulled away from consciousness of the active creatures. This was the time of year to pay tribute to the beloved dead. The moon and the calendar were out of sync, but the Wiccan year turned on the moons, and the old year ended tonight. Departed spirits traveled through the fainter realms, and there was one she missed badly-
The dorm room door opened and the lights flicked on. "Hi, honey, I'm home!" Willow called.
Tara gasped in shock, her mind skittering in all directions.
Willow turned off half the lights. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry!" She looked around the room. "What were you doing?"
"I-I was doing the Samhain ritual."
"I thought we were doing that together-was that tonight?"
Tara had to smile. "Yes, it was."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
She got up off the floor and went to hug Willow. "Where were you?"
Willow bounced a little. "I got an idea in class, then I went to the Magic Box to look some stuff up."
"An idea for what?"
"For turning Amy back."
Tara looked over at the rat cage. Amy was sitting up and apparently paying close attention. "I saw her when I was in the ritual. The rat can hardly hold her."
"Oh, good, I was hoping for that." Willow dropped her bag on the bed and went to crouch down in front of the cage. "She wants to get back, but while she's a rat she doesn't have the means to do it. We just need to show her the way out." She unlatched the cage door, reached in for Amy, then placed her on the bed. "You be good," she said to Miss Kitty, who had come over to sniff. "Amy is not dinner."
"What will we need?" Tara asked, looking over the candles, then checking her box of herbs and simples.
"We shouldn't need anything." Willow knelt at the foot of the bed and put her hands around Amy. "I-I found a portal spell a while ago, and what I found at the Magic Box showed me how to modify it so that it can help someone like Amy. We just need to show her the way and give her an anchor." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Tara felt the power building. "Willow, wait-"
"Hecate," Willow whispered, "she called on you before, bring her back to the shape she had before."
Amy the rat began twitching and squeaking, with streams of light circling around her. The light started to take on the shape of a young woman, but the edges remained blurry.
"Ooo, darn it . . . Hecate, we beseech thee, return Amy to the way she was." The squeaks changed, becoming more human.
Tara felt the power around Willow moving, spinning faster. Miss Kitty dove off the bed and disappeared underneath. Papers over on the desks began to rustle in the physical wind.
"Hecate, darn it, let her go!" Willow snapped. "Don't think we can't make you!"
"Willow!" Tara gasped. "You can't just-" Willow reached out and grabbed one of her hands, and Tara went to her knees in shock as her own power was yanked into Willow's magical spiral.
The light around Amy solidified, hiding the rat from view. The cries were completely human.
"Change back!" Willow ordered. "Now!"
Horrified, Tara saw that her eyes had gone black, then the light exploded, knocking her and Willow to the floor.
They lay on the floor gasping for several seconds, then Willow lifted her head. On the bed lay a naked young woman, blinking back.
"I did it," Willow whispered. "I really did it!"
The next few minutes were chaotic. Amy crouched on the bed, darting frightened looks in all directions, cringing at the noises from the hallway and outside. Willow found a robe to drape around her naked shoulders, and it took Amy a few moments to remember to pull it around her. Tara stayed on the floor, her mind still whirling from the amount of power that had been flying around the room.
Willow finally dropped onto the bed next to Amy, grinning at her. "Hi! Welcome back!"
Amy stared at her, blinking. "Wil-Willow?"
"Yes, hi! How are you!"
"I-I was a rat."
"Yes, and now you're not."
Amy raised a slow hand up to her face, then turned her head to study her hand. She flexed her fingers for a few moments, watching them, then her gaze fell on Tara. "Who are you?"
Tara opened her mouth. "This is Tara," Willow answered first, "my roommate."
"Roommate." Amy looked around the room. "Is this-college?"
"Uh huh."
"I missed graduation?" Amy said forlornly.
"Oh, you didn't miss much," Willow shrugged. "Some vampires, some explosions, the mayor turned into a demon-you were safer in the cage."
Tara leaned forward and put a careful hand on Amy's foot. "Hi," she said softly. "How do you feel?"
Amy studied her for a while. "Fuzzy," she said finally.
Willow bounced off the bed to the other side of the room. "Oh, I bet you're dying for a shower. Let me find some stuff."
Amy flexed her foot under Tara's hand. "I think I remember you," she said. "Quiet and green and singing." She frowned and looked over her shoulder. "Was there a cat?"
"Yes, but we never let her bother you."
Amy shuddered. "She looked at me. And she licked her lips."
"Oh, dear."
Willow came back with a basket containing soap and shampoo and some towels. "Here you go. You'll probably feel a whole lot better after a good wash."
Amy reached up to her hair and grimaced. "Oh, yes." Clutching the robe around her, she made her way off the bed, took the basket and towels, then headed for the bathroom.
Willow waited till the bathroom door was closed, then bounced up and down. "I did it! She's back!"
Tara took a deep, shaky breath. "That was so dangerous."
"What? No, it wasn't, if it hadn't worked, she would have just stayed a rat."
"No-no, that's not what I meant. You-you just started summoning power, without any protection. There are things out that feed on the power, and you were pulling so much." She looked around the room nervously, feeling wisps of something that might be lingering power and might be something else. "And then to just make demands . . ."
Willow laughed and leaned down to hug her. "It's OK, baby, nothing bad happened." She laughed again and dashed over to the closet. "She's going to need something to wear." She began flipping through everything. "But she's taller than me, and she's skinnier than I remember."
Tara stared for a few moments, then shook her head. "Where are her old things?"
"I think they're still in her house. Apparently there was some account somewhere that kept paying for it." Willow frowned. "I wonder if her mother set it up, she arranged lots of stuff."
Tara got up and sat on the end of the bed. Miss Kitty cautiously poked her nose out, then joined Tara, who picked up the cat to hug. "I hope there isn't too much trouble getting her back into life. She didn't officially graduate high school, and I bet her driver's license has expired. There will be all sorts of paperwork."
Willow waved her hand. "We can whip up something, say she went to high school somewhere else, create a transcript-Oh, maybe we can get her a scholarship. Or just set up so that it looks like she's already done a couple of years of college so she doesn't have to bother. But first-" She took another look at the closet, then shrugged and snapped her fingers. A small pile of clothes appeared on the bed.
Tara jumped. "Did you grab her clothes from her house?"
"No, those'll be all musty, and they're old, and she needs new stuff. "
Tara stared at Willow in disbelief. "You summoned new clothes? From where? Did you take them from someone's closet? Or from a store?" She looked at the shirt on the top of the pile and found a price tag. "Willow! That's stealing!"
Willow blinked at her in dismay. "We'll go pay for them. Of if Amy doesn't like them, I'll just send them back."
"And get others?"
"Why are you so mad? We got Amy back, that's a good thing. OK, maybe the clothes are a little much." She waved a hand, and the clothes disappeared. "OK?"
Tara hugged Miss Kitty, hiding the tears that wanted to start and trying to find words to make it all clear. "Willow, sweetheart, you can't just take what you want, especially with magic. Everything has a cost. We don't have to magic anything up for Amy, it can be done the usual way."
"But this will be so much faster, and there won't be as much fuss and explanations and all that. Who would it hurt?" She glanced at the spot on the bed where the clothes had been and blushed. "I really was going to pay for the stuff that Amy wanted to keep."
Tara put down the cat, then went to hug Willow. "It's going to hurt you, sweetheart. It's-it's like algebra. Both sides of the equation have to balance. If you take something on one side, you have to give on the other."
Willow smiled and tugged on a strand of Tara's hair. "Chemistry with more newt. You're so sweet to worry. But I'm not doing anything that's draining me, or anything. Though I did feel a little out of breath by the time we got Amy all the way back," she finished with a grin.
Tara tried not to sigh. "It's not just the power you use. It's the why and the how. You just-demanded that the universe do what you wanted, just yanked on the-the strings of creation without worrying about what those strings are tied to. Everything has echoes and consequences."
"Nothing bad happened!"
"Not yet! There are reasons for the circles and the invocations and the rituals, it's to make sure you're only pulling on sources you can trust. There is so much power out there, but a lot of it isn't safe. If you use it, it will you use you back."
Willow stepped back. "Only if I let it."
"Only if you can." Tara wrapped her arms around herself. "There are things out there that are a lot more powerful than you, Willow."
"It's not like I'm-I'm summoning demons or anything."
"Yet," Tara whispered. "You keep grabbing power and doing bigger and bigger things, and it's luring you in . . ." She turned away. "I'm scared for you."
Willow went over to her desk and rummaged around some things. "I-I know it could be dangerous. That's why I'm careful. But I can do the big things. Why don't you want me to try everything I can? I'm not afraid."
"Oh, sweetheart, you should be-" She turned back. Willow was staring at her, a small bundle of herbs in her hand and a terribly sad look on her face. "What is it?"
"I'm sorry," Willow whispered. "Forget." The world faded out.
"'Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody / I got some money 'cause I just got paid.' Or Friday, as the case may be." Xander pulled up in the alley behind Joyce Summer's shop. Buffy had left a voice mail calling for a Scoobie patrol, which told Xander that she was doing her best as well to pretend that she didn't mind having nothing better to do on Date Night.
Joyce's shop had become de facto Scoobie Central. Xander didn't like running into Anya at the Magic Box, and Buffy too often caused consternation among the more demony clientele that the shop now attracted, with a vengeance demon now in charge. She did still use the training room in the back, and Willow often did research, but a fair number of research books had ended up in the back room of the gallery.
He let himself in through the backdoor into the workroom. Dawn sat at the table with her back to the door and her algebra textbook propped up in front of her. She had her cellphone in her lap and was busily texting. Xander saw Joyce out in the gallery section behind the counter. She looked up and waved to him, but she was on the phone as well. He waved back, then crept up behind Dawn, making sure his shadow didn't fall on her. She was texting her buddy Janice, apparently about some boy who was OMG HOTTT!
"I don't remember that equation from algebra. Is that the new math they keep going on about these days?"
Dawn shrieked and flung her phone into the air. He caught it as it reached the top of its arc.
She clutched her chest. "Xander! Geez!"
Joyce peered towards them, one hand over the receiver of the phone. Xander held up the phone and raised an eyebrow. She frowned, then smiled, shrugged, and nodded as she went back to her phone call.
"It's your own fault for sitting with your back to the door," he told Dawn as he presented her with her phone.
Still breathing hard, she looked at the configuration of chairs and doors, then pulled her chair to a position where she could see both her mother and the backdoor. "That was mean," she said as she plopped into her chair.
"Mean survives on the Hellmouth." He went to the mini-fridge to grab a drink, then took a chair and pulled over her algebra book. "Good lord, I remember some of this." He quickly put the book back on the table.
Dawn leaned on the table and fixed him with a serious look. "So tell me the truth. Am I ever going to use algebra?"
"I hate to break it to you, but I actually did something equationish at work yesterday. So, yeah, the teachers are right."
She humphed and crossed her arms.
"Teachers are right about what?" asked Buffy as she came in from the front of the store.
"That algebra is useful sometimes," Xander said.
"Yeah, two vampires times three zombies equals five zombie/vampires. I never did like algebra." She checked her watch. "Sunset in less than an hour. I was thinking we should hit the northern cemeteries, we haven't been through there in a while."
"Just what I look forward to on a Friday night," Xander grinned. He glanced out into the store. "Is Willow coming later?"
Buffy tapped her fingers on the back of the chair near her. "She's helping Amy with readjusting to the world on two feet, she said."
Xander frowned. "She's spending a lot of time with Amy."
"Amy was a rat for, like, forever," Dawn said. "It's got to be weird."
"Yeah, it does," Buffy agreed.
Dawn blinked a couple of times. "She's been a rat longer than I've been around-really around, not, you know. Do you think rat-Amy knew about me like everyone else? Or when she got turned back, did she get the Dawn Summers Memory Update?"
Buffy opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. She frowned, then looked at Xander, who shrugged. "I fell asleep in philosophy class," he said, "but this sounds like one of those I Think, Therefore I Am thingies."
Buffy shrugged in return. "Well, I guess if we see Amy, we can ask. But we should get going, Xander."
Dawn bounced in her chair. "If it's just the two of you, I could-"
"No," Buffy and Xander both said firmly.
"Dawn," Joyce called from in front, "could you come help me with something on the top shelf, please?" Dawn sighed. "Just because I'm the tall one . . ." She put up a finger. "And no 'one in every generation' jokes, please."
Buffy grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it." She led the way out the back door.
Xander gestured to his car. "Are we walking or driving to the cemetery of our choice tonight?" Buffy glanced at her shoes. "Drive, I think." She grinned as Xander held the passenger door for her, but the smile faded into a frown as they drove away.
"What's wrong?" Xander asked.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something. "What does this look like?"
Xander took the tiny metal tube, then turned on the overhead light at the next stop light. There was a small lens at one end of the tube and a short wire out the other end. "It looks like a tiny little camera, like in the spy movies." He flipped off the cabin light when the signal turned green. "Where did you get it?"
Buffy was frowning harder. "I found it in my bedroom."
He stomped on the brakes and stared at her. "Your bedroom?"
She flapped her hands at the road. "Drive, drive! Don't get in a wreck, it'll do horrible things to your insurance." She shrugged as he gave her a puzzled look. "Mom's been harping about young adult drivers and what they do to insurance. Go, do, drive."
Xander proceeded to drive. "And, he says again, your bedroom?"
She sighed. "I was sitting on my bed, and the light caught something in my bookcase. I went over to look, and this was taped up underneath a shelf, kind of behind a book. I have no idea how long it's been there."
"Do you think there might be others?"
"I don't know. Other than tearing the house apart, I don't know how to find them, especially without letting Mom or Dawn find out. God, what if there are cameras in their bedrooms too?" She looked at the camera. "Shouldn't it be plugged into something, though?"
He waved the wire end. "I think it's one of those wireless thingies. Broadcasting somewhere."
"Euw."
"Did you show it to Willow? She'd know."
"I called her when I found it, but she wasn't really listening to me. She said she'd come over and do a spell to see if there were any others, but she didn't say when." She slumped down a little farther into the seat. "Some of my clothes are missing, too."
Xander glanced at her. "And I'm guessing you didn't find them in Dawn's dresser."
"No. Somebody's been in my house, Xander. In my room."
He shuddered. "And just as creepy as when Angel was paying midnight calls." Buffy made a small noise, and Xander winced. Anytime Deadboy's name came up, she still reacted. She'd tried a couple of times to ask for more information about the Watcher Bloodbath and Angel's part it in, but she'd always bailed on the conversation. Though that might not be just from problems talking about Angel. "So, creeps creeping creepily about your house. I think we're going to need to distract Willow from No-Longer-A-Rat Amy and get her to be computer girl on this. She might be able to find out where this thing was broadcasting to."
Buffy took the camera back. "We may not know where, but I bet we can guess who. The guys with the freeze ray."
Xander nodded. "Weird gadgets and creepy ideas. Yeah, sounds like them." They pulled up a block way from the first cemetery of the night. "We're here, milady. May I interest you in the fine selection of weapons and stakes that occupy my trunk and make me glad there aren't many traffic stops in this town?"
"Sounds like a Friday night of fun."
The vampires were quiet in all the cemeteries they checked, but they did find a couple of fledges just crawling out of their graves in Shady Rest so the night wasn't a complete waste. Xander joined Buffy on a marble bench in front of a mausoleum.
"It's quiet," Xander said solemnly. "Too quiet."
"Jinx," Buffy muttered. "I hate it that the bad guys have somebody smart in charge. Somebody . . ."
He leaned against her. "Somebody who knows how you work."
"Yeah." She let her weight rest against him and dropped her head onto his shoulder. She said something softly, and Xander listened harder. "Dawn's OK, Mom's OK, nobody's dead . . . again . . ." He quietly put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her.
He let himself dream it, for a second, that this was more than Buffy taking a moment's comfort from a friend, that he wasn't still bleeding internally from Anya being alive and well, but out of reach. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned down to kiss the top of her head. He felt her smile, then she turned her head to look at him. She studied him for a few moments, then leaned up to kiss his cheek. With a sigh, she pulled back to sit up straight.
"A Slayer's work is never done," she said.
"Nope," he replied.
She patted his knee, then stood up. "I'm going to take a stroll through campus on my way home. You OK for getting home?"
He kept telling himself that it wasn't as emasculating as it sounded, this tiny blonde girl asking a guy a foot taller than her if he needed help getting home. And really, it was a fair question. "I'm good."
She gave him a real Buffy smile, all that bright attention focused on him. "It is very important to me that you don't get munched, Xander."
He managed a 99% sincere laugh. "I've got a vested interest in that myself."
She nodded firmly. "Good. Call me tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am."
He watched her till she was out of sight, then reached up to rub the mostly-healed wound in his throat.
When he was little and they were visiting his mother's mom, Grandma had found him sitting way in the far corner of the backyard after dark, underneath a bush and staring out at the fireflies. She hadn't grabbed his arm and yanked him out, just peered in at him and asked if he needed anything. He'd shaken his head and said nothing. She'd smiled and said, "You're a fey little thing, aren't you. Don't stay out too long, there's pie waiting."
Later, over pie, he'd asked what "fey" meant. Grandma had ruffled his hair and said it meant like the fairyfolk in the stories, who hid in the woods and the bushes and did magic. Unfortunately, his father overheard, and the word fairy had only one definition in his very abridged personal dictionary. They hadn't visited Grandma very much after that.
It was the same mood that was on him now. The night was dark and quiet around him, with the occasional bird noise in the trees. He wanted to find a little spot to tuck himself into where he could stare out into the night and see what happened.
Another part, that he acknowledged as little as he could, wanted to run, to sniff the air, to make noises that scared the little things hiding in the bushes.
He tucked his head and smiled to himself, there in the dark. He was supposed to be afraid, he knew. The scar on his throat underlined the personal dangers of the night. When he looked into himself to where the fear should be, all he found was excitement. When he'd first followed Buffy into the darkness to fight the monsters who terrorized his school, there'd been a sensible amount of dread. All gone now.
The responsible guy who got up in the morning to go to work looked carefully for any signs of that suicidalness that had sent him out looking for fangs and claws, but that wasn't there. He very much did not want to run into anything that was likely to kill him. And he very much did not want to go home. There was a paycheck in his bank account and a Friday night all around him. He'd hoped to have some company while he was fiscally frivolous, but prowling around to find what he could on his own had its appeal.
He took his time getting up and heading back to his car, keeping a casual eye on his surroundings and not being too worried about what might be seeing him. When he got to the car, he got out a mini-flashlight and checked the backseat before opening the door, then he bent over just to make sure there wasn't anything underneath. Finding nothing, he got in and drove off.
The very idea of going to the Bronze by himself was creepy. He remembered feeling sorry for the post-graduation people who were hanging around the place when he'd been in high school, and he doubted opinions had changed. Willow and Buffy still went there occasionally, but cute girls were welcome in lots of places that Zeppos were not. Similarly, the Espresso Pump also leaned towards the gown side of the town-and-gown equation-with added negative points for Giles-with-guitar sightings. The Fish Tank was supposed to have an excellent country music selection on the jukebox, but Xander had lost all taste for beer bottles flying through the air a long time ago.
Dear lord, for bars he was willing to set foot into, that left Willy's and the Wheel, that weird place out by the freeway that had theme nights. He'd only gone into that one when he was delivering pizzas, and he tried not to think of the stuff he'd seen out of the corner of his eye while handing over the stack of extra-large cheese onlys. Anya had tried to get him out there for Sub Night, and he'd been willing, until she said it had nothing to do with sandwiches.
The Sun Cinema was showing some lame chick flick. Couples waited in line, the guys looking bored, yet hopeful of getting laid later. The rest of Main Street was depressingly convivial-people on dates, people in laughing groups, people having fun. At the 7-Eleven at the intersection of Main and Miwok, he turned left, towards the train station and the river. The real bad side of town.
On this side of town were the warehouses and factories and canneries that had been built decades ago, when Sunnydale was a bustling commercial center in its own right. Some of the places nearest the river and the trainyard were still in business, trading in produce from the farms and vineyards farther out in the valleys. Back in 5th Grade Social Studies, Mrs. Keener had talked about small growers who wanted to stay independent of the big conglomerates and about the politics of the dock workers and union busters and unexplained fires in warehouses. To most everyone in Sunnydale, this side of town was just something to be talking about in terms of urban renewal and opportunities for development. What they didn't realize was that this stretch of blight and decay was also the gateway to the demon side of town.
At first sight, the neighborhood just looked like any rundown, low-rent district. Xander wondered if it had been built with the monsters in mind-the late, unlamented Mayor had been in charge for a long time-or if they'd moved in as the humans left. A couple of low-rise buildings looked like apartment houses, which made sense, because the thingies had to live somewhere.
Hell, there was a even a new QuickiMart on the corner down from Willie's.
Not as many pedestrians on the street as in the human part of town. Most of them looked human, but a few showed extra appendages or a bit of extra squishiness on the edges. Xander paused at a Stop sign for a pedestrian who had multi-jointed, spindly legs peeking out from under a long coat.
He actually felt calmer in this part of town. Maybe he wasn't fit company for normal humans anymore-or they weren't fit company for him. He knew most of the rules here-if it tries to eat you, it's not your friend, and many things will try to eat you. He thought he knew the rules for normal humans, but those had stopped working for him a long time ago.
There was an open business section a couple of blocks in, just beyond Willie's bar. Xander thought a moment, then pulled into the small corner parking lot. A wizened blue thing sitting on an overturned milk crate at the entrance handed him a ticket stub without showing much interest in why a human was in his neck of the woods. Unless he didn't think Xander was human. Or didn't care. Xander parked, locked up the car, and went for a stroll.
Window shopping was different in the demon part of town. What looked like a pet store with a lot of kittens behind the barred window turned out to be a pawn shop of some sort, with the proprietor accepting merchandise in exchange for kitties. Unless it was a restaurant of some sort. Xander moved on quickly.
The hardware store's window looked normal and tempting, but he was too restless to go contemplate tools. A fairly spiffy tweed jacket in the men's clothing store next door attracted his eye, despite the Gilesian overtones, until he actually counted the number of sleeves.
He was just pausing to look over the display in the bookstore when someone leaving the store ran into him. He reached out to steady whomever it was and blinked at seeing Jonathan from high school. Jonathan stared at him in horror.
"Y-you!"
Xander blinked. "Me. Fancy meeting you in this part of town." He noticed several books in Jonathan's arms and tilted his head to see the titles.
Jonathan clutched the books to his chest and sidled away. "Love to stay and chat, must go, bye." Once he was out of arms reach, he ran.
"Yeah," Xander muttered, "you're not up to something." He watched Jonathan run down the street towards a van parked facing away. The side door slid back, and Jonathan stumbled into the vehicle. Xander started strolling in that direction, and he smiled slightly as the engine started and the van lurched, then peeled rubber as it left. "Yeah, perfectly innocent Friday night shopping at the demon bookstore."
He hadn't seen the license plate, and anyway, looking up such things would involve trying to get Willow to talk to him, and that wasn't happening very often anymore.
He shook his head, dismissing thoughts that led to dark, appealing spirals. He was out here looking for distraction from the unpleasantnesses creeping through his life. Neon across the street caught his eye, and he focused on the sign in the shop window. Oh. That was a thought. Not the smartest of thoughts, what with potential pain and blood and whatnot, but a thought. Besides, he wondered what the demon version would look like.
He carefully looked both ways, then crossed the street to the store with the sign that said Tattoo.
A prosaic buzzer went off as he opened the shop door. The first thing he noticed was the Wookie. Orangutan. Sasquatch? The . . . person sitting in the barber's chair at the first station at the front of the store was tall and wide and had orange-brown fur sticking out of his plaid shirt sleeves and collar and sprouting profusely from his head. The boots and blue jeans hid the rest of him. Pointed ears stuck up through the fur, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rested on the long muzzle. He looked up from his newspaper and blinked in apparent surprise.
"You lost?" he said. His voice was low and rumbly, but his English was better than that of lots of people Xander had gone to school with.
"Not tonight," Xander answered.
The . . . person squinted at him, then sniffed a couple of times. "Don't get many of your sort in here on purpose."
Xander raised an eyebrow. "My sort?"
The orange-furred guy looked a touch concerned. "Human. Are you another sort?"
The answer still held good. "Not tonight." He tried not to laugh at the doubting look he got. If he wasn't careful, he'd get himself thrown out of a demon store for being too odd.
"Yeah." Orange Fur studied him a moment longer, then folded the paper and stood. "So what can I do for you tonight?"
"I think I want a tattoo."
"You think you do. You ever get one before?"
"Nope."
Orange Fur frowned at him over his spectacles. "And you came *here*?"
Xander wondered if he should worry about how casually he was taking all this. "I was outside, I saw the place, I got the idea."
"You're weird."
He nodded gravely. "It's been said."
Orange Fur's muzzle twitched in what was hopefully a smile. "It's your skin. Well, I'm Melvin, and this is my place." He saw Xander's twitch. "What?" he frowned.
"Nothing, nothing. Melvin. It's an interesting name."
"It means 'He who has many children with many females and can feed them all.'" Melvin shrugged. "Shorter to say Melvin."
"I can see where it would be. I'm Xander. What?" he added as Melvin snickered.
"You don't want to know. So . . . Xander. What kind of tattoo are you looking for?"
His bizarre confidence left him. "I don't know."
Melvin stared at him, then sighed. "You are weird." He waved a hand at the walls. "Take a look around. See if anything appeals. Don't freak out at my customers." He went back to his chair and picked up his newspaper.
Xander started to protest that he wasn't going to freak out, then he finally looked around the rest of the shop. The other two chairs were occupied. In the far chair sat something with skin that must have had the consistency of stone, considering the tattoo artist was using a mallet and a very fine-pointed chisel to work on some scrollwork on the creature's arm. The middle chair held an Orion slave girl-uh, woman with green skin-where had the Orion slave girls gone in Next Generation Trek? Were they all emancipated and made to put on clothes?
He paused and took a serious look at where his brain was. He was standing in a weird-creature-owned tattoo shop in the demon part of town, seriously contemplating permanent markings in his flesh, and his squirrel brain was musing on Star Trek rather than self-preservation and basic mortal safety. Where was he currently on the great spectrum of sanity?
He honestly didn't feel threatened, and he got the impression that Melvin would object to ruckuses in his place that might damage current and potential customers. Was he feeling antsy for good reason, or only because he knew he was supposed to be feeling antsy?
A small voice inside said, "Buffy wouldn't approve. Willow wouldn't approve." Yeah, well, where had doing things they approved of gotten him? All alone on a Friday night-standing in a weird-creature-owned-tattoo shop in the demon part of town.
He didn't actually need to get a tattoo. He could just look at all the pictures on the wall and think it over for a while. Call it recon, getting a feel for life on the non-human side of things.
He paused a moment to think that he might just want to spend some of Saturday in a sunny park somewhere, watching typical humans do typical human things. And maybe that wouldn't feel like recon, but more like reality. Whatever reality was supposed to be.
He turned his attention to the pictures on the walls of the tattoo shop waiting area. There were a surprising number of roses and thorns and blood-dripping daggers stabbed through hearts. Were the demons who wanted those kinds of tattoos aping humans, or did the symbolism actually transcend species? A lot of the pictures looked like words in differing language. Xander recognized Greek and Arabic and Fyarl and what was probably Japanese or Chinese. He stepped forward to study the Oriental characters more closely.
"Found something?" Melvin asked from behind his paper.
"Maybe. But for all I know, these say things like Eat at Wong's or My Body Went to Tokyo and All I Got was a Lousy Tattoo." He grinned. "Or, Stupid Human, Good to Eat."
"That scar on your throat says that."
Xander's grin twisted. "No, that one says, Stupid Human, Good to Eat, Still Standing."
"Fair point." Melvin folded the paper and got up. "So you're looking at something in Japanese or Chinese?"
"Maybe. I remember seeing something once that I liked in Japanese. Just a single character. Supposed to represent a tree growing in a doorway. The book said it meant Quiet."
Melvin nodded and went to a desk to pick up a pen and a piece of paper. He sketched out a few lines. "That?"
Xander studied the two gate-like symbols bracketing the smaller symbol. "Yeah, that." He nodded again. "That."
"So you're going to get some ink. Where do you want it?"
He quickly considered his skin and how blatant he wanted to be about casual viewing of possible body modifications. "Small of the back."
Melvin snorted. "Tramp stamp."
Xander glared at him. "I know a lady who has a tattoo in the small of her back, and she would tear out and feed you your gall bladder if you called her a tramp. If you don't have a gall bladder, she'd find one just for the purpose."
If Melvin laughed, he didn't do it out loud. "My apologies to the lady." He glanced around the room. "Gat and Hobe are still going to be awhile, looks like I'll be the one doing the work. Shirt off, in the chair."
"Aren't there some kind of permission forms and liability stuff I have to sign?"
"You don't trust me to do it right, go somewhere else. As for permission, you're not drunk and you walked in alone under your own power. I assume you know what you're doing." Melvin raised what might have been a fuzzy orange eyebrow. "Or don't you?"
"Depends on who you ask." Xander shrugged and pulled off his t-shirt.
Melvin folded back parts of the chair so that the padded back became something Xander could lean his chest against and rest his arms on. Xander watched in the mirror as Melvin mixed inks and pulled up a machine that looked like Laurence Olivier's toy in "Marathon Man."
"So," he said, "how many humans come through here?"
"Not a lot, more than a few."
He slapped something cold and wet against the small of Xander's back, then wiped it off a few seconds later. There was a mirror in front of Xander, where he could see the reflection in the mirrors on the wall behind him. Melvin put the piece of paper with the drawing of the character on his back and rubbed the picture with his thumb. When he pulled the paper off, the character had been transferred to Xander's spine.
Melvin looked up into the mirror. "Look right?"
Xander craned his head, then nodded. "I like it." Just a small little scribble at the base of the spine. Like a punctuation mark, or something on a map that says "You are here." He settled back into the chair. "Let's do it."
Melvin pulled on some gloves, picked up the gun-shaped part of his device, screwed and attached bits to it, and hit a button to make it whirr. He met Xander's eyes in the mirror again. "Last chance to change your mind before something permanent gets done."
Xander looked over the machine, contemplated needles, wondered briefly how they compared to vampire fangs, then folded his arms on the top of the chair and rested his chin. "Bring it."
"OK, starting."
He managed not to jump at the first sting. After the first few, he closed his eyes. It wasn't as bad as vampire bites or demon claws or monster fists . . . or other fists . . . or heartbreak . . .
He focused on the buzz at the base of his spine, virtuously ignoring the other nerves that found the new sensations intriguing, and spent some time contemplating his flesh and bones and not his brain for a change. Footsteps went back and forth behind him occasionally, skittering taps that sounded like hooves, scratchy noises that might have involved claws, the clomp of boots. The buzzer on the door went off a few times, accompanied by various people talking.
Xander's nose twitched at the smell of cigarette smoke. "I guess no one bothers you guys about violating the indoor smoking laws."
Melvin paused in what he was doing to Xander's back. "Yeah, don't get many inspectors through here. Still wish people wouldn't smoke in here, though."
Xander heard the scuff of a boot, and the cigarette smell got stronger. He opened his eyes to look in the mirror. The reflection of Melvin was looking towards his left, where a cloud of smoke hung in the air. No one else was visible in the mirror, but there was a weird empty spot in the middle of the cloud. Xander studied that spot and smirked before settling his chin back down on his folded arms. "So how does it look, Spike?"
A chuckle came from the direction of the cloud. "Ink looks good on you, whelp."