13.
Hold Your Fire

Above the tumult of encroaching humanity, a man shouted, "He's over here."

Was that one of the officers? Perhaps it was Xander, though Giles didn't believe so. He felt certain he would recognize the other man's voice. It might pay to watch things more closely, though it hardly mattered who it had been. The fact that help had arrived was enough to understand for the moment.

With the help, the lobby had been thrown into a state of controlled chaos, making it difficult to judge what was going on. Two men in blue paramedic's uniforms, totes slung over their shoulders, jogged to where Wesley lay near the center of the expansive, amber marble floor. One uniformed constable stood at the door, while two other detectives poked around, and there was still more 'help' outside preparing to invade.

Giles caught snatches of conversation, nothing discernible. Every voice, every clatter, no matter how faint, resonated in the open space of the room.

Presently, another paramedic and his mate entered wheeling a gurney. Its castors clacked across the sill. Giles took the opportunity while everyone's attention was diverted to cast a glance over his shoulder. Willow was still seated in the unlit office behind him. She hadn't slipped away, though the unease that permeated her person said that she meant to the instant a chance presented itself. This circus was too much for her. He returned the thin smile she gave him.

The whir and rattle of the gurney further muddled the din, providing another excellent distraction. "It'll be over soon," Giles said in an attempt to encourage her. Aware that he might draw unfriendly attention down on her, he faced forward, then mumbled under his breath, "We need to prepare for what's to come," hoping that she would hear him and take his meaning. This was a hell of a time to discuss such matters, yet he felt the need to remind her.

Wesley's unusual arrival, the company he was in, and his injuries, all suggest that he was successful. Tarrying any longer than absolutely necessary before completing his quest seems disrespectful of his sacrifice, if not, due to the gravity of our situation, entirely foolish. Lest we forget, we have a caged sociopath in our midst. The sooner Angelus is neutralized the better for everyone involved.

If worse comes to worst, I'll attempt the ritual myself. I doubt I'll be able to complete it, but no harm should arise from my fumbling.

Giles leveled his attention on Wesley and the paramedics. It was a harmless thing to watch, the expected thing, though Giles' actual interest was in Buffy. With his attention fixed where it was, he could keep an eye on her without actually watching her. The police had already questioned him rather thoroughly. Gunshot wounds tended to bring out that tendency in them. He'd given the portly inspector the same story he was certain she was treating him to now. It was a fabrication only in part.

Perhaps we were wrong to attempt the deception, though it seemed prudent. It still seems prudent. Concealing the fact that the door had been locked and had not been tampered with eliminated so many questions. Buffy had again demonstrated her talent for demolishing doors to that end, creating a false, yet flawed evidence trail.

That we heard a crash and came downstairs to find Wesley was entirely true. The fact that he had not been alone was omitted. The authorities wouldn't have a single clue what to do with Illyria if they found her. The eventuality that she would wake and violently object to being detained seemed like a situation best avoided.

I have little doubt that Buffy can weave a cock-and-bull story with such skill to avoid those pitfalls. I'm fairly certain that her fable will match those presented by Xander and myself well enough to deceive the police. I'm much less certain about Willow. Better they not notice her. In the event they do…

The toes of Giles' house shoes resting so close to Illyria's back made his situation feel gravely tenuous. His back ached from stooping. The choices were: pretend to lean casually over the counter or jab Illyria in the side. There was a slight chance that might rouse her. There was also a chance that one of their guests might become curious and make their way through the maze to discover both of his charges. Either scenario promised to set off a chain of events that would play out as a tragedy so absurd that in retrospect it might be viewed a comedy.

The authorities would no doubt take Illyria for an ordinary woman with unusual fashion sense and many questions would be asked. Questions for which there were no simple answers. Buffy was good enough to move her out of view before the police arrived. It would've been better still had she had time to move Illyria into a vacant room or even one of the offices. However, that was not to be.

As it was, he'd almost objected to Buffy depositing Illyria on the intake desk. He was glad he hadn't. He'd come across as much less the fool that way. His hearing wasn't as acute as hers. The police had come screeching up as she lowered Illyria to the floor. She'd had just enough time to hop over the intake desk before the first officer stepped into the lobby.

I for one am willing to be grateful for small favors.

He dismissed the idea that Illyria might wake without any interference at almost any moment. I have no idea why she's unconscious, or if the state she's in even qualifies as unconsciousness. She could be dead for all I know. There's simply no way to tell. It isn't as if she has a pulse, none that I could find. Her skin's as hard as a rock and room temperature. I assume that's normal. By similar reasoning, I have no cause to think that she needs to breathe.

Rolling with the punches seemed the best of plans. There were so many things so far outside of Giles' control they didn't bear contemplation. He was controlling the things he could, such as his expression and posture. Anything else could not be helped. Just like the set of circumstances that had landed him in this position.

It isn't as if we could've done anything differently. Yes, Willow might've done something more than go for clean linens, but I don't think so. I don't think she would've handled the stress.

Wesley was bleeding out. We did the best we could with the time we had. The nine-one-one call could not have been postponed. From the time I called until the first uniformed officer arrived couldn't have been more than five minutes. The ambulance took nearly three times as long to arrive. Delaying the initial request might well have been disastrous.

It was a weight off Giles' chest to see that the paramedics were loading Wesley onto the gurney without delay. He chose to view that as another positive sign. They had deemed Wesley stable enough to transport.

Small blessings will do for now.

Light diffused through the glade. Willow's instincts screamed for her to take the offensive, but looking up into anything that bright after so long spent in darkness would've been a noodleheaded thing to do. She watched the light play, imbuing pretty rainbow patterns in the raindrops spattering the lawn.

Had it not taken a couple of shakes to grow from spark to spotlight, she might've thought someone had triggered the house security lights. The glow seemed just that intense, but misplaced, concentrated from a central, fetid core on the driveway not ten paces in front of her. That was the final clue. Hints of must and musk and rot, carried in spite of the rain, left the unmistakable impression that this was magic, and not the sweet, earthy kind whose subtle savor was easy to miss.

There was only one thing this could be. Like it or not, unwanted, unexpected, uninvited company was dropping in to dirty the dishes, put its feet on the furniture, and even more likely, offer her unsolicited advice. Whether that turned out to be a tolerable thing or not would depend on the company. Considering the wards preventing such surprise visits, and the stench that could only mean evil was afoot, she had little hope that this would go well.

The glare was dying away. Willow got to her feet. She'd been busying herself tending to other details for which a body wasn't needed. As a result, her legs had been reduced to a prickly rubbery mess by long disuse. That minor annoyance took a backseat to the demonic bacchanalia burning inside of her, shifting from its accustomed patterns, kindling new complaints. What with all the everything, she was willing to count the fact that she didn't fall as a win.

Amid the remaining glint and the rapidly thinning smoke a familiar form took shape. It was Kennedy. Oh, umm, wow. I haven't seen her in—

The overwhelming sense that she still wasn't seeing Kennedy left Willow all the more unsettled. Something subtle—something besides the obvious was out of place, like seeing Buffy, then noticing that she was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks. This thing wasn't Kennedy. It was a wolf in sheep's clothing. A demon wrapped in trusty skin. A doppelganger or some other equally irritating creature. It didn't feel right, but something about it felt familiar. Willow demanded, "What do you want?"

Before the thing in the Kennedy suit could reply, "We need to talk," Willow had it. She knew why this thing seemed familiar, and knowing made her feel stupid. She'd encountered a dozen of them tonight. She was practically swimming in them. It was just the seeming impossibility that Kennedy would ever become mixed up with them that had thrown her. She was second only to Buffy as the last person Willow would've ever imagined making that choice. But there was no mistaking it. Kennedy was a vengeance demon.

Well, isn't this just dandy? D'Hoffryn couldn't get me, so he went after my nearest and dearest. Willow snuffed the next thought that came into her head and started for the house. That way badness lay. The number of people close to her who had ended up entangled by the 'vengeance fold' was alarming. That was enough to know or note or tally for now.

As she passed and Kennedy stepped aside, turning to keep an eye on her, Willow asked, "You think so?" Her carefully schooled tone carried with it the trill singsong of laughter that made her proud. It was perfect. She sounded like she was something she really, really wasn't: totally in control.

"I do," Kennedy replied, tagging along. "I think you deserve to know what your girlfriend's been up to. She's been a busy little beaver."

Distracted, Willow replied with the first thing that flitted through her mind, "She usually is. Just sitting around makes her kinda nuts." The scant time on her feet had done little to improve her legs, or anything else for that matter. They tingled with every step while the rest of her ached. She ignored all of that as best she could, but she couldn't ignore the sicky, icky feeling that churned in the pit of her stomach. It was almost worse than the stiffness or the pain. Magic steadied her as she skipped up the steps. She could've flown, but that would've just been showy.

Instead of inviting the Kennedy-shaped thing into her home, she strode to a glider that sat under an awning next to the house. There were so many memories in this place she felt haunted. Inside was worse, but even out here, Willow still pined for the past…for normalcy. The glider had been acquired so that she had a place to be, and maybe—though doubtfully—stay dry on days when Buffy washed her motorcycle. The simple act of sitting there brought back visions of sunshine, warm breezes, vibrant colors, pleasant smells, and equally pleasant sights with all the yummy goodness of scanty clothing and soapy water. It was a good life.

I wonder if I could undo one wish with another. The absurdity of the thought made her smile. If I was dealing with someone who would play fair, maybe, but if I was dealing with someone who was willing to play fair, this wouldn't be happening at all.

Settling down beside her, Kennedy said, "Yeah, it's who she's getting busy with that's bugging me."

Willow almost missed it. It would've been so much better for Kennedy if she had. The accusation with all of its annoying insinuation brought Willow back to herself. The details slipped into place, feeling like a revelation. This isn't my Kennedy. I was right when I thought 'doppelganger.' Righter than I ever—

Her smile brightened. She knows where Buffy is. She's talking about Buffy—my Buffy—and she knows it. She's seen her. She knows where and who my Buffy is.

The detective had concluded his interrogation. They would refer to it as 'questioning,' but Giles knew better. The authorities are never so kind. As Buffy approached the intake desk, he felt motivated to ask, "Is everything alright?" by the sourness of her expression.

She didn't reply and for a moment he considered asking again. She was far too interested in something that was occurring just over her left shoulder. The only ones behind her were the police forensics team. They were doing what forensics teams normally do. Such as, for instance, noticing the complete absence of a blood trail.

Finally, she said, "Yeah, fine," turning to meet Giles' gaze.

He supposed it was no wonder she appeared distracted, but Giles took a gamble, saying, "Perhaps it would be prudent for you to visit our guest. I believe he could use some refreshments."

That got her attention. She looked bemused, but that was fine. The details could be sorted. "Okay," she said, dragging the word out questioningly.

Giles put on a well practiced, patient guise. Their history taken into account, that alone might've jarred her memory in time, but he decided to press the issue. "Do you recall our earlier conversation?"

"Sure," she agreed, a measure of her bemusement fading.

That smelled of some small progress to him. Giles attempted to push the progress home. "Well, then, Wesley's arrival here must surely tell you something."

"Oh, okay," she said. "I thought we were gonna wait till 'Just the facts, ma'am' and his pals cleared out."

"I don't see why we should," Giles replied. "Do you have everything that you'll need?" They could slip out the office's side entrance, into the hallway and make their way to the backstairs with no one the wiser. That seemed like a fine plan to him.

"Yeah, I think so. We left all the stuff down there," Buffy said, disappearing down the adjacent hallway to make her way to the office.

Giles judged her progress as best he could by timing. He replied, "Good," glancing back as she reemerged in the office behind the counter. "I believe that it's time we fulfill our side of the agreement." He looked to ensure that they hadn't attracted the attention of any of the detectives. They appeared occupied with the difficult matter of comparing notes, so Giles went on, "For Wesley's sake. I'm certain he'll recover more readily knowing that we've seen to all of the remaining details."

"You think he got the goodies, then?" Buffy asked from behind him.

Giles glanced back. She was indeed where he judged her to be. That gave him a reason to turn fully around. She was politely positioned, leaning against the door facing, so as not to exclude Willow from the conversation. "I see no reason to doubt that he found precisely what he was looking for and paid a heavy price to retrieve it," he replied.

"Alright," she said, turning to address Willow, "Will, you up for a little hocus-pocus?"

Willow replied, "I can try."

Giles expected no better. He knew she would do exactly what she promised. She'd sounded equally reticent beneath the veneer of false confidence many years ago, the first time she offered to attempt the spell. Giles found that oddly reassuring.

"Well, I guess that's that," Buffy said, turning to leave. "You know where we'll be. Shout if you need us."

"Godspeed," Giles replied, his attention returning to the lobby. It was good to see that the proceedings appeared to be winding down.

Xander had been doing an admirable job up to this point of distracting the authorities by playing the part of a curious lad. Naturally, he had been helpful too—too helpful to simply dismiss. His hands were still stained with blood, only partially wiped away. He had been assigned the task of applying pressure to Wesley's wound, while Giles had assessed his injuries. The tail of Xander's polo shirt was smudged as well. He disappeared down the hallway, no doubt headed to the lavatory to get cleaned up.

The ambulance sirens wailed in through the open doorway, bring with it a faint cascade of strobing, ruddy light. The eldest of the detectives approached the intake desk. "Are you certain you've told us everything?" the officer asked. He searched for some sign of deception.

Giles' face remained an impassive, yet amiable mask. "I've shared everything I know." His expression turned to one of equally disciplined concern. "Is there a problem?"

Of course there was, but the officer replied, "No, no problem. Some of the facts just don't add up."

Such as the lack of blood on the door? There was no way Wesley could've forced his way in without leaving behind bloody handprints. Conversely, had one of us shot him, there would be a spatter pattern in the lobby. To them it must look as if an impossibly meticulous gorilla smashed the door in and deposited the body without leaving a single speck of blood anywhere else. Or stranger still, as if their victim had been deposited here by magic, which was actually the case. Pity they would never accept that.

Far better for us to deflect their suspicions than for the facts to speak for themselves. The facts in this instance are somewhat dubious. The ones who actually committed the crime are miles away. They'll never be linked to it because the facts say that their involvement is impossible.

Giles allowed none of his musings to reflect outwardly as the detective regarded him. Finally, the detective capitulated, "Yes, well, if you have nothing else to share, I believe we've done everything we can."

"Thank you for your assistance," Giles replied, his sincerity strained, but evident. It is a shame that fate has so often conspired to put me on the wrong side of the law. It's something of a juxtaposition to be cast the noble scoundrel, fighting for the forces of good. Not to mention dreadfully romantic, the revolting drivel of a serial melodrama.

Willow glanced down to where Kennedy's hand rested beside her own. They weren't quite touching. Willow placed her hand over the back of Kennedy's, quickly lacing their fingers together. Kennedy tried to recoil. She was so strong. Willow fought to keep hold as she plundered Kennedy's thoughts, demanding, 'Buffy. Show her to me.'

Kennedy let out a long, keening wail.

A wave of nausea followed a flood of images. Clouded eyes set in ashen faces, dozens of them, all young women, lying sprawled, twisted into positions that left no doubt that they were dead. The realization that she recognized some of them almost made Willow toss her cookies. She doubled over, one hand cupped to her mouth.

Even if she'd been able to, complaining that she'd wanted to see 'Buffy' not 'bodies' seemed pointless. Especially so, considering that she didn't sense Kennedy anywhere near. She'd flown the coop. The feeling that she'd screwed up snapped Willow to her senses. She looked up. It was true. Kennedy wasn't anywhere near. She was nearly around the garage.

"Hey, come back here," Willow called out, like anything she could say would work after that. Surprise was causing her to behave like a goof.

The second thing she did was more effective, and every bit knee-jerk reaction, so much so that it took a moment for her to figure it out. Reflexively, she'd set up a quick witch-fu snafu by putting something 'scary' in Kennedy's way. The 'something scary' was herself, though not really. Willow just made Kennedy think that she was there.

Kennedy didn't go 'poof.' That was even more surprising. Teleporting away would've been exactly the right thing to do. It was good that she didn't. Willow thought she'd flubbed again. Something like relief washed over her.

For a while Kennedy did a fair impression of the blonde girl in any splatter film—with the running and the screaming. And Willow did a fair impression of that Agent Smith guy from that awful Matrix sequel, at least in Kennedy's head.

It was a silly game, one that proceeded without a hitch, giving Willow time to tighten the screws. Or more accurately 'thicken the air,' and by virtue of the weather the raindrops too. It got to be about the consistency of tapioca pudding pretty quickly. When that didn't work, Willow went for wet cement, and so on. She ended up with a solid, terrified lump which she hoisted from the bushes.

A personal struggle took place as Willow hauled her prisoner to where she stood on the driveway. The idea that she'd gone anywhere without really being aware troubled her. She didn't recall whether she'd walked, ran, flown or done the cha-cha to get to her current position. She just knew that she hadn't been there when the cat-and-mouse game began.

But that was small potatoes compared with everything else she felt. A lot of power was required to maintain the full body cast. And that wasn't a problem. Willow had power to burn. The problem was the power itself. It swelled inside of her. The part of her that wasn't her was pleased to cause torment, even to one of its own.

Even the act of releasing Kennedy to hold her only by one wrist, similar to how she'd held the demon she'd bullied to get at Beljoxa's Eye, gave Willow an inordinate amount of pleasure. Pleasure which could only be her new demonic aspect reveling in Kennedy's suffering.

The move had been intended to be one of regress. Willow wanted limit the power she was consuming, and thereby quash its effect. The problem lay with Kennedy. Release of any kind encouraged her to make an attempt at freedom. The old axiom held true: freedom could only be bought with pain.

The darkness welling up inside of Willow wanted to cause more. It longed to break Kennedy's neck so she couldn't flail around. It argued that Kennedy's cries might be heard. Someone might come. All Willow had to do was crush her throat. It would be such an easy thing to do.

Those reactions were so strong that they frightened Willow. She was terrified that the parts of her that were still her and not a conglomeration of stolen power would succumb to the seduction and slip away for good. The possibility existed for her to become a real monster. Past experience made her far more sensitive to that than she would've otherwise been. She was grateful for that in a way she never in her wildest dreams imagined she could be.

At her very heart she wanted nothing more than to let Kennedy go. I can't. I need to know what she knows. Without that, everything I've done up to now will be pointless. This is it. This is the thing I've been waiting for. Kennedy is a substantive link to Buffy. I have to use that.

As Kennedy drew near, Willow saw something that made her belly roil. Kennedy's hand—the one Willow had touched—was puffy and black, its skin shriveled like a raisin. It was horrible and that pleased Willow beyond any of the other minor torments. I was right. Self-satisfaction made her swell to bursting, yet she was queasy. I have to finish this now.

Right now.

Morning light had just started to gray the eastern sky when Willow reached out. Kennedy flinched, but couldn't move. She quivered under Willow's touch, casting her eyes wildly around. A scream tore croaking from her throat. The flesh of her cheeks stained black beneath Willow's fingertips. Every trace of energy that made Kennedy who she was came with Willow's hand when she withdrew it.

Dammit.

D'Hoffryn wasn't even certain what he was watching. He'd witnessed nothing like it in all his centuries.

Dammit!

A warm golden aura bathed Willow, causing her to shimmer. Kennedy slumped dead. Willow reduced her to nothing more than a shriveled black husk.

Dammit!

As the aura faded, pooling on Willow's skin, soaking into her, the husk fell. It hit the ground and shattered into jagged chunks, like raw carbon but apparently softer. The rain was already eroding it away.

Dammit!

Willow watched her feet intently. The rain made quick work of the remains. As the last of the muck washed into a thin, oily sheen, she turned to look over her shoulder, peering past countless miles, across dimensions, through time itself, into D'Hoffryn's eyes.

It had been one heck of a night, morning, whatever. Xander didn't have a hangover. The fact that he felt hungover was compliments of the rude awakening and collective craziness that followed. He wanted more than anything to go back to bed and pull the dirt in after him. Or something like that.

Company had cleared out. At least there was that. Xander's Emmy-worthy performance as the Chipper Helpful Guy had moved on to regale Giles in the covey behind the intake desk. He stood, his arms crossed over his chest. Giles was beside him, putting on an equally stoic show. "We should move her," Xander suggested.

Moments passed. Nothing happened. Curiosity caused him to glance at Giles, barely moving his head. Curiosity turned out badly for him so often it always made him queasy.

'Incredulous' began to cover Giles' reaction. Where that left off, 'aghast' took up the slack.

And what exactly was it that made me think things would go any better this time?

Xander quickly filled in, hoping to recover, "I dunno about you, but waking up stuffed under a counter like so much—" He paused. What with how his head felt, it came as no surprise to draw a blank. "Like—" The only thing he could think of was the old horror movie cliché of the kid hiding in the cupboard. That isn't even close.

Not if Giles' quick 'half the news that was fit to print' briefing was even close to right. There was only one point worth remembering: Illyria's a hell god. All I've really got on them hinges around Glorificus. Illyria's missing a few things, like scabby minions and a Bel Air fashion sense, but if the label's even close, she's gonna love being shoved under a counter.

Giles was staring. He hadn't said a word, which was weird considering the look on his face. Xander expected he'd have plenty to say. Stuff like 'buffoon' and 'idiot' and 'dolt' and maybe even 'ponce,' though that gibberish Britishism has pretty much been retired since Spike went and made our lives so very entertaining.

Beating Giles to the punch again seemed like a plan. "You know what I mean," Xander said, crossing the space to the counter. "She probably won't like being chucked aside like this." He stooped down. "Now are you going to help me, or not?"

Giles found his voice, broke his vow of silence or whatever, "Have you considered how Illyria might respond if she awakes to find us lugging her across the lobby like some—?"

Xander said, "See?" amused that Giles had choked too. "There just isn't a good analogy, is there?"

As Xander took Illyria's wrist in hand, Giles admitted, "Yes, well, I was thinking 'helpless damsel,' but that observation isn't remotely correct. It would be impossible for one of us to carry her cradled as such. Considering the heft of her wrist, I suspect we'll be doing quite well to lift her by the shoulders and legs as we might a stout man."

He was just echoing what Xander was picking up on his own now. Lifting Illyria's hand was like picking up a box of tenpenny nails in a pleasant, more liftable shape. Illyria's arm weighed almost as much as a couple of bundles of shingles.

Giles was prattling something about 'automatons.'

Xander didn't ask. The name didn't have a promising ring. It was enough to offer a silent hope that, whatever they were, they wouldn't be showing up for dinner. He gave up playing 'pose the dolly' with the thing that was older than dirt. Knocking that off before it got him flattened seemed like a good call.

"I, for one, would prefer not to spend the next week laid up in hospital because you were feeling charitable," Giles said. He had a point, though it was possible he was talking about wrenching his back during the moving.

Whatever way the 'laying up' happened, it sounded like all sorts of 'no fun.' Just the fact that there are options for getting laid up is reason enough for me to stand up and back slowly away. He did so before he made another, slightly more sensible suggestion, "So, coffee?"

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Giles agreed.