Copyright E. Marney 2001

Part Two (Chapters 4-8)

"Um – hello?"

The door to the crypt was ajar, and even though Willow knew that no one was home, it felt kind of strange to just walk in unannounced. She gave the door a little push and it creaked back a bit further, revealing the dim gloom within.

Tara was whispering. "You don’t think there’d still be anybody –"

"No, I doubt it. From what Buffy said, the Egyptian guys already got what they came for." Willow replied, in the same hushed tones.

They looked at each other, then tentatively crept over the lintel and down the steps. Willow cast her eyes around the cobwebs and the meager trappings of Spike’s lair. She’d never been here during the day – it was a bit weird. She sniffed the air, noticing a fusty smell of old earth and stale cigarette smoke.

Tara walked forward cautiously. "I feel like I’m breaking and entering," she confided.

"Oh well – Spike would probably approve. And hon, I think we can stop whispering now."

"Oh – okay."

Reluctant to disturb anything, they picked over the debris. Willow noticed the remnants of a wooden chair strewn across the dusty floor, and a number of scuffmarks. There were a couple of nasty-looking dark splatter-marks on the floor – Willow made a face, and then realised that there was a plastic packet beside each one. Blood-bank baggies – and they’d obviously been thrown with some force. Then she made another face, realising the implication – blood-bombs, gross. She drew Tara’s attention. "Looks like Spike put up a fight, anyway. Oh no – the TV." The set had been pushed over on it’s side, and she moved to right it, poking at the bent aerial.

"Oh boy – Spike’s really gonna be pissed about that, " she muttered.

"Willow – look."

Tara had moved over to the opposite side of the crypt and was lifting up a large black length of something. She shook it out – there was a spray of dirt, and the imprint of a shoe on the back, but it was definitely Spike’s leather duster.

"God – he never takes that thing off. I thought he was sewn into it. What’s it doing lying on the floor?"

"I guess he lost it in the scuffle."

Willow and Tara looked at each other, thinking the same thing – this was serious. Then Willow sighed, and shook herself into action.

"Okay – that qualifies as something personal. It’ll do for the spell."

"I’ll get the other stuff." Tara handed the coat to Willow and moved for her bag, which she’d left just outside the door.

When she returned, she found Willow swinging from side to side, watching the warm leather brush her legs as she modelled the coat.

"Willow!"

Willow jumped guiltily. "Oh – sorry. But you know -" she grinned, " – I’ve always kind of wanted to try this on for size." Then her grin changed to guilt again as she took in Tara’s expression. "Oh – but not in, like, a morbid way or anything, just, you know…oh, okay, stopping now." She sighed, and slipped the coat off her shoulders.

Tara gave her a forbearing grin. "You’re kind of swimming in it anyway, Will."

"Yeah, that’s true. But Spike’s a lot bigger than me. Okay then, what have we got?"

"Here – candles and censer. I borrowed a bowl from Giles, and there’s a bottle of water in the bag."

"You want to do the scrying thing?" Willow looked surprised. "I thought we could do the ‘mound of dirt’ thing – make a little model, you know?"

"Yeah, we could, but I think Giles needs something more specific – we need Technicolor visuals. And making a model with mental energy is pretty tiring, I don’t know if I’m totally up for that," Tara admitted.

"Okay – I guess we’re both on kind of low battery," Willow conceded. She began brushing away a clearing in the middle of the room. "I’ll do the fire, you can do the dragon’s blood powder."

The two witches set to work. Once the circle was prepared, they stepped inside and sat cross-legged opposite each other, carefully settling the bowl of water on top of Spike’s coat in the center.

"This concrete is cold," Tara mumbled.

"I’m with you on that one. Okay, are we ready?"

They linked hands and began to chant. The Latin words for invoking the circle became a warm, buzzing hum that rose above the two women and fanned out into the crypt. Willow found herself in a familiar state of heightened awareness – her mind became fuzzily relaxed, but underneath she could feel the thrumming of energy, ready to be channelled into a focused point. She closed her eyes, and let the names of the goddesses roll off her tongue –

The candles flared up dramatically, and Tara and Willow looked at each other. Tara looked at the candles, blazing unnaturally, and returned her gaze to Willow. "Remember what Giles said? Egyptian theology…"

Willow raised an eyebrow. "Whew – I guess so." Then she cautiously continued the spell.

Around them, the dragon’s blood powder on the floor began to glow softly, and Tara realised that her seat no longer felt so cold.

Willow continued. "As servants of the Goddess, we invoke the scrying seal. Lady, help us to find he who is lost; we beg thy aid. Visit the waters and peel back the curtain of ignorance. Clear the darkness from our sight, open our eyes to your understanding. Help us in this hour of our need, for we seek a friend." And with a hitch in her throat, Willow became aware that this was true. Spike really was a friend – had been one for quite a while now. Why had it taken something like this for her to realise it? She began to understand what Buffy was going through, and felt a wave of concern for the bottle-blonde vampire come over her. She looked up at Tara, who was smiling at her sympathetically. She knows it too, Willow thought, knew it before I did. Suddenly she felt bad, that all her old mistrust of Spike, her own prejudices against him, had been so obvious – it must have hurt him a lot, to be involved in all the Scoobies stuff, but never really be accepted. Never be treated like an equal – like a friend. She was surprised to feel her eyes grow wet.

The touch of Tara’s hand clasped in her own brought her back to the purpose. The blonde witch smiled gently at her lover. "Hey – no anxieties or fears, remember?"

Willow nodded, and cleared her throat to go on with the spell.

A faint mist began to circle upwards from the water, as though it was coming to a boil. It began to thicken and spread, seeping out over the edges of the bowl, covering the floor of the circle.

Tara took up a handful of myrrh and elecampane powder, sprinkled it over the glowing charcoal in the censer, and continued the spell.

As the final words were said, the two women opened their eyes to see a thick bank of fog blanketing them from the waist down. Willow realised that she felt comfortably warm and relaxed. As she centered her gaze on the scrying bowl, she watched the mists move and part with a sense of wonder that was disconnected from her conscious mind. The water of the bowl was dark, but as she focused her eyes she began to see shadows forming, swirling – shapes resolved themselves, became defined. It was like looking into a dark window, or a still pool – the images were reflections, ghost-pictures, but definitely clear enough to make out. There was a tall building, a skyscraper lost in a field of similar shapes. At its base, a large metal rostrum held a long stone placard, with letters in bas-relief: Heliopolis.

"That’s not Sunnydale," Tara said quietly, the mist stirring with her breath.

"No – it looks like –" The vision spun out into dirty streets and chaotic traffic. Willow glanced at Tara. "It’s Los Angeles."

The images shifted, blurred; they were looking inside the building, at a long audience hall or chamber. The walls were ranged with strange statues, and thick with carvings. Glyphs of gods and goddesses, bizarre creatures with heads of bulls and ibis, papyrus reeds; the picture writing of a language now all but forgotten. Except by a few. At one end of the chamber a woman stood, her head tilting as she followed the script – she was dressed in tan linen and jet-beads, her black bob falling to brush her shoulders.

"That must be Buffy’s Cleopatra."

To the woman’s left was a raised dias, which supported a bed, its massive four-post supports rising to the ceiling. It was curtained all around by swathes of muslin. To one side of the bed stood a giant of a man, standing so still he could have been a statue himself. As the witches watched the image, a disembodied hand stirred the curtain of the bed from inside, and a quavering voice called out a word: "Satis?". The woman turned and strode towards the bed.

The picture blurred again, became formless. Just as Willow was thinking that it might have ended, another vision formed. A smaller room, the stainless steel and blue tones contrasting with the terracottas of a moment before. A raised plinth, of what looked like white marble, dominated the center, and around it a moving bustle of figures in white coats. It looked like a bizarre operating theatre. But the patient strapped to the plinth –

"Oh, Spike – oh no, " breathed Willow.

He was held down firmly with leather straps at hand, foot, chest and throat. As they watched he began twisting his head around wildly. He seemed to be appealing to the labcoated technicians, but was being ignored. He appeared to give up, cast his eyes towards the ceiling, his expression a maze of frustration and anger. The image began to blur again, but the last thing they saw was Spike’s face as he closed his eyes and coiled himself for a final howl to the heavens. The words came out distinctly as the vision faded to black – "Somebody get me the hell out of here!"

Willow and Tara looked up at each other, shaking with effort, and with Spike’s desperate call ringing in their ears. Tara let out wobbling breath, her face pale.

"I think we’ve seen enough."

***

"Somebody get me the hell out of here!"

Spike’s yell made a few of the technicians jump, but apart from that produced no discernible effect. He let his head fall back – ow. Bloody marble.

He’d tried wheedling, screaming, complaining, faking nice, and then general abuse, using the choicest of expletives from his extensive collection in a number of languages, but the labcoats had been resolutely ignoring him. He refused to reduce himself to pleading. He was running out of options now. Hang on – there was always that old standby, being monotonously annoying. He took a deep breath, fixed himself a spot on the ceiling, and launched into full voice.

"Ooooh – a thousand bottles of beer on the wall, a thousan’ bottles of beer; one fell down, crashed on the groun’, nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall – nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles of beer…"

Spike switched into auto-pilot as he belted out the song, thinking about how he was going to get out of this rather tight spot he was in. Tight indeed – he’d tried the straps any number of times, but the leather was thick, and held fast. The one around his neck was starting to chafe. This merely contributed to his general state of High Piss-off – this, and the fact that he was hungry, tired, nicotine-deprived, and sore in numerous places from the electric shocks.

Past the fight at the crypt (outnumbered and outgunned, he reminded his ego), he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. ‘Here’ being this shitty too-bright room with all the labcoats, where he’d blearily regained consciousness. He had no idea how long he’d been out, how long he’d been here, what time it was, whether it was night or day – his internal clock was on the fritz, from lack of an outside view. Maybe daytime – it felt like day, or rather, he felt tired enough for it to be day. He sighed and closed his eyes, keeping up the steady drone.

"…nine hundred and ninety-four bottles of beer on the wall, nine hundred and ninety-four bottles of beer…"

Spike ran his tongue over his teeth, and the dry inside of his mouth, before starting the next verse. He kept reminding himself that he’d been this hungry before, plenty of times. Yup, plenty of times. Okay. So, how to get out of this bloody mess…

The odds were definitely not in his favour. He had no idea where or when he was, and he knew that nobody else did either. A mental image of the Slayer and her friends swam in his vision, then he shook it away. Hell, he thought bitterly, they probably haven’t even noticed my absence. He was on his lonesome. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time. What he needed was a brief opportunity – a loosened strap, a moment of weakness, a sympathetic ear… He looked around, as much as was possible, at the labcoats. Not much in the way of sympathy there.

"…one fell down, crashed on the groun’, nine hundred and eighty-nine bottles of beer on the wall…"

He noticed one of them let out a small sigh, but by and large they were too on their game to let him bother them at this stage. They were like bloody machines – bustling around, to-ing and fro-ing, little worker bees carrying trays of instruments (that was a worry), and hardly a squeak out of them. They talked to each other in whispers, a low hum that was getting on his nerves. Not like he couldn’t hear the words, but it was damned irritating, being ignored like this.

"…nine hundred and seventy-nine bottles of beer on the wall, nine hundred and seventy-nine bottles of beer…"

God, he was even beginning to bore himself. He took another breath to start on his nine hundred and seventy-eighth bottle, but was rudely interrupted by a techie who strode to the plinth and unceremoniously pushed his shoulder down.

Spike favoured the guy with a half-hearted grin. "Well, at bloody last – I thought you lot were deaf or something. Hey, you wouldn’t have a cigarette on you by any chance?"

The technician studiously avoided Spike’s gaze, and began pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Another guy came and stood by the first, looking on wordlessly. He’d pulled over a tray on a dolly stand, and positioned it beside the plinth. Spike started to feel a nervous tingle in his stomach. He couldn’t see what was on the tray, and craning his head only put pressure on his throat.

"Hullo, what’s this then, eh? Look, if you’re giving me a manicure, I’d like a nice shade of – Jesus! Is that a needle or an icepick?"

The technician brandished the huge syringe above Spike’s arm, while the other one began swabbing the inside of the vampire’s elbow. Christ, they were really going to jab him with that thing…

"Geez, couldn’t you find a bigger one?" His attempt at bravado fell flat – his expression was too freaked out to make it work. Spike’s self-preservation instincts kicked in with full force, and he started writhing in the restraints. The technician leaned in with the syringe.

"Hey! I said, hey!! – don’t even think about it, you fucking white-coated –"

Spike hissed sharply as the needle slid into the vein. He lifted his head and yelled into the anonymous techie’s face, "You bloody wanker – that hurts!!!" before another guy slipped behind him, pushed his head down hard onto the marble, and slapped a large piece of duct tape over his mouth. The operating technician slipped the barrel off the needle and deftly fitted plastic tubing that trailed down into something below Spike’s view. Something humming… God, they were drawing his blood. A lot of it. He felt an ennervating weakness curl up through him, a vague nausea in his gut. Oh shit, oh shit. Nine hundred and seventy bottles of beer on the wall, nine hundred and seventy bottles of beer…

He could feel the slow drain through his arm – a throb, a false heartbeat. It had to be a machine of some kind – no other way to get blood from a creature with no circulation.

He lost count of the bottles. The cold tingle of the needle, the hum of the machine, and the steady drip of his own blood filled him with a terrifying lassitude. This was like his worst nightmare; his life-blood, his core, being pulled out of him slowly… He looked up at the expressionless faces of the technicians, couldn’t stand the view, and closed his eyes.

The slim young technician in the white coat pushed through the translucent swinging doors, pulling the dolly tray and its precious cargo into the long antechamber. He swung the dolly in front of him carefully, and rolled it towards the massive curtained bed on his left, where the I.V. stand was already set up. He checked the feed – the plastic tubing ran down from the bottle and curled through the curtain without obstruction, but it was nearly past time for a change. With practised moves, the technician began hooking up the new bottle, handling the equipment smoothly. He’d done this so many times before, he could almost do it with his eyes closed. But he was too professional to try a stunt like that.

Besides – there was the guard to think of. The young man looked surreptitiously at the hulking creature to one side of the curtained bed. It’s eyes were closed, it might have been asleep – but he knew that wasn’t true. The thing never slept. He’d seen it’s eyes open slowly, like a fringed clamshell underwater, at regular intervals, which seemed to indicate that it was perpetually on alert That - eyes open or closed - it was standing there, listening for every tiny sound. Waiting. The technician shuddered a little, and focused on what he was doing.

He finished, and was about to turn away, when a soft sighing breath sounded to his left. The hackles on the back of his neck went up – the lady sure had a way of sneaking up on you.

"Everything is running well?" Madam looked at him with kohl-rimmed eyes, and a smile like a cobra. The black hair framed her face – symmetrical perfection – and her bare shoulders, exposed by the brocaded bustier, gleamed even in the dim light of the antechamber. The technician was forced to clear his throat before replying.

"Yes, Madam – everything is in order. We draw blood for the next transfusion in five hours."

Madam nodded slowly, approvingly. "Excellent. And the creature doesn’t trouble you?"

"No, Madam – he is, er, a little more vocal than the previous subject."

The woman’s expression went dreamy, staring through the curtain at an indistinct form lying there. "It is of no concern. He is the one who will restore my lord’s vigour – and I shall be a true wife again." Her face hardened, and she snared the technician’s gaze. "If a problem presents itself, come to me. All must be in order for the end of the saros tomorrow. And be careful with the creature – he is not to be drained and wasted like the others, he is of greater importance. You will see to it."

Her tone brooked no opposition. The technician merely bobbed his head deferentially. "I-I will, Madam."

Having secured his assent, the woman spun on her heel and strode off. The technician followed her progress down the long hall, then came to himself, swallowed and blinked, and quickly hurried back from where he’d come.

***

With a groan and a stretch, Buffy finally let her eyes come open. She looked up at the pair of boxing gloves dangling from a rail above her, feeling a bit disoriented – oh, yeah. The Magic Box. She was in the training room. She rubbed at her eyes, pushed the rug off and rolled to sit up.

She was still in her clothes from the day before – urgh. God, she needed a shower. What time was it? She had no idea, but it felt kind of late.

It was starting to come back to her now – the fight at the crypt, Giles and the aspirin, Spike… Spike. She pushed herself up, combed her hair back with her fingers and twisted it into a knot at her nape. A quick poke into one of the cupboards found her spare set of training clothes, and she changed hurriedly into the sweatpants and long-sleeved black t-shirt. A splash of water from the sink in the corner had her feeling a bit more alert – a birdbath would have to do for now – and she headed out to the brightness of the front of the shop.

"Ah – the Kraken wakes." Giles sat back in his chair at the research table, rubbing the bridge of his nose and giving Buffy a smile.

"Hey, Giles – hey guys."

"The Buffster – at last. We thought you were gonna sleep all day." Xander had a book balanced in his lap. He and Giles and Willow were buried in research material, and Anya waved while serving a customer. The shop was quiet for a Saturday.

"Hey Buffy," said Willow, through a huge yawn. "Feel better after a rest?"

"Yeah, thanks – how long was I out?"

"It’s twelve-thirty," said Giles, "so you’ve had a good three hours."

Buffy looked abashed. "I didn’t mean to sleep for so long – and hey, what about you guys?" She checked out the table of tired Scoobies. Xander was fresh, but Giles and Willow were both looking a bit peaky.

"Oh, I’ve been asleep at the table, only Giles was too polite to say anything," Willow said with a wan grin.

"Actually, Willow, I was thinking that you should go home and rest with Tara. You must be exhausted." Giles relieved the witch of the book she had in front of her, and Willow pushed away from the table with a grateful smile.

"Can’t argue with you there." She stood and pulled on a sweater as she prepared to go. "Thanks, Giles – Buffy, glad to see you’re feeling better."

"Sure – oh, hey, how did the spell go?" Buffy’s expression was both eager and anxious. She felt guilty now for her lengthy sleep – losing so much time.

"Yup, hit paydirt. But I can’t-" Willow yawned again uncontrollably. "-oh boy. I’ll let Giles fill you in. See you in a few hours." She walked to the door with a wave to the others.

Buffy slipped into Willow’s seat, started perusing the books. "Okay, Giles, what’s the skinny?"

Xander leaned back in his chair and caught her eye. "Spike’s in L.A."

"Los Angeles?"

"Yes," Giles broke in, "and from what Willow and Tara said he’s in quite a bit of trouble. Apparently he’s being held in an office building near the city center." He tapped a location on a street map. "Somewhere near here."

Buffy sat up straight in her chair, looking ready to roll. "Well, great. Then we can go bust him out, right?" She prepared to stand, but Xander reached over and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Hold on a minute there, Action Girl – it’s not gonna be quite that simple." He gave her an understanding smile, then looked over at Giles for support.

"He’s right, Buffy." Giles took off his glasses, his face serious. Buffy registered that he looked pale, and rather tired. "The reading we’ve been doing suggests that the people who kidnapped Spike will put up quite a lot of resistance. He is central to their plans, and they’ve gone to quite a lot of bother to acquire him. They certainly won’t give him up without a fight."

"Well, fine. I’ll handle the fighting stuff, you guys can deal with the magicks." She couldn’t help it – she had to do something, had to move, act. Every minute they wasted Spike was in danger…

"Hey –" Xander frowned at her, confused by her agitation. "- Buffy, relax. Spike can handle himself. Preparedness is next to godliness, remember? We can’t go in before we’re ready, or we’ll just mess it up."

"But if we know where he is, then we can –"

"Buffy, chill out! I just meant –"

"Leave it, Xander." Buffy felt a small cool hand on her shoulder – Anya had walked up quietly behind her. "Can’t you see that she’s worried about him?"

Buffy swallowed and looked down. No, that couldn’t be it – she couldn’t be getting emotional about Spike. For pete’s sake, he was just a friend, one of the gang. She’d do the same for any of them. Right? She looked up at Anya – the ex-demon’s expression was neutral, but her eyes held sympathy, and her presence at Buffy’s shoulder was oddly calming. Buffy returned her gaze to Xander’s.

"Sorry – didn’t mean to stress you out. But Anya’s right, I’m worried. Those guys that vamp-napped him looked pretty serious."

Xander’s face registered confusion. "You’re worried. About Spike."

"We all are, Xander," Giles interjected smoothly. He fixed Buffy with a curious look, then slipped his glasses back on. "I think perhaps I should explain this situation in more detail."

Buffy nodded. "Please." A touch of sanity.

"Alright, well, the clues from Willow and Tara’s location spell were very helpful. Spike is being held in a tower called Heliopolis, near the center of L.A., as I said. As for the people holding him - well, we’re still gathering data, but the woman you encountered this morning in the graveyard is important. Her name is Satis, and I’ve found links to this name in quite a lot of the literature to do with the cults of Upper Egypt, around the late Middle Kingdom period."

He pushed a large book in Buffy’s direction – she gave it a cursory glance. "So this Satis – she’s, what, a priestess?"

"In Egyptian mythology, " Giles continued, "Satis was the wife of the creator god, Khnum, who was later identified with Re, the sun god. Satis was therefore known as ‘the eye of Re’. She’s powerful, yes, and she performs a number of pivotal tasks, which I’ll come back to later, but her primary power is through her husband."

Buffy blinked – obscure information overload – but indicated that Giles should go on.

"Now, in relation to our current problem, Willow examined the computer records to do with Heliopolis Tower, and discovered that the building is owned by one very wealthy man, an Egyptian named Aman Eddin Talis. Supposedly the deed for the land has been passed down through the family, but many of the records from overseas are conveniently incomplete, and land title records of Los Angeles seem to suggest that Talis’ inheritance has been largely a deliberately confused paper-maze since the early 1900’s"

Buffy frowned. "So, this guy has held it the whole time? Wouldn’t that make him, like, impossibly old?"

Giles looked at her meaningfully. "Willow discovered references to Aman Talis, in the United States alone, as far back as 1859. Which means that Mr Talis has been around for at least a hundred and fifty years."

"He’s a demon then, " Anya suggested. She settled herself on the table beside Xander, swinging her feet.

Giles shook his head. "Actually, it’s more complicated than that." He took a deep breath to continue the narrative. "My own theory is that Aman Talis is a sorcerer of some kind – ‘Aman’ translating to ‘Amun’, a kind of alternative name for Re. So his power is from the sun-god, or perhaps just the sun itself. But such power requires regular renewal – as the sun goes through a symbolic renewal-"

"-at each eclipse." Buffy finished. The links were starting to come together.

"Exactly."

"So – what does this have to do with Spike? And how does this Satis come into it?"

"As I said, Satis is the wife of Re. She may not be the actual ancient priestess, she may not be as long-lived. But it’s quite possible that she is some kind of reborn incarnation of the first Satis – a continuation of the soul, so to speak. Apart from her own magical power, which is considerable, her role is also as ‘giver of the water’, which the Ancient Egyptians believed could purify the dead. But the Egyptian hieroglyph for ‘water’ also translates as ‘essence’ – or blood."

"Spike’s blood – his essence." Buffy breathed. She was starting to get a shivery feeling in her gut.

Giles nodded. "A vampire straddles the worlds of the living and the dead – and the older the vampire, the greater the power of it’s essence." He looked at Buffy with concern. "I believe that Aman Talis is about to conduct a self-renewal at the time of the eclipse. And I’m afraid that Spike’s blood is the key to the ritual."

Buffy sat back in her chair, feeling vaguely sick.

Xander frowned at Giles. "So, they grab Spike for a bit of his blood. Can’t he just, I don’t know, give a little donation and then they let him go?"

Giles shook his head. "I’m fairly certain that a ritual of this kind would require a complete transfer of energy to the recipient – in other words, Xander, they would have to drain Spike completely for the spell to work."

"Which would kill him, of course, "said Anya, stating the obvious with a bland expression. Then she took in Buffy’s face. "Oh – sorry."

Buffy shook her head to clear the fuzz of conflicting emotions, then looked around at the faces at the table. "Okay – it’s bad, then. So, we need to move – and we need to do it before tomorrow afternoon. Exactly how much time do we have, Giles?"

Giles took in her stony face. "The totality is scheduled for 12:17pm – so that gives us about 23 hours."

"Right." Buffy took a breath, looking at the books in front of her, but seeing something else entirely. When she raised her eyes, her expression was dark and unsmiling. "So, let’s plan."

***

In her dreams, she was a little girl again.

The sun was high above her; she could feel the sting of it’s rays through the thick material of her hejab. She let the water from the spring flow over one brown hand, cooling her whole body with that simple touch. It felt wet, and tickling, like little fishes sliding through her fingers. She let herself smile for a moment, then moved to set the water-pot upright – it was heavy, and she tipped a splash of water off the top, knowing that she would have to return for another load in any case. She stood, rising off one knee then the other, and turned to make lifting the pot onto her head an easier task.

That was when she saw the horse, felt it’s blowing breath. And a man, astride the animal – she was blinded by the sun, could make out only the dark silhouette, shadow falling on her as the man reached down, fixed her chin in his fingers, turned her head to face him. All she could see was blackness, forms above her outlined in brilliance, the gauzy light through the material of a head scarf – hearing the voice, echoing in her mind…

She felt the faint panic of an unfamiliar touch – his hand on her hair. Her fingers went automatically to her hejab, thinking by rote that he was breaking the code – to touch a woman not of your kin, unmarried, it was forbidden by law… Then she heard another word – did he speak, or was the voice in her mind alone?

She blinked her eyes up at the figure, had to turn away from the light – when she looked back, he was gone. The horse, the man – she looked around wildly. Had anyone seen? Was it real? There was nothing but the sand, the sun, and the adobe walls of the village in the distance. Only the memory of warm fingers on her face remained.

In her dreams, he came again.

She was seventeen, and betrothed. Lying in the bed with her sisters, thinking of the morning to come – the robes, the mehndi, eating dates and couscous with her mother and female family members. She felt curiously unmoved by it all. She remembered thinking - Is it not strange, an unfeeling bride? No tears, no nervousness – no happiness. A stone of calmness. She let her mind drift…and when she heard the call, felt a swelling excitement. Moving gently, not to wake the others in the bed, creeping softly in her night-gown, padded feet over packed earth floors – she left the house.

Not sure where she was going, she let her feet direct her, inwardly amused as she wandered towards the boundaries of the village, towards the spring. Realizing the seriousness of her actions – a girl, engaged to be married on the morrow, walking through the village at night…she risked stoning, or worse. But she knew that this was not her fate – knew it in a place deeper than her conscious mind. Something else awaited her. She felt a sense of peacefulness, and was unsurprised to see the horse at the spring, it’s rider observing her as the animal cropped grass.

The rider reaching out towards her, her lack of fear…

And when she did, it felt like the burning of the sun…

Madam awoke with a soft gasp. Her eyes opened to see the view above – a swathe of cotton, embroidered and woven in the old way – a picture of stars, countless, and a bright spinning disc with tongues of flame…

She let her breath out silently. The dream again – and now she was returned, lying beside her husband on the huge bed in the antechamber. She closed her eyes again, willing herself to see the man who’d called her long ago – the tanned skin, the high cheekbones, eyes of dark granite, thick black hair running through her fingers as they kissed. The passion, the ecstasy of the embrace – warmth filling her blood, scouring her skin, a sizzle of fire as their lips pressed together, a liquid sun between her legs…

She opened her eyes, the image rising in her sight to replace the reality. Lying beside her, an old man – withered like a corpse, skin sticking to the bones, the robes of his office falling flat about him, his breath barely lifting the material, strands of grey feathered across his head. Eyes closed. Lips, once so full, now thin and white. Skeleton hands.

She sighed and reached out, touching one shrivelled cheek. Her husband – so close to death. In her mind’s eye she interposed the reality with the old image, with the way it was.

Her face closed to sadness, and when she spoke it was with emphatic finality.

"And the way it will be again."

***

The drive felt like it had gone on forever, and when she saw the lights of the approaching city in the darkness ahead, Buffy had felt herself take a slow releasing breath. She’d been in Giles’ car, his sporty little red mid-life crisis machine with the roof up, sitting in the passenger seat, listening with one ear, while Giles continued to explain aspects of the situation. She’d berated herself for paying scant attention, tried to focus on his words – words like ‘totality’, ‘ritual’, ‘soul’, ‘rebirth’ – but the only words she’d been able to focus on were ‘Spike’, ‘blood’ and ‘death’.

What was wrong with her? She tried to tell herself that if they’d been going to rescue anyone else – Xander, Willow – she’d have felt the same sense of anxiety, the same swelling fear. Spike was one of the gang, a friend like any of her other friends. Well, not quite. Kind of a demon-friend. A friend with bumps.

But, bumps or no bumps, he was in trouble, and it was now up to her to make sure that he stayed in one piece. Which only made her think of him in pieces, and the feelings of fretful worry rose in her again. She shook her head, tried to sigh out some of the unbearable tension. She bit her nails - that helped.

"Buffy – have you been listening to what I just said?"

"Um – yup, sure. Magical priestesses and rebirth, and all that."

"Buffy –" Giles looked over at her briefly. When he returned his gaze to the darkness of the road, it was with an indecipherable expression. He spoke to her slowly. "Buffy – when we go into any situation, you know that it’s important that you remain centered."

"And I am, Giles – totally centered, right here, in the center."

He went on carefully. "And in order to do that, you have to be detached. Emotionally. To ensure that you stay focused, you can’t allow worry or fears to creep in."

Buffy nodded towards him, gnawing on her thumbnail, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere out in front of the headlights. "Yup – no creeping of any kind."

Giles sighed - this was going to be difficult. He tried again.

"Buffy, you can’t let your feelings influence your judgement. Not when it comes to a confrontation of this nature. No matter who might be involved."

It started to dawn on her that this was Giles trying to be subtle. Buffy forced her hands back into her lap, and turned to her Watcher.

"Giles, it’s fine. Really. Look, I’m worried about Spike, but I wouldn’t be any less worried if it was you, or..I don’t know - Dawn, up in that stupid tower thingy. I’d still want to rush in and smack heads together – it’s just my nature. All this…Slayer energy, or something." She looked over at him, smiling, doing her best to appear calm and prepared.

Giles gave her an unconvinced look, then raised his eyebrows at the road and sighed. "Alright. As long as you understand the need for your undivided concentration…"

"I do. And I am listening to you – honestly."

"Good."

"I just need you to repeat that last thing you said about…whatever it was."

Giles sighed.

***

When they finally hit L.A. and started trawling through the streets it was nearly dawn. Giles drove slowly, in the way of someone who’s not exactly familiar with the territory, and stopped once to consult the street map. Xander, driving Joyce’s car, with Willow and Tara on board, had pulled ahead and turned into a side street. Obviously he was getting more accurate directions than the ones that Giles had.

In the end, they found Heliopolis Tower without too much difficulty. The only real problem had been the eternal one of cities the world over – where to park.

Pulling up a block away, in a meter zone, Buffy and Giles got out of the convertible and began unloading supplies. Willow and Tara tumbled out of the other car and looked around the quiet, still-dark street, followed by Xander, who stretched extravagantly.

"God – these L.A. trips sure don’t get any easier on the ass."

Willow nudged him. "Well, just remember what Anya said – she wants the ass back, or she’ll be mighty angry."

He held up his hands. "Hey – no problems there. I don’t plan on being separated from my ass at this juncture. Maybe ask me in forty years or so, when the bunions start to set in."

Tara grimaced. "Thanks, Xander – just a little too much information."

Buffy wandered over, rubbing the kinks out of her neck, and leaving Giles scrounging in his pockets. "Hey there, fun trip huh? – as usual. And, by the way – any of you guys got change?"

Willow handed over a palmful of coins with a grin. "Here you go. You’re lucky I remembered my last trip here. It’d be a tragedy if we came this far to rescue Spike, and were turned back by the meter maid."

Buffy smiled her thanks, and went back to the convertible. Xander locked up Joyce’s car, and followed the two witches as they joined Buffy and her Watcher. Giles looked up from filling the meter, put in a final dollar and picked up a large duffle bag – it matched the one that Buffy was hefting over her shoulder.

"So are we ready then?"

Nods all round.

"Then – let’s go."

The burnished spire of the tower gleamed in the early rays of the sun, and they aimed for it as the crow flies. A brief walk found the Scoobies out the front of an imposing building with a giant rostrum in the center of what looked like the forecourt. Stone-paved walkways angled up in three directions towards the mammoth front entrance. The rostrum sign spun slowly on a central axis – on it’s next turn, Willow and Tara looked at each other, after catching a glimpse of the name from their vision: ‘Heliopolis’ was carved into the stone in deep relief. Buffy couldn’t help thinking of the names carved into gravestones, and suppressed a shudder. They all stood in silence for a moment, then Xander cleared his throat, and voiced the relevant question.

"So – how exactly do we get into this place?"

Giles spoke up. "Through the basement car park."

The other Scoobies looked at him in surprise. He shrugged.

"I rang Cordelia, and asked her to find out some potential entrances and exits from the blueprints in the Town Planning Office."

Willow frowned at him. "Gee, Giles – I wish you’d told me. I could have got that stuff for you on the computer."

Giles looked faintly put-out. "Oh."

Buffy straightened. "Well, anyway – great. To the carpark we go."

Giles pointed, and they headed around the side of the building, following the pavement and sculpted islands of garden, until they hit a downward sloping drive. The metal security door was down, but Giles went immediately towards the guards entrance, a regular door to one side. The rest of the group hung back while he fiddled at the doorknob for a moment – then he grinned, and pushed the door open with a little flourish. The Scoobies quickly hurried over and began filing inside. Buffy raised her eyebrows at Giles as she slipped through the door.

"Benefits of a misspent youth, huh?"

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. "Not totally misspent, it seems."

The car park was dark and low-ceilinged. The Scoobies stuck to the walls as they headed in the direction Giles indicated, towards an open lift, lit from within by a soft blue fluorescent light. Giles stopped them as they were about to go in, ushered them into a dark corner.

"Right." He leaned down a little to make himself heard at a whisper. "From here on in we are officially on our guard. We could get in trouble for being in the carpark, but we’ll definitely be arrested if we’re found in the building, though something tells me that this will be the least of our worries. We’ll be going for the forty-first floor – that’s the apartment level, and I’d say that we should pretty much be prepared for anything. Just try to remember what I’ve explained about the beings we’re up against."

They all nodded. Buffy set down her bag and began unloading a few tasty bits and pieces, handing weapons to Xander, Tara and Willow.

Tara held up hers – a short handle topped by a ball of pointed spikes – and looked at Buffy with a confused expression. "A mace?"

Buffy shrugged apologetically. "To cut a long story short, I didn’t know what to pack." She took in Tara’s face. "Well, they’re not vampires, so it’s kind of pot luck, I guess."

Xander held up a long knife. "Don’t you have an uzi in that bag or something?"

Willow looked up at him. "Quit complaining – I got the flail."

Buffy sighed, and left them squabbling in whispers over the weapons in the bag. She reached into the other duffle at Giles’ feet and drew out a crossbow - and something else. Pulling it on over her black top and jeans, she rolled up the sleeves and belted it in hard at her waist. She looked up to find Willow staring.

"Buffy – you’re wearing Spike’s coat."

That drew everyone’s attention. Buffy just shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant as she pulled her ponytail out of the collar.

"Yeah, well, you know, he might need it or something. It is going to be day when we get out of here, and I’d rather wear this than have to haul around a spare rug as anti-tan cover."

There was a collective pause. Giles cleared his throat. "Hm. Er, good thinking. Shall we continue?" He indicated the lift.

The Scoobies piled in, and stood bathed in blue light, waiting. Giles perused them all, weapons in hand, and felt oddly proud. He tilted his head. "Are we ready? Then Xander, if you don’t mind…"

Xander leaned forward and hit the button for the forty-first floor, and with a hiss, the metal doors slid closed.

***

Dry.

His whole body felt dry. His throat was parched, and it was hard to swallow. His face felt tight, and if he’d been able to reach up and touch his skin, he thought it’d probably feel papery. Even his eyeballs felt dehydrated in their sockets.

His lips were dry, and his tongue inside his mouth felt swollen. Someone had removed the duct tape when they realized that he was beyond speaking. He’d lost track of time a while back. The lights above the plinth were always on anyway – with his eyes closed, he could still see a haze of brightness behind his eyelids. It was like being in the desert - a never-ending day, the burning of the sun, and the terrible thirst.

If this was what dying was like, he wished they’d hurry up and get it over with.

He was on tap now – they’d left needles permanently threaded into the veins in each arm, held in place with suture tape, and at some point they’d cut away his t-shirt to access the carotid artery, where it slid under his collarbone. Actually that had really hurt, but by then he’d been just too bloody tired to struggle.

Just too bloody tired.

He felt like he’d been microwaved – the moisture sucked away, replaced by sand. And with all the needles in him, he felt like a junkie, with a difference - getting all the nasty trackmarks, but without the compensatory high.

When they removed his boots to get at the veins in his ankles, it was all that he could do to make a small ‘oh’ of protest. And even then, no sound came out – just his lips moved, opening and closing, like a fish on a riverbank.

There were people moving around him, or maybe he was moving and they were standing still. Whatever. He hadn’t bothered to look, it took too much effort. But he still recognized the odd flavour of the air when someone else entered the room, stood above the plinth looking down, shading him from the lights. He was grateful for the shade.

A low, accented voice, like honey.

"The creature looks depleted. You do not drain him completely?"

"No, Madam." A younger male voice. One of the technicians. "As per your orders, we only take the regular amount for the transfusions."

"He is not to be exhausted – if he dies before time, I will be…displeased."

"Yes, Madam." A nervous tenor to the voice now. "We’re being very careful."

"That is good. Everything must be perfect. And stay alert – there are enemies approaching."

"Yes, Madam."

Spike felt a warmth of breath, and a softness on his cheek. Her hair. She was leaning in over him, close enough to whisper.

"Your little friends are on their way – I have felt it. They come to release you. But they will be too late. I have arranged…distractions for them." Madam tilted her head over the face of the vampire, examining him like a bug under a microscope, with an expression of detached curiosity. "Strange – you have strange allies. Why does a Slayer come to rescue such a one as you?"

He tried to crack open his eyes, meet her stare, but he couldn’t focus. What had she said, about the Slayer?

Madam leaned over him with a final smile. "It is of no importance. Your friends will die, you will die – my lord will be restored." And she ran a red-tipped finger down Spike’s face, from the top of his brow in a long line to his chin, before whirling away.

The lights came back with full force – Spike winced. And the line that Satis’ finger had traced burned like solar fire.

***

The lift began a steady rise – the lights strobed dully at each floor. Buffy felt a chill under her skin, in spite of Spike’s coat, and her stomach ascended against gravity. Her fingers curled and uncurled around the butt of the crossbow. This was it then – she finally got to square off against these Egyptian guys. She drew a breath, the skin under her ribs tensing with the memory of her last encounter, only yesterday, she remembered. The prospect of a good hard fight, and of finally doing something to get Spike out, had all her senses on overdrive.

Giles and the other Scoobies were silent, watching the lift lights and bracing themselves for the battle ahead. Suddenly Willow turned, as she thought of something.

"Oh – wait a sec. You might need this." She took one of Buffy’s hands and pressed something into it. The Slayer looked down – a piece of metal on a leather thong nestled in her palm.

"What’s this?"

"Here – let me put it on you, make it easy…" Willow took the necklace back, then stepped behind Buffy and slipped the thong around her neck. Buffy examined the metal – it was an amulet of some kind, a circle in the center, framed by two triangles and a couple of curly lines.

"Gee, Will, thanks. But, um - what is it, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Willow finished fixing the knot, and smiled at Buffy. "Cute, huh? It’s a wedjet-eye – I found it in the shop. It’s a symbol of Horus, and me and Tara did a few jiggies on it to boost it a bit – it’s to protect against the evil eye."

Buffy smiled softly at the witch’s thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Will." Then she quirked her lips at the two women smiling at her. "Wow, and I didn’t get you guys anything…"

Tara grinned at her. "Just kick Satis’ butt and we’ll consider it even."

Giles interrupted. "That was a good idea, Willow. And I trust that you and Tara have those things I suggested you bring?"

Willow patted the pockets of her jacket. "Right here – and a few other bits and pieces that might come in handy."

Xander looked left out. "Geez, Giles, you didn’t want me to bring anything? I could have wrangled, oh, a T-square or something."

Giles smiled faintly. "Thank you for the offer Xander, but I think we’ll be relying on your, er, manly strength this time."

Xander tried to look manly. "Of which I have a great supply, naturally." The lift pinged, and his expression changed. "Okay – here we go."

The doors opened, and the Scoobies looked out at – a brick wall.

Xander looked confused. "Hey – kinda bad construction isn’t it?"

Giles frowned. "Cordelia said the forty-first floor…"

"In my experience, doors are generally designed to open onto something. Buffy?"

Buffy frowned and then stepped forward and pressed her hands against the brick. The mortar was jagged in places…she had an idea.

"Tara, borrow your mace for a second?" She took the proffered weapon, and angled herself to the wall, looking back at the others briefly. "Okay –you might want to stand back a bit."

They all took a large step backwards. Buffy braced, then smashed the wall with the mace – plaster crumbled. She gave it a few more heavy thumps, until the bricks in the center began to loosen. Then she returned Tara’s weapon, and gave the bricks a solid push. About half a dozen bricks tumbled back into space, exposing a dead blackness in the center of the wall.

"What the hell..?" Buffy leaned forward to peer through the hole, then recoiled with a gasp. A large black scorpion had scrambled up onto a brick near her face and squatted there, it’s tail poised. Buffy jumped back. "Oh boy, critter alert." She took another step back when a second scorpion crawled up to join it’s friend. Then another appeared – and another. They began skittering down the brickwork towards the floor of the lift.

Willow backed into the corner of the lift. "Anyone got a can of Raid?"

Xander lifted his boot and unceremoniously squashed the first scorpion to reach the floor. But there were more coming out of the opening – two more emerged, then another. Then more – a lot more.

Tara was trying to paste herself to the metal wall, getting that cringey feeling she always had around big bugs. She looked at the hole and gasped as a fringe of black legs began appearing above the bricks. "Oh – I think this might be bad…" And a torrent of scorpions began scuttling over the hole in the bricks and flowing towards the floor.

"Buffy, get back!" Giles was trying to squash scorpions underfoot. "And watch out for the tails…"

As Buffy turned, trying to stamp on the creatures, the folds of Spike’s duster whirled like a dark party dress around her. She got five in a row, then had to shake off one that was climbing up her boot.

Xander was jumping from one foot to the other madly, trying to carpet the lift with dead scorpions. But for every one that he squashed, six more took it’s place. He growled with frustration. "There’s too many!"

Willow and Tara looked at each other, then Willow began scrabbling through her pockets. Tara licked her lips, and fought back her fear of creepy crawlies to step away from the wall and begin chanting. "Ignis, Ignis, Ignis – By Taweret, by Phoedima, by Aurora, by holy names I hold you fast. With fire I hold you fast, with binding I hold you fast, with will I hold you fast." With a moan, she reached out for Willow as the scorpions streamed into the lift. The two witches held up their free hands, palms up, and blew gently onto them – a flame ignited dramatically on each palm.

Buffy was moving fast, throwing off scorpions that had caught onto the edges of her coat. "Whatever you’re going to do, guys – do it now!"

Willow pulled her hand out of her pocket, with a handful of yellow powder. She spread it in a wave over the advancing insects, as Tara pulled Buffy, Xander and Giles back into the protection of the circle. Then the two women cast their hand-fires down, in a throwing motion over the powder – it lit up with a satisfying whoosh. The scorpions’ chittering echoed in the small space of the lift, but they couldn’t advance past the ring of flames.

"Oh, well done." Giles picked a scorpion leg off his shoe and flicked it into the fire.

"Yeah, great job." Xander brushed his shoulders off with a shudder. "But aren’t they supposed to get crispy?" He indicated the short wall of fire on the floor keeping the insect army at bay – the fire was holding them back, but not consuming them.

Willow shook her head. "No – it’s only for keeping them out, not burning them up." She narrowed her eyes at the surging insects on the other side of the flames. "Wait, I have an idea - Tara, didn’t we read something about a scorpion goddess…?"

"Yeah, but I forget the spell."

"Well, I don’t." Giles took a short step forward, and seemed to address the black and undulating floor. He held up one hand, and began a guttural intonation.

Buffy whispered to Tara. "What’s he saying?"

Tara shook her head. "It’s in Arabic."

Willow made an ‘oh’. "I remember this now –" She began speaking softly behind Giles, her eyes focused on the scorpions. "My mother is Isis, my nurse is Nephthys, Neith is behind me and Selket before. Selket, fair one, reclaim your creatures and return them to your breast. Let them seek you out, who have eyes to find you, and guard us from the creatures of the underworld."

As the words of the spell concluded, Giles stepped back from the scorpions and watched carefully. Like a black wave, the creatures seemed to collectively pause - then began a retreat, streaming back through the hole in the brick wall from where they’d first emerged.

"Well – haven’t completely lost my touch." Giles looked pleased with himself.

Buffy grinned. "You’re the guy, Giles. Ah, Will?"

"Oh, yeah – I guess that’s enough fire for now." She gestured towards the flames. "Discadae." The fire wall puffed out with a trail of yellow smoke. And as she did so, the doors of the lift slid closed abruptly, shutting out bricks and scorpions altogether. "Hey! Not my fault, I didn’t do that."

Xander directed their attention up to the lift lights. "Well, whatever you didn’t do, we’re on the move again."

The Scoobies looked at each other with nervous expressions. Buffy took a breath.

"Well – strange lifts, brick walls, scorpions…this Satis gal sure has some tricks up her sleeve."

Giles looked worried. "Buffy, I have a feeling that these may be the least of her ‘tricks’. That was too easy, I’m afraid."

The lift moved on.

***

Vaguely amused, Spike watched the trillion little pinwheels of glare behind his eyelids, and tried very hard to focus his mind.

Something that ole Cleopatra had said…something about the Slayer. Strange allies. That was it. In amongst the ‘you’ll die, I’ll win, nyah, nyah’ stuff, was the crucial information – they were coming. The Scoobies – Buffy – was coming. For him.

Well, what a turn-up, eh?

He tried to think logically – no easy task when trying to think at all was such a chore. They may not make it. The priestess was strong, this place had to be heavily fortified, and the odds were against them. A bunch of kids, really, and the old man – even with the Slayer behind them, their chances were less than spectacular. Not that he wasn’t grateful. He was – very. He just loathed getting his hopes up and then having to face reality after a tragic defeat. That’s it, Spike, think positive… But if there was one thing that he’d learned over the centuries, it was about walking the fine line between being positive and being pragmatic. You had to know when to hold ‘em, and when to fold ‘em, so to speak.

God, he was quoting country and western songs now – he really was going bonkers.

But somewhere in his brain, he couldn’t help but feel…hopeful. Happy, even. They’d remembered him – they were coming for him. Buffy was coming for him. For a brief moment, he let himself revel in his cache of memories of the Slayer – a flash of blonde hair, a fury of whirling limbs, fine-boned hands, a lilting scent. Wisecracks. Warmth. He associated her with strength, and purpose. And other things...he thought of her figure. The smell of her sweat. The spice of hot blood below her skin… Spike tried to wet his lips with his tongue, but his mouth was too dry even for a bit of lascivious spit. Bugger.

She was coming to get him out of here, and he felt profoundly relieved. He just had to hang on until then.

There was a bustle of movement, and he felt the technicians roll up the ankle of his jeans to hook up the vein on his left leg, winced as he felt the sting and draw of the machine, and the crawling horror of the fake heartbeat through his body. Instantly, his mouth went coppery with dehydration. He felt like he was going to go mad if someone didn’t relieve this unbearable thirst….

Hang on until they come. Right. He always got the easy job.

End of Part Two

Continue to Part Three (Chapters 9-11)

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