He knew that she knew. As soon as he got back, stumbling into the factory, out of breath even though he didn't need to breathe, he knew. She was twirling slowly in the middle of the room, staring up at the ceiling as the minions he'd let live looked on, their faces just a bit fearful. A snarling command sent them running, scurrying away without protest. Carefully, wary of what mood his dark princess might be in, Spike moved slowly to her side.

"Where have you been my sweet William?" she asked in a lofty voice when he had reached her, stopping just a few feet away. She ceased her circling abruptly, her arms falling to her sides as she smiled at him. "You've gone and missed the fireworks."

Spike swallowed. "What did you see luv?" he asked hoarsely. But he knew.

"Such pretty colors they made," Dru smiled, her fingers making small flicking motions in the air. "Someone's coming. Someone new."

Relief fell on him like a weight. Angelus was an old nightmare, nothing they hadn't seen before, and so it couldn't have been him. So he had time. Time to get them both away from here. If he never saw Angelus again it would be too soon, and he wasn't going to stick around waiting for the bastard to show up.

"Dru, luv, let's get out of her," he said softly, slipping in close behind her and hooking his chin over her shoulder. "You're not well, ducks," he murmured, "And we need to find a way to make you better. But this place is poison, and with the Slayer about…"

Dru laughed lightly, pulling away from him. "Pretty girl,' she said. "Such a pretty sunshine. Like a candle in the dark." Suddenly she frowned, putting her fingers in her mouth. "Burns my fingertips," she murmured sadly.

Spike watched cautiously as she began to waltz over the floor with an invisible partner. He knew he couldn't reach her when she was like this, and contemplated simply throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her to the car.

"Naughty!" she scolded fondly, wagging her finger at him. "Mustn't leave now. Have to wait."

"Wait for what?" he asked. As much as he wanted to leave, Spike believed in Dru's visions. If something was telling her to stay, something that wasn't Angel…

"Someone's coming," she repeated. "Someone new." She turned on Spike with dark eyes, a wicked smile on her lips. "And what grand parties we'll all have."

Buffy watched with golden eyes as they left, moving in a tight knot from the house to Joyce's car, bundling inside and pulling slowly away from the curb. When the glowing red taillights had disappeared around the block, she dropped easily down from her perch on a high tree limb and strolled back up the walk to the door. Crushing the knob in her hand, she broke the useless locks and stepped inside.

The house was silent in that way that houses were, when you could just feel that there was no one home. She didn't know what she was doing here. She hadn't come here with the intention of… well at least she didn't think she had. Buffy's hands crept up to her temples and clutched at her hair. She felt so lost, so confused right now, and she had the fleeting thought that she would feel better if only someone would tell her what to do. Shaking her head vehemently, she snarled and stalked up the stairs. She was no child, no follower. She led, or she didn't go at all.

Heading straight for the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes as she went, waiting until the water was piping hot before she climbed in. Scrubbing the blood off her neck and chest, she was surprised to find how different things felt; the individual drops of water beading on her shoulders, the sponge rough on her skin, the way bubbles popped and slid between her fingers as she soaped her hair. Her shampoo was an explosion of scents, much deeper and more complex than the simple, sweet fruitiness she remembered. Luxuriating in the hot water until it began to run cold, she stepped out and wrapped herself in a soft, fluffy towel, the warm steam of the shower still swirling around her. Turning to the sink, she found herself suddenly unable to move.

It was strange. Surely something that would throw anyone off. To be there but not be there. Buffy frowned, her hand coming up to rest fingertips gently against the cold glass of the mirror that hung on the wall. Even through the thick fog that coated its surface she could tell that it was blank, a picture frame without a photo. She tilted her head from side to side, but the view didn't get any better. She was simply gone. Of their own accord, her fingers began to trace a question on the steamy glass; Who am I?

A snarl and an angry slash of her hand obliterated the words. She knew who she was. Didn't she?

Still dripping, Buffy walked across the hall to her bedroom and began to dig through her closet and her drawers looking for something to wear. She was horrified by what she found; pastels and soft colors, neutrals and horrible wedge heels – nothing that said strength or power, nothing that said Slayer. They were the clothes of a normal girl, costumes she had used to disguise who she really was. Tugging on a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt, she piled the few other pieces she found suitable in the middle of her bed. There was a small duffel bag somewhere, she just had to… there it was! Pulling it out, she packed her clothes in tightly; three sets of bras and underwear, socks, jeans and her leather pants. A few more t-shirts in deep colors followed: blue, red, black, and white. A few tops were deemed worthy as well; mostly snug strapless numbers that would leave her neck and shoulders exposed. Satisfied that she had a light load that would none the less give her some small option in her choice of wardrobe, she began looking for some footwear that wasn't completely ridiculous. She wound up with a pair of ratty tennis shoes, and another gem from the very back of the closet - a short leather jacket that just reached her hips.

Buffy dropped down onto the bench in front of her vanity and stared into the empty mirror. It was odd, not being able to see herself. She wondered how she would do her makeup from now on, her hair. It had dried loosely around her shoulders, and, unsure of what else she could do with it, she ran a brush harshly through the snarls before pulling it up in a high, tight ponytail. Tossing the brush into the bag with a stick of eyeliner and a deep, maroon colored lipstick, she took one last look around. The posters on the walls, the cluttering of personal affects all felt childish now. She wanted all of it and yet none of it; she didn't belong here anymore, not now, not as she was. Hefting the bag onto her shoulder, she turned to leave but a flash of soft pink caught her eye.

The pig sat on the pillows near the headboard, its quiet, unassuming face staring at her from dull button eyes. Buffy sneered at it; a stuffed toy that reminded her of the immaturity of who she'd been, her unwillingness to fully embrace who she was. But then she thought of the loneliness that had been plaguing her, of waking up alone and only wanting something to hold on to. Quickly, before she could think about it too much, she reached out and grabbed the pig, stuffing it deep into the duffel and zipping it closed, dropping silently out the window and darting across the street.

At the stop sign, a young, red-haired boy in a zebra striped van reached out to turn down his music.

"Well that's not good."

"We'll be safe here," Giles said, easing Joyce down into a chair in his living room.

The only sounds were the sobbing of the confused and distraught woman, the two teenagers pale and shaking in silence. They were in shock, they all were, having retreated in a state of utter fugue to the Watcher's flat. Sinking into cushions, swallowed up, they stared at each other blankly, almost completely unable to process what had just happened.

"What… what…" Joyce's hands shook, and she couldn't even find the right question to ask.

"We tried to tell you," Giles said wearily. He didn't soften the words, hadn't the heart to try to make this easier for the woman who'd so refused to put any faith in his word, in her daughter's. He had learned a terrible truth this night, and he wasn't sure he could forgive the woman her trespasses against his Slayer. It was a hard truth to believe, he knew that, but when the evidence was all around you, only so much denial could be excused.

"I don't…"

"Your daughter is the vampire Slayer!" Giles said firmly. Willow made a motion to calm him, a warning not to be so cruel, but he could not find it in his heart to be better. He had lost something tonight, and it was breaking him. "She is the strongest, most beautiful girl that I could have ever hoped to…" Giles had to stop and choke back a sob. "And you put her in asylum?" he asked on a broken whisper.

Turning, he walked away a few steps, trying desperately to get a grip on himself before turning back on the distraught woman in the corner.

"Dark things exist in this world," he intoned. "Last night, a warlock, a demon-worshipper, cast a spell, turning trick-or-treaters into their costumes for real. Surely you noticed something; screaming perhaps? You brushed it off as normal holiday mischief, or petty crime, but it wasn't. Willow here became a ghost; truly incorporeal. Xander became a soldier, with all the knowledge and weaponry of a real fighter. And your daughter? Well she became a vampire."

Joyce looked at him in horror with tear streaked cheeks, her eyes jumping between him and the two teenagers on the couch. "B,but… they…"

"Yes," Giles said. "That's just it. The spell was broken. But Buffy…"

"Buffy didn't change back," Willow finished.

"Giles, why didn't she turn back?" Xander asked, his tone that of a little boy completely lost.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

"Something must have gone wrong with the spell," Willow murmured. "Giles, is that guy…"

"He's gone!" The Watcher spat. "The whole shop's been cleared out. We're on our own there."

"Do you think that was…" Xander gulped. "I mean, do you think that was human blood on her?"

"What?" Joyce gasped. "Buffy wouldn't kill anyone…"

"Don't be stupid!" Giles snapped. "If Buffy is a true vampire, then she's not really Buffy at all. Just a demon in a Buffy-shaped shell. She'll kill, and she'll enjoy it. It won't matter if it's you or me or a complete stranger!"

"But, she didn't…" Joyce began, but she was cut off as Giles lashed out, sending a lamp crashing to the floor.

"God damn it!" he shouted. "Why wasn't Angel with her!"

"Angel," Willow repeated, her voice hollow.

"Yes Angel!" Giles snarled. "That useless, brooding…

"No, Giles, Angel!" Willow cried. "A soul! Angel has a soul!"

"Yeah, fat lot of good it did us," Xander scoffed.

"Don't you get it you dope?" Willow yelped, leaping to her feet. "There's a curse out there to give a vampire a soul. And if Buffy's stuck as a vampire…"

Giles looked at her with something that was almost hope. "We can still get her soul back."