Having finished her day at Misty's art gallery, Joyce was feeling much better. She knew that Emma was planning to have her talk with Mr. Mooreland, the probable Watcher. While there were all sorts of ways that talk could go, she had to trust Emma to manage things. She'd talked to Misty about the possibility that someone might attempt to put pressure on her by means of the gallery. Even though she hoped it was an unnecessary talk, that these Watchers wouldn't use such underhanded tactics, that her place of employment and her employer would be out of bounds for them, she'd rather not take that gamble. Misty's assurance that now that she was fore-warned, she would be just fine seemed… Joyce admitted that she might not have believed it except for the glimpses that she'd seen. When Misty had taken on a blue cast, when traces of someone far more dangerous than a simple art gallery owner had shown themselves. Traces of whatever Misty did that had Emma almost laughing at the idea of the woman selling stolen art works.

For that matter, it might not be a bad idea to see if she could figure out a way to mention the scary things out there to Misty. A way that didn't involve looking like a lunatic. She'd have to think on that a bit more, later. It wasn't something to approach lightly, and not something that would give her a second chance.

Traffic wasn't terrible, so she managed to get home before the girls were back from school. With pleasure, she kicked her shoes off along the hall, promising to put them properly in her closet later.

"No problems at the gallery, Joyce?" Emma's voice sounded pleased enough that her talk with Mr. Mooreland must have gone well enough.

"Misty assures me that she'll be able to handle anything that the lunatics stalking my daughter might pull, if they're rude enough to try anything against her gallery as leverage. She said if they go after the gallery, they'll probably live, they might live if they attack her, and she promises a horrible, painful demise that nobody will be able to prove happened if they so much as touch Irene." Joyce walked over to Emma and gave her a small kiss. "What about your day?"

"Business went as usual with the company. I think my new personal assistant will work out quite well, and there's the added benefit that visitors will completely underestimate her," Emma paused, with a faint smile. "The fact that she considers me a wonderful example of a successful business woman is an added benefit."

"Do I need to worry that you'll find her too pretty?" Joyce didn't like that nasty worry, and part of her hated Hank for causing it, hated Astrid for meddling enough that she'd stayed so long with Hank and his cheating ways. Of course, with Emma's telepathy, there was no point in keeping silent about that worry – Emma'd know anyhow.

Emma chuckled, "No, dear. She's pretty and cute in a way that makes her look five years younger than she really is, and what she'd really like in a date is a tall, dark haired man with an accent and a smoldering smile. Like a young Ricardo Montalbán without the wife."

"I can see the appeal of that," Joyce chuckled.

"Should I be jealous now?" Emma's teasing voice held no worry, and the fact that she'd wrapped her arms around Joyce only added to the fact that she felt no worry about her girlfriend leaving her.

"Admiring the youthful good looks and charming voice of an actor who's now forty years past that point and happily married is hardly a threat to you, darling. There have been many actors and musicians that have good looks, that doesn't mean I'd want to do more than look and smile. And you're never going to convince me that you've never looked and admired someone. Even someone that you had no intention of approaching," Joyce waved one finger towards Emma.

"Well, there's a bit of truth to that. And some people rather lose their charm when you're close enough to actually talk to them. But there have been a few that I've looked at from afar and enjoyed the view. But on a more practical note, Phillip Mooreland seems quite inclined to be reasonable. He'll be over on Thursday so that we can have a longer talk, and have him meet the girls. He did raise a few unwelcome but valid points on some of our issues…"

In a small apartment in a much less spacious and scenic part of town, Phillip Mooreland sighed. He'd had a lunch meeting with the woman who'd called him, a woman who'd made it tactfully clear that she knew things. Before the meeting, he'd tried to figure out who the woman could be, how she'd learned, and what to do about her. He'd hoped that bluster and confusion would work. When he'd first seen the woman – and what a woman! – he'd wondered about confusion, misdirection, and lustful distraction. The last would certainly have been honest, how anyone was supposed to think straight seeing a woman who looked like that dressed in clothing like she wore…

Shaking his head, he dragged his wandering thoughts back to the present. Back to the real issues. Due to Claybourne and his clumsy voyeuristic tendencies, Emma Frost knew about the Watchers Council. She knew that Buffy Summers was the Slayer, and had some sort of strong connection with the Slayer's mother. Emma Frost had decided to take an interest in the Slayer and her safety.

As much as he thought it was a wonderful idea, everything was quite overwhelming. The idea of giving a Slayer armor was excellent, and he wondered if anyone had tried it before. Or perhaps it had been judged too difficult to get a good set made in time in past centuries. Providing back-up for a patrolling Slayer, back-up beyond a healthy Watcher, was a novel idea. On the one hand, it made so much sense to have someone ready to watch her back, ready to help take out swarms and nests of vampires and demons. On the other hand, if the back-up wasn't capable enough in a fight, they could become distractions and liabilities. They could become secrecy risks. It completely flew in the face of tradition.

He had the feeling that Emma Frost defied tradition on a regular basis and had no intention of changing.

Considering his first encounter with Emma Frost and the comments that she'd made about what she'd already done for the Slayer, for Buffy, Phillip came to a few conclusions. "I don't think she's doing this because the girl's the Slayer. She's not going to change her approach because the Council has centuries of tradition and won't like it. I have no idea what she'll come up with next, and no idea if the Slayer's mother is just like her or in some way more confusing."

He didn't think there had ever been a situation like this with a Slayer. A Slayer with a strong protector, with money, influence and political savvy. A Slayer with a protector with options besides the Council. A Slayer and protector who viewed the Council as possibly useful instead of necessary.

Phillip Mooreland wondered if he could get reinforcements to preserve his sanity while dealing with these women.

End part 34.

The next few days were a study in contrast. Joyce continued her work at Misty's gallery, documenting sales and arranging contact with previous artists, finalizing the details for the showing of Irene's work. Misty didn't offer any details about what measures and preparations might be in place for possible intruders, but the woman's confidence kept Joyce from asking. Perhaps it was best if she didn't know.

Buffy had been frustrated with her French and Math homework, annoyed by a paper for English, and delighted by a couple football players flirting with her. Neither of them had quite asked her out, or if they had, Buffy hadn't mentioned that part. But the attention had made Buffy's day a little brighter. Unfortunately, that bright spot was diminished by a pair of track members being attacked by 'an ugly dog-monster' while they were jogging before school. Neither had been killed, but what they'd described had been a beast that looked rather like a Great Dane, if said dog were covered with grey-green scales, had solid hued pale eyes, and double rows of yellowed teeth. Both had been helped down from the outdoor stands and sent for medical treatment.

The image that Emma had taken from their minds was definitely not the 'stray dog' that they'd mentioned to the Emergency Medical Technicians that had taken them away. Buffy had wanted to track the beast down immediately, but Emma had convinced her to wait until later, when she'd have armor and better weapons than a bag full of textbooks.

Buffy's quip that 'blunt trauma was generally useful for killing nasties' hadn't helped, though it had been worth a few laughs.

As Buffy, now with several concealed weapons and armor under her clothing, left with Jem and Ashe, Joyce tried not to let her worries show.

"She has weapons, armor and back-up. Trust your daughter, Joyce," Emma's low voice wouldn't have carried to the departing people, even with Buffy's slayer-sharp senses.

"Emma, the images that you lifted… This thing is like a dog. It acted rather like an angry dog, it's built mostly like a dog. It didn't look bony and hungry enough to be a stray," Joyce paused, reminding herself that the armor was very thoroughly tested, and there was medical help if any of them might be injured.

"All three of them are up to date on their shots," Emma paused. "What about the fact that it's some sort of evil dog?"

Joyce took a breath, and whispered, "Dogs, evil or not, scaly or not, are still dogs. Dogs can't open doors, Emma. Something else had to let it into the locker room. What happens when they find the dog's owner?"

Emma's worried expression didn't make Joyce feel any better.

Maybe it was a good thing that they'd have a reasonable Watcher on board with things soon.

Across the country, the vampire now answering to Angel stared at the walls of the basement apartment that the demon Whistler had arranged for him. Whistler had claimed that he was a messenger from the Powers That Be, which his description suggested was rather like God, or perhaps just a step or two below God. That these Powers had plans for the future, and wanted him to help one of their Champions.

He could still remember the details of that afternoon. Whistler had a van with ugly, blackened windows and had taken him to a city, pulling up near a large school before telling him to look out the door. Peering into the eye-wateringly bright sunlight, Angel had seen a pair of pretty girls sitting on the steps, both in short red and white outfits. One of them had hair as golden as the sunlight.

"You see that girl? The blonde?" Whistler had gestured at the girl, his words somber. "She doesn't know it yet, but her Destiny's big. She's going to be a Champion, a fighter to save people from things that most have never even imagined."

"She looks about as dangerous as a wet kitten," Angel had countered. While pretty, she had been delicate, and dressed in what he knew to be a cheerleader's uniform. While he wasn't an expert on modern human behavior, he knew enough to know that cheerleaders were considered decoration – they encouraged and were popular. They didn't fight, they didn't bring honor and favorable reputations to their school, television and movies often portrayed them as not too bright and of rather limber morals and bodies… But looks could be deceiving, after all, look at Darla, or Drusilla.

"She's going to be the next Slayer."

Angel had twisted to look at Whistler, his mind spinning at the idea. That girl, a Slayer? If that was true, then she was far more dangerous than she looked, or at least, she would be soon. Of course, there was one little problem. "In case you're forgetting, I'm a vampire. Slayers don't like vampires, in fact, they tend to slay them. That's why they're called Slayers, not amazons, or wood nymphs. What's to keep her from turning me into a dusty heap of ashes?"

"I'm sure that a clever guy like you can find a way," Whistler had countered.

Whistler had explained that she'd be in Sunnydale soon. That she would have many challenges in the town, and had to keep 'the Mouth' from being opened or used. A couple repetitions of how important it was that Angel help that girl, and one half furnished basement later, and Whistler had vanished.

"She isn't here," Angel remembered the blond that Whistler had called the soon-to-be Slayer. While there were a good number of pretty blondes in Sunnydale, none of them were that girl. "And it would be much easier to try to find her if I had a name."

Whistler had seemed very focused on the many dangers that the Slayer would face in Sunnydale. Dangers that she wasn't here to fight. Dangers that wouldn't just go away without her.

Angel's hand reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the sword that he'd liberated from an old demon nest. "The Slayer isn't here, but the dangers are. And I'm here."

Someone needed to keep the pretty blondes and the children safe. To reduce the chance that the young people out dancing and walking and having sex in poorly chosen locations wouldn't get eaten. He also remembered something from his mortal days, a few words that a priest had once told him. "Repenting is all well and good, but acts of penance and atonement can do more good on this earth."

He'd spent enough time fasting and wandering without home or possessions. Angel might not be the Slayer, but he could remove some of those dangers. Perhaps it was a fitting penance for those dark years, before the gypsies had thrust his soul, with morals and guilt, back into him.

Sunnydale had lots of demons and vampires that a vampire seeking atonement could kill. Maybe that would keep the Slayer from turning him into a heap of ashes when she showed up in this miserable town.

End part 35.