Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Five

Four White Candles (Contained In Glass)

Once in every hundred years does a Day of the Dead truly come. A time when the moon aligns and magic thickens the air like gas, ready to explode at any moment. There is a festival of evils. Many rituals are performed by demons all over. Once November begins to bloom until the moon has reached its peak, the power will steadily grow. Many things have been known to happen during this time. The Great Apocalypse of 1907 was recorded by the Watcher's Council as 'full of atrocities. A time when darkness descended and chaos reigned supreme.'


A warehouse outside San Francisco, the world without shrimp - November 2007

Spike's hands were tied behind him again. But this time, as he fell forwards his body taught against the ropes, his eyes rolled back into his head. Really, there was no need for him to tied. He was eating out of the palm of Drusilla's hand. But she didn't want to risk it, plus the ritual would be violent, the rich magicks would make him writhe, yell, scream, beg for her to free him. But he had to stay. He had to want it. So she had him drooling after her like a puppy. His eyes followed her all around the room, when he wasn't drunk on lust. This was a different kind of hypnosis, one that had to be sustained, so she was drugging him with a powerful aphrodisiac. Only enhanced by the Day of the Dead. The power was reaching its height now, any day now and she would be ready to preform the spell. But the alignment had to be just right, nothing but a full moon would do.

On the table she lay out the ingredients and equipment, her hands steady as she lit four white candles, standing tall and proud in their holders. The flames flickered as the smoke came off them in trails. Drusilla crushed sage leaves in a circle around the candles and chanted loudly. Spike woke dreamily into consciousness, slipping in and out every now and again. He was in a delirious state, unsure of where he was, not caring in the slightest about anything other than Dru, and licking his lips almost constantly. His throat was so dry, he was dying for some blood. Where was the fresh body at his feet? The grisly neck for him to sink his fangs into? Drusilla had promised him.

He woke more considerably, the spell wearing slightly as the day went on. Several streams of light were coming through the thin gaps in the slats of the old warehouse, one was inching towards Spike's foot, a warning set for him if he dared to move forward. He grunted and opened his eyes, Drusilla was still chanting from the other side of the room, immersed in what she was doing. His fist banged on the wall behind him as he found his voice, it was cracking and dry, a thirst only blood could satiate. "Drusilla..." He whined, biting his lip impatiently to see if he could draw anything. But he was dead, and his blood was a dry well.

Drusilla's eyes fluttered open and she glared at him. "You have disturbed me, go to sleep." She flicked her wrist at him dismissively and he fell back into a deep stupor. Her power over him was all consuming, with a tilt of her head, or a look in her eye, she could control his every movement.


San Francisco, the world without shrimp - November 2007

Buffy drop kicked a vampire in the chin sending him flying across the sea of headstones. Then she turned on her heels and lunged a stake towards the demon behind her. Though it wouldn't dust him, a sharp blow to the chest would pretty much take him out too. Though she wasn't sure exactly what kind of demon it was. She hoped it wasn't one of those that could only die by drowning; because the cemetery really wasn't the most appropriate place to have that particular fight. Her hope was rightly placed, the demon crumpled behind her. By which time the vampire was stalking her again. "Ugh don't you guys get the message-" she shoved the vamp against the side of a tomb, stake in hand, ripped from the chest of the unknown demon and drooling a spooky fluid onto her shoes. It was so gross, Buffy forgot what she was about to say. "Eww, anyway, you're toast." She said, thrusting the bloody stake into the vampire's chest. He frowned before turning swiftly to dust.

She brushed her hands of him and walked away from the tomb, in the distance, walking towards her like zombies were three more demons. And boy, did she miss the days when the gang would help her with patrol.


The apartment was cold and empty, but she raced for the phone. That amount of bad guys on one patrol had to be something. This wasn't normal. She dialed Giles' London office extension and caught him eating breakfast at his desk. "You're in early?" She questioned as he munched through toast.

"And yet you called me here?" He replied, slurping a cup of coffee he was regretting. An American habit he'd picked up.

"I was lucky, plus this is the only number we have written down on the refrigerator, and I didn't want to bother Jenny. And I know you." Buffy said, reminding herself why she'd rung in the first place. Anyway Giles, I was just on patrol and it was manic, like two demons there, three over by the Thompson crypt."

"Oh?" Giles said intrigued, taking off his glasses like she was in the room with him.

"I got all of them but it was tight. Do you know what's happening, something feels off? Like apocalypsy off."

"Well I can certainly look into it for you, it is November, there are plenty Day of the Dead festivals going on, maybe a local Latino family conjured up something to help bring their relatives back?" He surmised, because there really wasn't anything else he could think of. San Francisco didn't have a Hellmouth, that kind of left them at odds most of the time.

"Thanks Giles. Oh and it's Latinx, more gender neutral."

"Right you are. I'll consult my books and get back to you later. Though Buffy what time is it there?" He checked his watch, though it didn't help. "Get some sleep."


Buffy slept a little, but probably not enough. She tossed and turned until curiosity got the better of her and she got dressed again, pulling on boots that made her feet ache and grabbing Mr Pointy from the chest at the end of her bed. The cemetery was quieter in the early hours of the morning, and she only found a few demons before the sun began to rise. She watched it from the distance, staring until she could see it even with her eyes closed. Every blink making the light face a little more. There was definitely something in the air. A rife feeling that tingled all the way over her arms, making the hairs stand up like soldiers, vying for attention. Call it slayer's intuition.


New Sunnydale, the world without shrimp - November 2007

As the magic shop bustled with life and Anya gift-wrapped like her life depended on it, she smiled, knowing this was where she belonged. It was her first week back at work because she couldn't stand being in the house all day. Of course there was Jack to take care of, and she loved that. But it was boring. Everyday, the same, over and over again, without even a tiny demon to make it more interesting. She really thought once they were settled she would quite enjoy not having to save the world every week. She didn't understand how other people lived everyday not knowing the supernatural world was there at all. To be in the Magic Box again was a relief.

She was just ringing up an order on the till for a very nice lady she served almost every week, sage sticks on back order kind of thing. She didn't know her name but she always sent her off with a smile and a "please come back for more purchases." Which the women was slowly getting used to. She looked up to see if there was anyone who needed her attention. There was a smattering of customers, mostly they were just picking things up inspecting them and then putting them back. She strolled over to a small man in the corner of the room, her hands behind her back, a sly smile on her face.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" She asked, making the man jump and almost drop the jar of newt's eyes he was holding.

"Yes um sorry, do you have the newt's eyes without the cataracts? I need them to be able to see properly."

Anya frowned, this was a rather odd request. "Well I can go and look in the back," she said, "but I don't see why you'd want them without the cataracts." She then whispered walking towards the shop's storage cellar. Xander had told her that the customers are supposed to be always right and that she had to accommodate them no matter what they asked. Even if the question was ridiculous, she had to put on a smile and try to get them whatever they wanted.

The cellar was like a big storage cupboard, shelves piled high with all sorts of jars and bottles containing various magical ingredients. She scanned over the mandrake root looking for the baby newt eyes, they wouldn't have cataracts yet. She found the jar completely empty, like something had snuck in and just drained the jar. "That's weird. No one ever buys these," she said, pondering over a few other jars to check there was nothing else missing. "Though hang on, aren't baby newt eyes used for-" she paused, realising something very bad was happening. She raced from the storage cellar up the stairs and past another customer trying to get her attention. "Just a second!" She yelled in a very high pitched, very trying-too-hard-to-be-nice kind of voice that put a few people off.

Anya reached under the counter and pulled out a very dusty, very old leathery book entitled 'Myths and Legends: Including the History of Festivals and Magical Anniversaries.' It was a strange book to say the least, but one Anya held very closely to hand in case something came up. After a thousand years of celebrating various traditions she knew things came up very randomly and suddenly it was the five hundred year anniversary of a guy you turned into a worm and he wanted revenge. But this was different, this was something twinging at the edge of her memory, something about 1507 and 'the first secret wave of the dancing plague.'

There is was in its original black and white: originating in 1207, at the deathside of Ivan I, tsar of Bulgaria when he died in mysterious circumstances. It was said he was killed by divine wrath, his death cursing every one hundred years to a plague of divine wrath that coincides with the Mexican Day of the Dead festival. Anya knew there was something in the air, she wasn't sure what exactly it had to do with the mysterious death of a tsar but she knew something was wrong. She went back to the customer and apologised profusely for not having any baby newt eyes in stock but should he order some she could make sure they were sent to him directly. He walked away smiling. Anya kept up her breezy, shop-assistant attitude for the rest of the working day until all the customers left. Then her frown returned, and she walked home in bits, reminding herself to call Buffy as soon as she got back.