Complete

This story begins in Season 7 shortly after “Showtime” and goes AU immediately.  However, it’s based on ideas I had before seeing “Showtime,” so there isn’t complete continuity with that episode. Thanks to Devil Piglet, DorothyL and Kes for great feedback and suggestions.

When a human becomes a vampire, what happens to his or her soul?  For purposes of this fic, imagine there is a special Limbo, where souls wait until the demons inhabiting their bodies are destroyed. Only when their bodies are dust can their souls be accepted into heaven.  In the meantime, they are provided with every luxury and indulgence they could have desired during their lifetimes.

They perceive their surroundings in accordance with their personal experience.  Therefore, a Victorian gentleman could wake up from an encounter with a demon to find himself living in a mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens.

Only those whose bodies walk the earth as vampires are allowed to enter this special paradise.  And a celestial mailroom would never deliver a package as precious as a soul to the wrong place.

Or would it?

(Yes, I'm aware this is absurd theology.  But how else could I justify what happens next?)

********

“Look out! Vampire!”  It was Dawn’s voice, sounding remarkably calm amid the shrieks of horror that rose from the throats of three of the Potential Slayers.  Buffy gave an unladylike grunt of annoyance as she dashed down the alley towards the source of the screaming.  The entire point of this hunting expedition was to practice killing vampires.  She hoped the silly girls weren’t going to shriek like characters from a horror movie every time they saw one.

She rounded the corner and saw the vampire.  It was big and male, and she knew immediately that it was older and more cunning than most.  Not the best practice material for a bunch of newbies.

But Xander was there fighting, and he was no newbie.  And Buffy’s little sister had more experience than all the Potentials combined.  It was Dawn and Xander, and not the wannabe Slayers, who were keeping the creature at bay.

Giles came up behind Buffy, panting.  Willow and Kennedy were behind him, and more footsteps echoed beyond them.   Buffy grimaced.  A gaggle of Potential Slayers and the entire Scooby gang should be able to handle one vampire without all this noise.

Now one of the Potentials was on the ground.  It was a whiny one—what was her name?  Damn it, most of them were whiny—how was Buffy supposed to tell them apart!  The Slayer rushed to the girl’s rescue.  The vampire saw her coming and ran.

My reputation still can scare some of the big bads in this town, Buffy thought as she tore off after the monster.  As she ran down the street, across someone’s lawn, and into a small graveyard, she heard the others fall behind.  Except for one set of footsteps, which pressed hard at her heels.  She didn’t need to turn around to see who they belonged to.  None of the Scoobies or the Potentials could keep up with her.  But he could.

Buffy smiled as she ran.  Things started to fall into place in her head.  She felt as if all was at least momentarily right with the world as she and Spike tracked the vamp.  She was doing what she did best, and she knew that if she started to veer off the trail—

“You’re losing the scent, Slayer!  Follow this leader!”

She turned and saw Spike head down a narrow path into a wooded area beyond the graveyard.  She pursued him, redoubling her speed to catch up.  Now, she felt some unease.  She didn’t like him leading the pack on this hunt.  He still wasn’t fully recovered from his ordeal—

Before she could finish the thought, she stumbled down the end of the path and into a fight.   She remembered this place as an empty lot, but the space was now filled with lumber, machinery, and the bulk of some new building.  Spike had the creature they were hunting backed up against a wall, and the two were trading blows.

Spike was tiring too quickly.  He was pulling back, dodging blows without returning them, and merely trying to block the other vampire’s escape routes.  A puff of dust rose into the air, and Buffy gasped.  Then she saw that both combatants still stood, and she recognized the smell of sawdust.

This was obviously a construction site.  With all this wood around, a weapon shouldn’t be hard to find.  She ran to a pile of lumber and saw a long, thin shaft of timber with a nicely pointed end.  Snatching it up, she turned to see that the vamp had Spike pinned against the wall of the building.

A moment later, another puff of dust rose up, and this time there was no smell of sawdust.

But the heavy piece of lumber she had grabbed had torn through the vampire’s body with more force than she anticipated.  The point of the makeshift stake was now resting against Spike’s chest.  The deadly wood had torn aside his already ragged shirt, revealing the horrible scars left by the Bringers.  The tip had pierced his skin and was a bare inch from causing his destruction.  He stood deathly still, making no effort to push her weapon aside.

“Cutting it a bit close, Slayer,” he commented, his expression oddly calm.

Horrified, Buffy pulled her weapon back and tossed it from her.  She reached out mindlessly to pull Spike to her, and a moment later she was kissing him, tasting ambrosia after a long famine.  It was almost like returning to heaven.

Until he pushed her away.

He shoved her hard, so that she staggered backwards and had to struggle to regain her footing.  She stared at him, astonished and bereft, as he glared back angrily.

“No, Buffy,” he said.  “Not again.”

She was incredulous.  “I just want—” she started to say.  But at his emphatic gesture of rejection, the words “to tell you—” died on her lips.

“I know what you want.  We both know what we want.  It would have been better if we’d never found out.  Better if you’d never touched me again.  Because tomorrow, or sooner, you’ll be disgusted with yourself for wanting it again, and I’ll have to watch that look of loathing on your face—hatred for me, and hatred of yourself.”  He nodded at a point past her shoulder as voices sounded through the mist.  “And then you’ll start lying to all your little friends, because you won’t want them to know.  And you’ll hate yourself for keeping secrets. I won’t go through that again.  I won’t put you though that again.”

She met his eyes as he turned to gaze at her.  She swallowed hard, seeing the longing in his face even as he rejected what he thought she was offering.  “I hurt you,” she said.  “When I insisted on hiding.  I used you, and I hurt you.”

“Yeah, you hurt yourself,” he said.

She didn’t question his odd wording.  She knew that he felt her pain more deeply than he did his own.

She gave a little nod and turned to call in the direction of the insistent voices, “We’re here, guys!”

The clamor of Scoobies and Potential Slayers increased in volume and intensity.  The mob was coming to shatter the intimacy of this moment.

When she turned back to Spike, she saw that he had slumped back against the wall, clearly disappointed and bereft, for all that it had been his decision to separate them.

“So,” he said.  “The world comes rushing in.”

She stepped forward until she was less than an arm’s length away.  His anguish was like a blow in her gut, and she had to take a deep, careful breath before she could speak again.  Kissing him had been pure impulse; now she acted out of a cold conviction that he deserved the truth.

“I love you,” she said.  She was surprised by how steady her voice could sound when her whole body was shaking.

His head snapped up, and he stared at her with an expression of incredulity and near dismay.  Did he think, perhaps, that the First had somehow taken her place again, to tell lies in order to inflict some new and horrible torture on him?  She brought up her hand quickly to touch his cheek, letting him feel the warmth of her flesh.  “I love you,” she repeated.

That time, her voice did quiver, and what was left of her self-control snapped a moment later.  She kissed him again, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.

The resolve he had demonstrated just a minute before might have been proof against her touch, but it had clearly vanished at her declaration.  His arms were around her again, more strongly this time, and with no hint of ambivalence.

After a time, a sea of words and voices slowly penetrated her consciousness, and Buffy pushed Spike away, but only to arms’ length.  He looked bewildered, like a child waking suddenly from a pleasant dream.  She put up a hand to gently caress his cheek again before turning to look at the audience that had formed on the grass verge.

Only Willow looked a bit sympathetic.  Xander was frowning mightily, and Giles was polishing his glasses.  Anya’s gaze was merely curious and analytical, but Dawn was glaring as she slapped one palm rhythmically with the stake she held in her other hand.  The Potentials were, as usual, confused.  Most of them were frightened as well.  They peered over the Scoobies’ shoulders in bewilderment.

Buffy stared at her sister.  Dawn met the Slayer’s eyes evenly, but after a few seconds the hand holding the stake dropped to her side.  However, the severity of her expression did not waver.  “So,” she said evenly, “I guess this means you two are back together again.”

“I don’t know,” said Buffy.

“You don’t know?” demanded Anya.  “That looked pretty together to me.  Not that I blame you—”

“I don’t know,” repeated Buffy, loudly interrupting whatever comment Anya was about to make.  She looked at the vampire, who was still staring as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.  “That’s up to Spike.”

“Up to—well, there’s a toughie.”  Xander’s voice.  “Like there’s any question about what he’d decide.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Buffy, but even as she spoke, the last vestige of doubt faded from her mind.

Spike stood up a bit straighter, his expression suddenly intent as he looked from her to the mob staring at them.  She watched him carefully, waiting for the moment when he realized that she had deliberately staged this confrontation with their unwitting audience, and that her actions amounted to a public avowal of her feelings for him.   She struggled for a calm expression, wanting to let him be the one to make the choice, but in spite of herself a slow, anticipatory smile crept across her face.  She was so very sure what he would choose.

A moment later, he had snatched her up into his arms and was kissing her with a passion that completely failed to acknowledge the presence of their audience.

She responded wholeheartedly, only lifting her head when she needed to gasp for breath.  She pulled the air into her lungs in a rush and let it out in a strange sound that took her by surprise.   A moment later, she realized she was laughing.

Spike gave a low growl that turned into an answering purr of laughter as the mob watching them began to disperse.  Buffy heard Giles murmur something about seeing them at the house—eventually.  Dawn’s voice promised a long talk in the morning, and Willow was informing Anya that it was completely inappropriate to stay and watch.

Buffy’s mind barely registered their absence, but classified it vaguely as a good thing, something that allowed her to get on with the business at hand without any annoying distractions.  Then she felt herself being propelled backwards, into the darkness of the building being erected on this site.

The inside was cavernous, and if she had spared a moment’s thought for anything beyond the feel of Spike’s hands as they slid under her blouse or the touch of his lips against her neck, she would have wondered what type of structure needed such a vast, empty space.  Then there was a something solid behind her, and she felt herself being lifted up on a long, low wooden table.

But there was no concern in her mind for anything except him, the touch of his hands as he disrobed her, and the rough denim of his jeans under her hands as she tugged at his zipper and slid his pants down over his hips.  The sensation of two bodies that knew each other well, coming together as they had so many times before and as if for the first time.  The gasp of astonishment as she realized that this time, it was better than it had ever been before with anyone in this world, even with him.

Desperately, she pulled his head down towards hers as he thrust inside her, wanting the touch of his lips, and craving the sensation of a gentle exhalation against her cheek.  Wanting to pretend, as she always did, that it was real human breath she felt and not just the release of air that he needed to draw into his lungs to speak.

“I love you,” he murmured with that false breath.

The force of her climax took her by surprise at that moment, and she screamed involuntarily.  She felt the rush of something salty and warm in her mouth as his body shuddered against her, and he too cried out in release.

He collapsed on top of her and she lay back, suddenly conscious of the weight of his body pressing against her, of the chill air wafting through the doorway, and of the smell of sawdust that surrounded them.

He rolled over so that they lay side by side.  She could barely make out his features in the dim light that crept in from the street lamps outside.  She raised a cautious hand to his mouth, suddenly realizing what she had tasted in those last amazing moments of their lovemaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Sorry?”

He looked distressed, and she hastened to add.  “Your lip.  I—I bit you.”  She touched her own mouth in bewildered remembrance.  “I hurt you.”

“My—?  Are you apologizing to me?”

His astonishment wrung her heart, and she hugged him closer.  “You always hurt the one you love,” she murmured.  “But, I promise, Spike, not any more.”

She thought he looked even more astounded at this than he had when she told him she loved him.  Guilt at the way she had treated him previously made her eyes shift from his.  “Where are we?” she said at last, sitting up and looking around the huge room.

“Another of Harris’s building sites,” he replied, accepting the change of subject.  “A new church.  It seems hope springs eternal, love, even in Sunnydale.  Almost complete, but they haven’t put in the pews yet.”   He ran a hand along her naked back.  “Just as well our audience took themselves home.  No place for them to sit.”

She looked down at their makeshift bed.  It was a long table made out of some lovely hard wood, so dark she could barely make out its length in the dark.  It was smooth to her touch, and had offered no splinters to hurt them and distract from their lovemaking.  For the first time since she had kissed him after staking the vamp, she was truly appalled at her own behavior.  “Did we just have sex on an altar?”

Once, he would have laughed.  But now, sensitive to her distress, he looked grave.  “It seems so.  Sorry, love.”

But her second thoughts were of relief, not horror.  “Another church!  With crosses and things.  At least nothing in this one hurt you,” she said.   She reached out her hand to his lip.  “Except me.”

“Just a love bite,” he said.  “And, no, there’s nothing in here to hurt me.”  He looked around the huge room.  “No crosses yet.  And nothing’s been sanctified here.”

She looked down into his eyes, her hand gently stroking his cheek.  In the dim light filtering in from some street lamps, she thought he looked happy but still hesitant, like a man unable to believe his good fortune.  Not sanctified?  “I love you,” she said.

He pulled her down toward him and she felt his body tremble.  She closed her eyes, grateful that she had at last found herself able to utter those words.  It had been even harder than she expected to say them the first time, but now they came easier.  And speaking this truth had granted her an amazing freedom.  She felt not just happier, but stronger, better able to face what would come next.

Perhaps, she thought, someday I will be able to tell him the rest.  What a relief that would be, to be able to share it all with him.  Perhaps someday—

But she knew that day would never come.  She could never tell him.

The first thing that struck Spike as he slowly came to full consciousness was the strangeness of it all.  It was strange to awake in a soft bed with a warm body pressed closely against his.  It was strange to open his eyes to golden, diffused, indirect sunlight instead of the darkness of a crypt or cellar.  And it was, most of all, strange to feel happy.

This was the bedroom Buffy used now.  He knew that it had once been her mother’s.  From where he lay on his side he could see a picture of Joyce.  She was smiling, and he spared a moment’s hope that she would not disapprove too much of Buffy’s current companion.

They had climbed in the window just before dawn, with him in the odd role of protestor.  “Lost the key to your own house, love?”

“There are probably a dozen wannabe Slayers having a slumber party in the living room, all of them talking about Buffy and her vampire lover,” she had said, sounding remarkably cheerful as she pulled herself up the tree to the roof and shoved open the window.  “Do you want to listen to their gasps and giggles?  Answer their questions?  Dodge their stakes if they decide I’m making a mistake?”

No, none of those things had been what he’d had on his mind.

So they had tumbled on to the big bed, and made love again, slowly and with occasional attempts to avoid waking the rest of the house.  But the Scoobies and even those silly girls must have realized that he and Buffy had returned.  Bloody hell, the witch had probably sensed them come in and purposely kept the others from raising an alarm.

Now, lying in the total stillness of one who had no need to take a breath, he took stock of world around him.  The room was cluttered, with clothes thrown everywhere. The messiness didn’t disturb him; it spoke of the realities of day-to-day living, and it seemed an echo of the Slayer’s vitality.  Death was neat and settled; life should be untidy.

He could hear people moving around downstairs, but in this room the only noise was the faint exhalation of Buffy’s breath.  She was under the covers, lying behind him, her body curled against his back, her breasts rubbing lightly against his skin with each inhalation and exhalation.  Her breathing began to quicken almost imperceptibly, and he realized that in a moment she would wake.

Involuntarily, his muscles began to stiffen.  Her waking had always been the worst moment.  Sometimes, when she had fallen asleep in his crypt and lain with him like this, he had convinced himself that she would open her eyes, and smile at him, and he would know that he had made her happy.  But every time she had woken, her face had closed off at the sight of him, and her expression of self-loathing had made him almost regret giving into the passion that shamed her.

He did regret that affair now.  Regretted the blows, regretted the angry words, regretted the way he had tried to hurt and manipulate her into admitting she felt something for him.  Regretted the way he had foolishly tried to convince himself that the next kiss, the next night, the next morning would be different.  His mind still shied away from the memory of just how much he had to regret.

But last night was different.  He moved a bit now, testing his body, and realized that while he was sore and a bit stiff, this felt like the aftermath of a good, clean fight or even a sparring session.  In the past, he had woken from a night of sex with Buffy aching as if he had lost a battle with a particularly ferocious demon.

Except for that involuntary little nip of hers, they hadn’t really hurt each other last night.  Not with blows and not with words.  Still, they hadn’t exactly restricted themselves to decorous coupling in the missionary position either.  They had done those things before, but this was the first time he remembered her laughing while they made love.  Bloody hell, this was the first time he could remember making love instead of just shagging.

But what would she think this morning?  She had done her best last night to convince him that she was no longer ashamed to be with him, but he had too much experience of being rejected by her when the cold light of day crept over the horizon.  This was the hour for regrets and second thoughts.  If it had been possible, his heart would have grown colder as he waited.

She was stirring against him now, and he sighed at the silken softness of her pressed against his back.   She snuggled in closer as she came to full wakefulness, and he could sense the moment when her eyes opened and she took in her surroundings.

For a long moment, she was perfectly still.  Then he felt her breath rush against the back of his neck in a long exhalation.

Breathless himself, he rested unmoving, waiting for her reaction.  She was quiet for so long that panic began to grip him.  Finally he felt her movement—felt the gentle touch of her lips against the side of his throat.

Slowly, her body slid against his as soft kisses dropped on his ear, the nape of his neck, and his shoulder.  He lay, eyes closed, lost in amazement as she ran a hand along his arm, down his side, and over his hip.

She spoke in a burble of laughter.  “I can tell you’re awake, you know.  And if you don’t turn around and look at me, I have my ways of getting your attention.”  Her hand slipped downward from his hip, reaching—

He rolled over, grabbing her playful, straying hand and searching her face intently.

She was startled but undismayed, gazing at him with a trace of confusion that was insufficient to chase away her glowing smile.

“You’re happy,” he said hoarsely.

She blinked.  “Yes,” she said, surprised.

“Really happy.”   His tone demanded a response.

“Yes,” she reiterated.  Her smile faded just a little more.

He couldn’t bear to see any diminution in her joy.  The next words stumbled out as he tried to explain, to restore that amazing smile to her face.  “It’s just—I haven’t seen that enough.”

She relaxed, that hint of stress fading away and leaving a questioning expression behind. “You said something like that once before.  About seeing me happy.  That’s important to you.”

“Ah, pet, one of the great pleasures of being in love is seeing the object of your affections content and happy.”

She eyed him gravely for a second, and for a terrible moment he had absolutely no clue what she was thinking.  Then she said, in an almost experimental tone, “I love you.”

He found himself unable to respond, and just stared into her green eyes as her expression slowly returned to glowing contentment.  “Yes,” she said at last.  “I see what you mean.”

“Ah, love,” he said after a long moment.  “I’ve so wanted to see you like this.”

“And what else do you want?” she asked after a long, lingering kiss.

“What else could I want?” he asked, startled.  He buried his face in her hair, lips moving down the length of her neck, his expression hidden from her.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly.  “But there have been times when you’ve almost told me something.  You’ve always stopped and changed the subject.  I’ve wondered about it a lot.  And I want you to have what you want.”  She tugged at his shoulders until he raised his head and looked into her eyes.  “Maybe, one day, you’ll tell me what it is.”

He hid his face in her shoulder again, suppressing his impulse to answer her question.  He would not allow this moment of happiness to be tainted by impossible yearnings.

Buffy gave a blissful purr as she responded to his lovemaking, and he reveled in her pleasure.  He knew that she would not press him for an answer, and he forced himself to be glad of that.

Because, of course, he could never tell her.

“He’s up there,” said Vi.  “She left him alone up there.”

“So?” said Rona, dropping onto the couch and looking around the living room at the other Potential Slayers.  “He’s up there, we’re down here.”

Vi shivered.  “He scares me.  I don’t care what Buffy says.  He’s a vampire, and he killed people even after he got a soul.  The others don’t trust him either.  You can see it in their faces.  Mr. Giles, Xander, even Willow, they’re all afraid of him.”  She huddled in her chair, hugging her knees to her chest.  “I’m scared too,” she announced unnecessarily.

Kennedy stared at Vi in exasperation.  “Look around you,” she said.  “What do you see?”

Vi looked as if she expected that whatever Kennedy was referring to would jump up and bite her.  “Uh—”

“Sunlight,” said Kennedy loudly.  “He comes down here, he fries.  So relax.”  She added, with an edge to her voice.  “Until sundown, at least.”

“Even then.”  It was Dawn’s voice.  They looked up and saw that the Slayer’s sister was watching them from the hallway.  She raised the stake she held in her hand.  “He comes out in vamp face, I get him.  No worries.”  She turned and walked away.

“Gee,” said Rona.  “All the Summers women are scary, aren’t they?”

I should be free of this.  Spike was supposed to be resting here in Buffy’s bed, preparing for nightfall when they would patrol together.  Downright gratifying it had been, the way she fussed over him and insisted that he sleep and regain his strength for tonight.  Tonight--when he would be able to hunt beside his darling as her acknowledged lover, helping her plan her next attack on their mutual enemy.  That comes under the heading of having almost everything you ever wanted, mate.  So why are you feeling like your guts have been drawn and dressed for a nice dish of haggis?  He shouldn’t be having these thoughts.  Spike’s head tossed back and forth on the pillow as he lay in the shade-darkened room, fighting the images that forced themselves into his mind.

When he had resisted the First’s torture, he had been sure he had broken free of the claims that evil thing had upon him.  He knew that the last of his unwilling collusion had been bled from him in the vile ceremony that had created the Turok-Han.  So why was he lying here, tormented by these hallucinations?  And how could these dreams further the cause of the First Evil?  Unless they weren’t visions sent by the First after all.  Unless they were really memories.

He dropped into an uneasy sleep, haunted by images of a place in which he was something other than himself, and yet simultaneously more himself than he had been for over a century.

“Where is he?” asked Xander, setting two cups of coffee down on the kitchen counter.

“Upstairs sleeping,” said Willow.  She picked up one of the cups and sipped its contents absently.  She was scanning images on her laptop.

Xander began flicking over the pages of the book in front of him.  “How come he gets to take a nap while we work?”

“Because he was tortured for weeks by the First and has spent every night since he was rescued patrolling and boinking Buffy,” said Anya.   She was leaning over the refrigerator door and inspecting its contents.  “He’s got to be exhausted.”  She pulled out a packet of cheese.  “This is half gone!”

“Those girls will eat anything,” said Willow.  “I’m surprised they haven’t gone after Spike’s blood yet.”

“Can we stop discussing Spike’s various activities?” said Xander.  “Because I’m not getting any pleasure contemplating any of them.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” said Anya.  “And, speaking from experience, I’d have to say that the thought of Spike boinking—”

“Don’t go there, Anya!” said Willow quickly.  She leant toward the ex-vengeance demon and added in an undertone, “You can’t pretend that even you didn’t realize that would hurt Xander.”

“No,” said Anya, not bothering to lower her own voice.  “But the question is, is Xander upset because Spike had sex with me or because Spike is having sex with Buffy?”  She slammed the refrigerator door.  “Not that I care.”

“Can we really not do this?” pleaded Xander again.

“Yes, please let’s stop,” said Willow.  “We have a job to do here, and it’s not dredging up old traumas.”

“No,” said Xander.  “It’s an exciting new trauma.  We have to figure out what the First is doing right now.”

“Or, more exactly, who the First has taken over,” said Willow.  “The Seer from the English coven says that the Evil is using someone new, someone close to the Slayer.  She doesn’t think it’s Spike this time, so we have to figure out who it is.”

The three of them looked around the table at each other uneasily.

Willow shifted in her chair.  “We know the First can only take the shape of dead people.”

“But it can get inside living ones,” said Anya, sitting down at the table.  She stared at Willow.  “It got inside you.”

“That’s enough, Anya,” said Xander.  “Willow isn’t being controlled by the First.”

“Hmm,” said Anya, picking up a book and paging through it with an intense air of disbelief.

“She’s right to worry about me, Xander,” said Willow.  “I worry about me.  But the First isn’t using me right now.  I’m sure of that much.  Whether it can take control of me at another time—not so much with the certainty, I’m afraid.”

“It could be any one of us,” said Xander.

“Yup,” said Anya, “Besides, it’s not as if we didn’t cause all the trouble in the first place.  If Willow hadn’t done that spell, and if you and I hadn’t helped her, none of this would be happening.  So it’s all our fault for sure.”

The other two stared at her in frustration and guilt.  Anya continued remorselessly.  “And Giles is telling Buffy that right now.  Explaining how her coming back to life is going to destroy the Slayer line.  So I hope you had some nice bonding moments with her before she went downstairs.  Because she may not be feeling so friendly towards us when she comes back up.   By then, she’ll know for sure where the blame lies.”

“So,” said Buffy, “it’s all my fault.”

Giles reached out to cover her hand with his.  “Buffy,” he said softly, “no one blames you.”

She looked up at him, smiling gently through her tears.  “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been so distant lately, I thought—”

“Things have been—somewhat overwhelming,” he said.  “And I have to admit that I had my suspicions even before Anya and I spoke with Beljoxa's eye.”

Buffy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment.  Then she looked around at the training room she and Xander had thrown together in the basement of her poor, battered house.  “Everything is falling apart, Giles. I want to hold it together, but I’m the center of the chaos.  I’m its cause.  I shouldn’t be here.”

“If Willow hadn’t done that spell—”  He shook his head.  “I still don’t understand how it worked.  Even with all Willow’s power and with the dark magic she was willing to call upon, I don’t see how they managed to get you back, intact.”  He gazed at her intently.  “You are intact, Buffy.  If you weren’t, the forces surrounding the Slayer power would not be disturbed as they are.”

“I know,” said Buffy.  “Anything that’s strange about me is just about me.  I’ve come to accept that, even though I’m not crazy about the implications.”

“This is not your fault.”  Her Watcher choked out the words.  “Willow and Xander and–they should never have done it.”

“No, Giles,” said Buffy.  “It was wrong of them, but I can’t put all the blame on Willow and the others.  The spell wouldn’t have worked if I hadn’t let it.  If I hadn’t needed to come back.”

“But—”  He pulled away, staring at her in astonishment.

“When you came back from England to help stop Willow, I told you I didn’t know why I was here, and that was true.  It was true for the longest time.  But over these past few weeks, fighting this new Evil and some other things have triggered a lot of memories.  Forced me to look at what I didn’t want to see.  I know why I let the spell call me back, even though I was so happy there.  There was something I had to do, Giles.  Something so important that I was willing to be pulled out of heaven for it. ”

“To take care of Dawn?”

She shook her head.  “No.  I knew that the rest of you would be able to do that.” She looked away from him.  “When I did come back—it was something so awful, I didn’t want to remember.  Wouldn’t let myself remember.   I hid it from myself.  And now that I’ve finally had the courage to see the truth, it may be too late.”

“Too late for what?  Why did you come back, Buffy?”

“To kill Spike.”

Willow and the rest of Scoobies in the kitchen looked up as Spike came into the room.  Their conversation stopped abruptly.  He cast them an ironic glance as he went to the refrigerator, removed a plastic container, and started scrounging around in the cabinets for a clean coffee cup.  “Don’t stop on my account,” he said.  “Go right on insulting me as if I wasn’t here.  I won’t take any more offense than I usually do.”

“We weren’t—well, we were, but not just now,” said Xander.  “This isn’t about you.”

“Oh?”  Spike had at last unearthed a novelty mug covered with cartoon characters from Charlotte’s Web.  He grimaced at it, poured some pig’s blood from the container into the cup, and began to drink.

“Aren’t you going to heat that up?” asked Anya.

“Microwave’s broken and the Bit gets peeved when I warm blood on the stove.  Tastes foul no matter what I do to it, anyway.”  He set his cup on the counter and sat down opposite Anya.

Willow looked at the vampire’s face closely for the first time.  “You look awful,” she said.

“I knew you’d get over that shyness about insulting me to my face,” said Spike.

“I mean, you look more tired than when you went upstairs.”

“Funny thing that,” said Spike.  He pulled Xander’s book away from him.  “What’s this?  Researching the D’rak K’var ritual?”  He shoved the volume back across the counter.  “Wasting your time.”

“At least we’re trying to find something out,” said Xander.  “While other people have nap time.”

“Why is it a waste?” asked Anya.  Her brow furrowed and she pulled the book toward her.  “This looks just like the First’s cup of tea.  He could raise an elemental spirit through a human and animal sacrifice.”

“Yeah, but look at the kinds of animals he needs,” said Spike.

“That part of the text is missing,” said Anya.  She shuddered.  “It’s not bunnies, is it?”

Spike’s twisted smile was almost affectionate.  “No, Anya, if it was bunnies, he’d probably be having those blind bastards of his sharpen their knives right now.  This little spell requires a dodo bird.”

“A dodo bird?” asked Xander incredulously.  “Is there such a thing?”

“There used to be,” said Willow.  “They’re extinct.”  It was the sound of her own assured voice that made her doubt her words; over the past few years too many things she had always assumed were true had been proven false.  She looked at Spike.  “Aren’t they?” she asked in a weaker tone.

“As far as I know,” he replied, swirling the blood around in his cup.  “So unless you find a flock of the bloody stupid things thrashing about Madagascar somewhere, you’re flapping up the wrong tree with that one.”

“You’re sure about that?” asked Xander.  “Not the extinction.  The part about the ritual needing a dodo?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Spike.  He looked up then, his expression serious.  “Something I’ve known for a long time.  Pre-soul.”

“So your pre-soul ideas are more reliable than the ones you’ve had since you decided to become a good guy?” asked Dawn.  Willow looked up to see her standing in the doorway.  “Are we supposed to find that reassuring?”

“Not really,” said Spike.  He seemed to take no umbrage at her insulting tone.  “I’ve apparently had Mr. Primary Malevolence lurking in my brain ever since I got my soul back.”  He stared gloomily into the cup of blood.  “I’m not certain about much of anything that’s happened since I got back to Sunnydale.  Since—my soul.”

“Spike?”  Willow bit her lip nervously and repeated his name.  “Spike!”

Finally, the vampire looked up from the dregs of blood in his cup, and blinked at the Scoobies.  “Yeah?” he asked.

“You’ve been staring into your blood for five minutes,” said Dawn nervously.  “We couldn’t get your attention.”

“Yeah, it was major league creepy,” said Xander. He shifted in his chair, putting a bit more distance between himself and Spike.

“Just—thinking,” said Spike.  He looked around the table, and his lips twitched.  “You should see your faces.  I’m tempted to jump up and yell, ‘Boo!’ but you’d probably stake me.  It wasn’t the First.  He and I are close enough now that I could tell if he’d paid me a visit.”

No, thought Willow.  I didn’t sense that the First Evil was here.  But you were gone for a few minutes.  I wish I knew where you went.   She examined his face carefully, looking for signs of the same self-doubt that plagued her.   She could see none.  There was a quiet horror lurking behind his eyes that bespoke the memory of his past crimes; she was familiar with that look from her own mirror, and it presented no mystery to her.

But the bewilderment Spike seemed to feel didn’t appear to be accompanied by the tense fear that he might at any moment jump up and tear out their throats.  Willow thought she would recognize that expression because she had seen it in his face when Buffy brought him back from the cellar where he had buried the corpses.

This was something new; he looked perplexed and unsure of himself in a way that she had never observed in him, not even when he had first learned of the chip’s existence and been horrified by his inability to fight and kill.  Perhaps he didn’t recognize himself anymore.  That wouldn’t be surprising, really.  He wasn’t the old Spike, although the most irritating aspects of his personality seemed to be intact.  Had he reverted to the human he was before he became a vampire?  Probably not, because Buffy had told her years ago that the original William was some kind of thug, and a thug wasn’t what Willow was seeing behind those puzzled blue eyes.  It was entirely possible that this new Spike was a different creature entirely from the man or the vampire.  No wonder he was confused.

Before Willow could say anything aloud, the basement door opened and everyone in the room turned to watch Buffy and Giles enter the kitchen.

Willow was relieved to see that although Buffy looked pale, she did not bear that horrible blank expression that had become so familiar to the Scoobies during the months following the Slayer’s resurrection.

But Buffy’s face was obviously anxious enough to upset Spike; his chair grated against the kitchen tiles as he came to his feet.  “What’s wrong, love?”  His gaze moved from Buffy’s face to Giles’.  “What did you tell her, Watcher?”

“Just a fun complication, Spike,” said Buffy, trying and failing to achieve a light tone.  “Another little bit of fine print I forgot to read about my role as the Chosen One.  It seems that my coming back to life is the reason the First has been able to manifest itself in this dimension.  I’m letting it tap into the Slayer power somehow.”

“Yeah,” said Spike, unsurprised by this news.  His jaw tensed and he glared at Giles. “So you had to tell her that, you stupid git?”

“You knew?” said Buffy.  “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I guessed,” said Spike.  “I may have spent the past few months flying over the cuckoo’s nest, but even I can figure something out if I’m given enough time.”

Buffy looked as if she had been struck

Spike saw her face and stepped closer to her, rushing to apologize.  “I didn’t think saying it would do any good, love.  The First is here now, and how this started doesn’t matter anymore.  What’s happened has changed the rules.”  His gaze was intent and his voice became more emphatic.  “You can’t make this thing go away by going away yourself.”

Buffy nodded.  “I do understand that, Spike.  My coming back opened a door for the First, but I know my death won’t shut it.  It’s more complicated than that now.  I’m going to have to stay and fight.”  Her expression was so bleak that the others stared at her in dismay.

All except Willow.  Willow glanced away because her own guilt made it impossible to watch her friend’s grief at that moment.  So only she saw Dawn’s arms reach out to embrace her sister, just as Buffy turned and buried her face in Spike’s shoulder.

Only Willow saw Dawn’s angry and jealous reaction.

“Hi, guys,” said Andrew, coming into the kitchen.  “What’cha doing?”

Buffy pulled herself away from Spike and stared at Andrew as if she couldn’t remember who he was.

Xander looked at him in exasperation.  “We’re having an important discussion.  Don’t you have something else to do?”

Andrew shuffled his feet and looked forlorn.  “Well, I wanted to watch TV with the others, but the girls voted down all my choices.  They said they were stupid, but I still say that Ben Affleck was the bomb in Phantoms.  And Tobey Mcguire’s performance in Spiderman was very underrated.  Anyway, can’t I be part of your discussion?  I have ideas, you know.”

“It’s not the quantity but the quality of your ideas that concerns us, Andrew,” said Giles.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.  The time for discussion is over,” said Buffy.  “Now we have to find out what’s happening and figure out what resources we have to fight this thing.  We have to use every tool we have.” She turned to Andrew.  “Speaking of which—”

“Tool?”  said Andrew.  “I’m a tool?”

This drew synchronized eye-rolls from all of the Scoobies, but Buffy’s face stayed stern.  “Go with Xander—” she began.

“I’m Xander’s tool?”

“Andrew, shutting up and listening would be a really good idea right now,” said Buffy.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor.

“Good,” said Buffy.  “Go with Xander.  The two of you will be in charge of collecting more mundane-type weapons.  Axes, guns, rocket launchers.  Look through that stuff of Warren’s we salvaged.”

“Pretty much anything we can find, okay,” said Xander, getting up from the table.

“No,” said Buffy emphatically.  “We’re talking about Warren’s junk.  I don’t want anything that Wile E. Coyote would have thought it was a neat idea to use.  That stuff never works.”

“Okay,” said Xander.  “We’ll leave the cartoon anvils and the Flash Gordon ray guns and stick with old-fashioned, sensible instruments of murder and mayhem.  Whatever we can salvage.”

Buffy turned to Willow.  “You’re in charge of magic.  Figure out what we have that’s safe to use.”

Willow nodded unhappily and looked around.  “I’d like some help.  Dawnie, will you stick with me?”  She turned back to Buffy.  “If that’s okay with you.  I—I don’t feel all that safe touching certain things myself.”

“Okay,” said Buffy quietly.  Neither she or any of the others said any more.  Words of reassurance would have been hollow and useless.

And what about me?” demanded Anya.  “I know magic better than Dawn.”

“You also know demonic history better,” said Buffy.  “I want you and Giles to go back into research mode.”

Giles shook his head, looking uncomfortable.  “Buffy, we already tried every source we have on the First Evil.  There is no more information to collect.”

“That’s not the demon I want you to research,” said Buffy.  “I want you to go back and look at Slayer origins.”

There was a moment’s silence.  “You said ‘demon.’”  It was Xander who pointed this out.

“Yes, I did.  Because it’s clear now that’s where my power as Slayer comes from.  I have to know more about it, how it works, how it comes to me and the other Slayers.  If the disruption in that power is what brought the First back into action, I need to know what kind of a demon I’m dealing with.  What kind of a demon I am.”  Her voice was calm and matter of fact.  Her expression was serious but undismayed.  Only her eyes reflected grief and horror.

Once again, no one argued or offered reassurance.  There was another uncomfortable silence that perhaps included a sense of relief that this truth had finally been put into words.

“Unfortunately,” said Giles, “most of those records were destroyed with the Council.”

“Which means they probably were really important,” said Anya.  “Too bad they’re just a pile of ash.”

“But some of them are a bundle of bits and bytes,” said Willow suddenly.  She turned to Giles.  “Remember all those books you had me scan a few years ago?  Would they help?”

Giles shifted on his feet, a faint hope stirring in his eyes.  “Yes, yes, if I could have those documents, I could make a start at least—”

“I’ll give you the CDs,” said Willow, heading for the stairs.  “I have copies saved.”

“CDs?” said Giles.  “You mean they’re saved on those things you put in the computer slots?  I think I know how to use those.  Without damaging them.”  He looked uneasy.

“Don’t worry,” said Anya.  “I’m on your team, and I’ll help you with the putting of things in the right slots.”  She beamed at him.  “We’ll work on it together!”

“Yeah,” said Buffy, her eyes widening at Anya’s expression.  “You and Giles—can work on that.”  She looked away, met Spike’s eyes, and almost burst into laughter in spite of everything.

“What about us, pet?”  he asked.  “Do we get to put things in the right slots?”

“Not now,” she said firmly.  “Our job is to train our fighting force.”

Giles and Anya had set up operations on the dining room table with two laptop PCs that they had commandeered from Willow and Dawn.  Anya was paging industriously through files she had pulled up on one laptop, while Giles ignored his and made notes on her findings in a leather-bound journal.

“Anything useful in this latest one?” he asked about an hour into their studies, returning from the kitchen with a cup of tea for himself and a diet soda for her.  “It’s a particularly old text, but, as I recall, no more informative about the origins of Chosen Ones than any of the others.”

“I’m not going through the parts on Slayers,” said Anya.  “I’m searching for information on vampires.”

“Like the Turok-Han?”

“Like Spike.”

“Spike?”  Giles was startled.

“Yes, Spike.  Buffy said that the last time the First showed up, it went after Angel.  And this time, it went after Spike.  Two vampires with souls, each of whom boinked a Slayer who came back from the dead.  Coincidence?  I think not.”

Giles winced at her language, but then looked more thoughtful.  He shoved his PC further off to the side and shifted his chair closer to Anya’s to read over her shoulder.  “Yes, it is possible, indeed probable, that the return of Spike’s soul is as much a part of this equation as Buffy’s return from the dead.”

“See, I thought the chance to blame Spike for something would make you more cheerful,” said Anya brightly.

Giles had turned away and was sorting through the pile of CDs.  “This one,” he said.  “This is the text that informed me it was Angel’s blood that could release Acathla.  The fact that he had once had a soul was important, I recall.  We must examine this concept more closely.”  He smiled at her.  “That was an excellent idea, Anya.”

Anya took the disk from him, smiling with happiness at this praise.

Vi screamed.  Buffy sighed.  Spike watched her whole body tense, her hand adjusting its grip on her stake.  He began to count slowly.  His guess was that she wouldn’t make it past ten.

“One . . .” he muttered under his breath.

Kennedy and Molly managed to save Vi from the vampire she was struggling with, more by dint of getting too many bodies in its way and forcing it to stumble over tombstones than by any stunning use of martial arts skills.  Buffy still stood quietly, if anxiously, next to Spike, doing nothing.

“Two . . .”  Rona and two of the others were sparring with another vampire.  One of the girls was about to stab it when another Potential knocked the stake out of her hand.   Not that it would have mattered.  A stake in the butt might be painful, but Spike could vouch for the fact that it was not going to slow a vampire down, much less kill him.

“Three . . .”  Kennedy made a valiant attempt to rush her vampire and got thrown backwards like a rag doll.  She hit the wall of a mausoleum and lay on the ground, stunned.  Buffy still did not move.

“Four . . .”  Spike cocked his head to one side, watching the tangle of legs that was Rona’s group trying to sort itself out, while their vampire crawled over the grass a few feet away, apparently just as confused as the Potential Slayers.

“Five . . .”  The other vamp grabbed Vi again from behind, and Molly was too far away to help.  His fangs came down against her neck . . . and he exploded into dust with one blow from Buffy’s stake.

Vi fell to her knees and gaped up at Buffy.  “T-thanks.”

Buffy sighed again and nodded at the other vampire.  “Help them now,” she ordered.  She looked over at Kennedy, who was pulling herself to her feet and looking around for a weapon.  Smiling grimly, Buffy stepped back to Spike’s side and resumed her watchful role.

“So now it’s six of them against one newbie who hasn’t figured out which side of the neck the jugular’s on,” said Spike.  “Who are you betting on?”

“They can take him,” said Buffy.

He heard the doubt behind her bold assertion and merely cocked a sardonic eyebrow.

Buffy sighed.  “I’m no good at fooling you or myself, Spike.  Even if they manage to dust this vamp, they’re not ready to fight the kind of big bad we’re up against.”

“And much as I’d like to do my old cocksure I’m-the-biggest-bad-around act, I have to admit that I’m not back to full strength.  I should be, but something the First did to me left me weak.”  A Potential screamed as the remaining vamp grasped her by the shoulders and began to sink its fangs into her neck.  With a grunt of irritation, Spike stepped forward, snapped the creature’s neck to stop the attack, and held up its body for the Potential to stake.

The girl stood staring at the resulting cloud of dust, one hand holding her stake and the other clasping her bleeding neck.

Spike stepped back to Buffy’s side, away from the smell of fresh blood.  He forced his mind back to their previous topic of discussion.  “It had to be that ceremony to create that Ubervamp.  It took something more from me than just some red corpuscles.  Don’t know what.  Couldn’t have been my sense of style, because the thing had none.”

Buffy smiled perfunctorily at his joke.  “At least you’re sharing that with me,” she said.  “Unlike other things.  What was that about, Spike?  Afraid I’d kill the messenger?”  Her eyes shifted away from his, and her voice cracked slightly on the last words.  Spike followed her gaze, wondering if it was only the sight of the Potentials gathering up their weapons that made her seem so uneasy.  None of the girls was congratulating herself on the demise of the last two vamps.  Most of them fanned out to examine the rest of the hiding places in the graveyard.

He was silent for a minute.  Buffy had already known there was something he wasn’t telling her about himself.  Now she knew that he had guessed she was the source of the disruption that allowed the First to be active.  He wasn’t sure just how much trouble he was in, or even how they would cope with a real argument under the terms of this strange new version of their relationship.  “I decided it was share time because it’s something you need to know,” he said finally.  “I didn’t mention the other because why we’re in this bloody mess isn’t important any more.”  His expression was almost rueful.  “And in case you haven’t noticed, giving pain isn’t one of my turn-ons these days.”

“You’re wrong, Spike,” said Buffy, and then added quickly, “about this being important, I mean.  On a need to know basis, this was something I needed to know.  This information about me could be important.”

He shook his head.  “I don’t know that I believe that, pet.  That horse escaped long before you sent Giles chasing to shut the barn door.  It’s the future that matters.  That’s why I’m telling you my full strength isn’t back.  You need to know that you may not be able to depend on me in a fight.”

“You’re still the best fighter I’ve got, Spike,” said Buffy.  “And you’ll come up to full strength in time.  I believe that.  I need to believe that.  Because you’re all I’ve really got to get through this.  Because Willow, Giles, and the others aren’t coming up with any answers.  And as hard as I’m trying to teach these girls, they’re just not cutting the ketchup.”

At this, he grinned with real amusement.  “Mustard,” he said reflexively, wondering if she had made the mistake just to see him laugh.  I did something that pissed her off, and not only is she not hitting me or bitching about it, she’s making jokes?  I don’t know whether to be thankful or worried.

She shrugged, answering his smile with a wry one of her own.  “Mustard, ketchup, salsa, or anything else in the condiment category.  They’re not making it, Spike.”

He turned to see that one of the Potentials had not followed the others.  Rona was standing a few feet away, listening to their conversation with a fearful expression.  He cursed himself inwardly.  Whether it was the residual weakness left by the First’s ritual or the strange visions of a distant place that haunted him, he was seriously off his game.  The stench of the girl’s fear was so strong, it was incredible that it had not alerted his hunting instincts.  How had he become so careless of his surroundings that he could ignore the presence of a human standing that near to him?

“Calm down, Dawn,” said Willow in a soothing voice.  “Buffy knows what she’s doing.”

“I just don’t get it.  Using Spike to figure out what’s up with the First I can understand.  But how can she trust him enough to—”  Dawn’s expression hardened into cold anger.  “Not after what he did.”

“Buffy is good at forgiving,” said Willow.  She looked up from the trunk full of magical paraphernalia that she was sorting through.  “So are you, usually,” she added meaningfully.

Dawn stared at her.  “Oh.  Well, you’re different.  You’re—”

“Someone who had a soul and free will and still did terrible things.  Dawn, with this thing around, none of us dares to trust the others absolutely.  But if we don’t stick together, it will win for sure.  And we need Spike.  He’s been close to this thing, and he’s figured out how to fight its influence.”  Willow took a long, heavy box from the trunk and put it on the dresser.  “Would you sort through those things for me?”

“Yeah, he looked like he was fighting it real well in the kitchen.”  Dawn opened the box and began pulling out bags of herbs.

“Whatever’s getting to Spike now, it’s not the First, Dawn.  Remember, I felt the First inside me.  I’d know if it was in the room with me.”

“Okay, great.  So he’s possessed by something else.  Or maybe he’s just delusional.  My sister is sleeping with a psychotic vampire.  I feel much better now.”  Dawn picked up a small wooden box and frowned at it.  “What’s in here?”

Willow blinked up at her.  “It’s something Buffy asked me to work on a few weeks ago.  For Spike.  But she doesn’t want me to use it now.  I think I should destroy it, but I’d need another ritual.  And—not feeling so secure with doing the magic right now.”

“If you’re not feeling okay to do magic, why are we looking at this stuff?”  Dawn lowered her hands, but did not put down the box.

“Some spells I wouldn’t need to do myself,” said Willow.  “There are some things here anyone can use to make a protection spell for the house.  I’m going to show the rest of you how to activate it; it may offer some protection against the Bringers.”

“Oh.”  Dawn rubbed her hand over the wooden surface.  “Why doesn’t Buffy want this any more?”

“Oh!”  Willow cried in dismay as something jumped up from the trunk and began darting around the room.  “Come back here, you!”

Dawn swatted the tiny ball of light away.  It careened across the room and into a photograph hanging on the wall, knocking it to the floor.

“Gotcha!” said Willow, snatching the ball of light and stuffing it back into a bottle.

“What is it?” said Dawn.

"An imp.  It’s supposed to be useful, for dusting furniture and stuff.”

“A fairy duster?” asked Dawn.  “Like instead of a feather duster?”

“Kind of.  But it’s much better at breaking things than at cleaning.”

“Oh.  What about this?”  Dawn held up the box she held again.

“That?  Oh, that won’t do anything until it’s activated.”

“What will it break then?”  Dawn opened the box a crack and stared at the bright blue orb inside.

“It’s not for breaking something, exactly.  But Buffy didn’t want to use it on Spike after all.  She said it would hurt him.”  Willow picked up the picture that had been knocked down and frowned at it.  The glass was shattered, fragmenting the image of smiling Scoobies beneath it.  “I was going to take that imp to the mall and set it loose in the Thomas Kinkade gallery, but I keep forgetting.”

“Oh.” Dawn was still looking down at the glowing orb in its velvet box.  “Hurt Spike how?”

“There’s too much light,” Buffy said.

Giles watched from the doorway as Buffy stepped across the room and yanked the bedroom curtains closed.

“I’m going to try to call Astarte again,” said Willow.  “If she’s home, I can pick up those lizards’ tongues she was saving for me while you’re at your meeting, Buffy.”  She smiled briefly at Giles as she went out into the hall.

No sooner had Willow gone out than Anya stuck her head in, announced, “I’ve rounded up three of them, but some of the others are insisting they don’t have anything to wear,” and left.

Buffy was still fussing with the curtains.  “It will be dark soon,” she said.  “Only another hour or so.”  She sounded impatient.

Giles remembered when Buffy had loved the light, when she seemed to glory in the daytime as a refuge from the stress of being the Slayer.  But she was looking away from the window now, to the corner where Spike stood, as far as he could possibly get from the press of humanity that was parading through the room.  He was leaning against the wall, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, expression grim.  But Buffy’s look of impatience softened into anticipation as she smiled at him.

Giles found himself hoping Buffy only longed for night because it meant that Spike could move at her side without restriction.  But his stomach clenched as he watched her turn her face away from the sun to gaze at the vampire.  Has she come to see herself as a creature of the darkness?

Dawn marched in, dumped a pile of folded clothes on the bed, glared at Spike and Buffy, and left.  Giles wondered if he should comment on Dawn’s obvious hostility, but decided to save that discussion for a time when Spike was not present.  Instead, he tried to resume his previous conversation with the Slayer.

“I thought perhaps the girls would profit from some greater research experience,” he said.  “Anya used that on-line catalog thing to identify a large number of books in the University library that might be of some relevance, far more than she and I can analyze on our own.”

“So you’re taking the Whiny Ones on a field trip?” asked Buffy.  “Fine, as long as you don’t want me to chaperone.  I can’t, anyway.  Principal Wood wants to meet with me in a few minutes about some students who apparently have even longer and scarier permanent records than I did.”  She was scrounging through her purse.  “I can’t find my keys to the school.”

Giles sensed a presence behind him and turned to see one of the Potentials hovering nervously in the doorway.  Vi inched her way past Giles and spoke hesitantly to Buffy.  “I can’t find some of my things.  Dawn said she thought they might have gotten mixed in—”

Buffy gestured at the pile of clothes resting on the bed and left the room.  Vi looked at the laundry, took in its proximity to Spike, and inched carefully around the bed, staying as far away from him as she possibly could while accomplishing her errand.

The vampire watched the girl silently.  Giles, accustomed to the old Spike who rarely shut up, found this new taciturnity alarming.  Not for the first time, he thought that it might have been better if Spike had found a crypt to lurk in during the day.  Spike’s presence might be an added measure of protection for the girls, but living with this many humans had placed an obvious strain on him.  His entire body seemed to radiate tension.

Suddenly, Spike moved, causing Vi to jump and squeak.  She watched, spellbound, as Spike’s shaking hand reached for a packet of cigarettes on the dresser.  The vampire’s eyes were locked on Vi as he tapped out one of the narrow cylinders, put it to his lips, and flicked open his lighter.

The frightened young Potential was staring at Spike over the flame, transfixed.  Spike took a long drag of smoke, blew it out, and seemed steadier.  “Do you have a problem?” he asked finally.

“It’s just—I thought Buffy didn’t like people smoking indoors,” she stammered.

“Buffy knows all about my bad habits,” he growled.   “They’re none of your business.”  He gestured to her hands, which clutched a pink sweater to her chest.  “You have what you came for.  So unless there’s another reason for you to stay and paw through Buffy’s things, you can bloody well leave now.”

Vi jumped, turned, and ran from the room, brushing past Giles.

Vampires tend to nest and to be territorial.  Words from Giles’ Council training ran through his mind.  What must it be like for a vampire to nest in a house full of humans who were constantly intruding on his privacy?  How tempting did he find the constant sight and smell of those who should be his natural prey?

As if to answer Giles’ thought, Spike closed his eyes and took a long drag on the cigarette.  His tense expression eased slightly.

Good God, he’s smoking to mask the smell of human blood, thought Giles.  Soul or no soul, thank heavens the chip is still active.

Spike’s eyes opened again.  “What about you?” he snarled at the Watcher.  “I don’t see any reason for you to be hanging about.”

“Did Vi find her things okay?” Buffy came back into the room, followed by Anya.  The Slayer was smiling at first, but the light in her eyes dimmed as she took in the men’s antagonistic stance and noted the acrid smell of Spike’s cigarette.

Giles saw her grimace of distaste, and expected some complaint.  At the very least, an “Eww!” followed by a request not to pollute her bedroom would have seemed in order.  But, instead, she smiled sadly and said, “I made Anya come with me.  I think that if she stops criticizing the girls’ clothes for five minutes, they may be able to get ready to go out.”  She reached up to caress Spike’s cheek for a moment.  “That way, the house will be less noisy while I’m gone.  And Willow’s giving me a ride to and from the school, so I should be back soon.”

But it was Anya who replied.  “Excuse me for having opinions.  I see that only some people can get away with whatever they want around here.” She gestured at Spike’s cigarette.  “Obviously, I’m not sleeping with the right person.”

Giles winced at Anya’s comment, but didn’t remonstrate or voice his disagreement.  Buffy’s motivations weren’t as simple as that, he was sure.  Giles turned to Spike and saw the vampire’s eyes were fixed on Buffy’s face.  He knows as well as I do that it’s not normal for her to let him get away with anything that bothers her.

Giles thought over several incidents he had noted during the past few days.  Buffy was avoiding even petty quarrels with Spike, apparently not wanting to suffer the pain—or take the time—that would be involved in working through an argument.  She made no effort to deal with the issues that were inevitable in an affair as fraught with inherent difficulties as theirs.  The Watcher had seen her sidestep confrontations, smoothing them over with kisses in a manner as disturbing as it was uncharacteristic.  In someone else, he might have considered this normal behavior to be expected during the first flush of an infatuation.  But Buffy’s indulgence of Spike’s desire to smoke wasn’t the blind acceptance of a besotted woman indulging her lover’s whim.  It was, perhaps, the sorrowful tolerance of someone reluctant to deny a dying man his last wish.

Vi stumbled down the stairs, clutching her fuzzy sweater and hastening to return to the company of her fellow Potentials.  She might not feel completely safe with them either, but at least she wasn’t in a dangerous, alien presence.  She stopped in the doorway, listening to the conversation already in progress.

“Nothing about her as the Slayer makes sense,” Rona was saying.  She stirred restlessly on the couch, anxiously surveying the faces of her companions.  “She sleeps with a vampire.  She has that strange, blank expression that creeps me out sometimes.  She isn’t even the real Slayer.  If what Kennedy found out is right, some girl who’s in prison in LA is the real Slayer.  Buffy’s some kind of—of weird creature that came back from the dead.”

Vi crept forward to sit on the floor by Rona’s feet, staring at the other girl anxiously.

“And I don’t care what she says, I don’t trust Spike.”  Molly spoke up.  “He’s always needling us, reminding us of how dangerous he is.”

“I think he just does that to remind us that we have to be on our guard, careful of creatures like him.”  Amanda, the new girl, spoke up.  Although her voice was thin and reedy, it held a resilient note and her narrow face was determined and calm.

“I heard him say he was way weaker than he used to be,” said Rona.  “And you saw how easily he took out that vamp we were fighting.  If we can’t kill a normal vampire, what happens when we meet another one as old and as strong as Spike?  And how can we even dream we have a chance against the First?”

“Buffy is here to protect us—” Kennedy started to say.

“I’ve got to go, guys,” said Buffy from the doorway.

The Potentials jumped and turned to stare at the Slayer.  She was pulling the strap of her purse over her arm and absently straightening the high collar of her white shirt.  “I have to go to work.  But I’ll be back in time to patrol.”  Her gaze swept the room.  “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing,” said Vi.

"Mr. Giles wants us to go with him to a library,” said Amanda in a condemnatory tone.

Buffy’s lips twitched.  “He’s like that.  With the books and things.  Don’t worry, it’s survivable.  I always spent a lot of time looking at the pictures.”  She turned and was gone.

Rona stared after her.  “She used to look at the pictures.  Very reassuring.”

“Rona!”  Kennedy started to protest.

“Don’t hush me!  Buffy may have killed that Ubervamp thing, but she doesn’t have a plan for taking out the First.”  Rona jumped up and stared pacing the room nervously.

“That’s not all,” said Vi in a quiet, shaking voice.  The others turned to look at her.  “I heard two of them talking the other day.  Willow and Xander.  They said that it was Buffy who made the First come back.  That she’s the reason it’s here.”  She shivered.  “I don’t understand why exactly, but how can she protect us if she’s the reason we’re in danger?”

Anya clumped down the stairs noisily, ignored the murmur of conversation in the living room, and stuck her head into the dining room. “Are you coming?” she asked.

Dawn looked up from the books on the dining room table.  She was making a half-hearted attempt to do some homework, and had pushed aside Giles’ papers to concentrate on a Biology text.  “You’ll have a big enough crowd without me,” she said.  “Besides, Giles wanted to train them on doing research.  I know the drill already.”

Anya straightened the pile of papers Dawn had treated so carelessly.  “I don’t see why we need them.  Giles and I could do very well on our own.  Instead, we’re going to have all those girls in the way.”

“We need them, Anya,” said Giles in a tired voice as he came into the dining room.

"Can I come too?” asked Andrew.  They turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.

“No!” said Giles automatically.

“No!” said Anya in the same moment.  She slipped a notebook into her purse and glared at him.

Andrew looked at the ground and pouted.

“Stay here with Dawn and—”  Giles hesitated.

“And what?” said Dawn.  “Protect me?  That had better not be what you were about to say.”

“No, of course not,” said Giles.  He turned back to Andrew.  “Stay here and keep out of Dawn’s way.”

This increased Andrew’s sulks and did little to appease Dawn.  She turned and went into the kitchen, dropping dirty dishes into the sink with unnecessary and potentially destructive force.

Giles followed Dawn and put an awkward hand on her shoulder.  “I’m sorry, Dawn, but handling those girls will be as much as Anya and I can manage.”

“I understand,” said Dawn through gritted teeth.  “It doesn’t bother me.”

“And, of course, the notion that he would protect you is ludicrous.”  Giles ran a hand through his hair.  “But we’re not leaving you defenseless.  Willow taught you to activate the protection spell, so the Bringers shouldn’t be able to get inside.”  He hesitated, and added more doubtfully, “And Spike is upstairs.”

“Yes, of course.”  Dawn’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter until the tips turned white and bloodless. “Spike’s here.”

“Buffy?”

The Slayer looked up from her coffee cup, trying to focus on the Principal’s face.  What did he just say?  We were talking about someone—a student.  Which one?  She had a brief vision of a surly teenaged countenance and remembered some convoluted tale about practical jokes, bubblegum, peanut butter, laundry detergent, and ruined band equipment.

Very carefully, Buffy leaned forward to set her cup on the Principal’s desk.  She’d spilled coffee all over it once, and she didn’t want to do that again.  But her arm seemed too heavy, and she couldn’t reach high enough.  Her fingers convulsed on the handle, lost their grip, and she watched in dismay as the cup crashed against the side of the desk and tumbled to the floor.  With enormous effort, she looked up into Wood’s face and saw with sadness and a flash of anger that his eyes were glazed and staring, his expression blank.  She was far too tired to be surprised, even if she hadn’t already figured out what was happening.

She had been drugged.

Willow walked down the hallway of the new high school.  Her hesitant footsteps echoed in the empty corridor as she approached the Principal’s office.  This wasn’t the old Sunnydale High, but the old evil still lurked here.  She could feel it, surrounding her, and her instincts told her to run and seek some safer haven.  She forced down her fears, opening the door hesitantly.  And she immediately realized that she should have trusted her instincts.

Dawn sat at the dining room table, apparently intent on her homework.  Andrew fidgeted and fussed behind her, paging through a magazine one of the Potentials had left behind and making occasional comments in an effort to get her attention.

“Who do you think is cuter?  Jared Padalecki or Milo Ventimiglia?”

She must have been concentrating very hard, because she didn’t respond.

He held up the magazine, turning it around so that she could admire the pictures if she so desired.  “Because Jared is really tall and has nice hair, but you know Milo has that kind of bad boy cute thing going.”

She hunched one shoulder, but gave no other sign she had heard.

“Well, what about Tom Welling and Michael Rosenbaum? Who do you think is hotter?”

Silence.

“I mean, like—which do you think is hotter,” he stammered, suddenly wanting to make things perfectly clear.  “Because, of course, I like Kristen Kreuk best.  She’s, like a real tomato.”

“Tomato?” Dawn tossed her pen on the table and turned to stare at him incredulously.

He backed away nervously, suddenly aware he might have said something she found offensive.  But before he could decide if she were merely going to utter a crushing retort or actually slap him, Dawn looked up, suddenly alert and intent.  She wasn’t focused on Andrew’s face.  She seemed to be listening to someone or something.  Something that wasn’t there.  She stood up, the legs of her chair scraping harshly on the dining room floor as she headed for the hallway.

“Where are you going?” asked Andrew.

She ignored him, but he followed her as she went up the stairs and into Willow’s room.  Dawn went immediately to an old box and started scrounging through it, ruthlessly tossing aside various items in her quest.

“Uh?  Looking for something?”  Andrew asked in a voice that sounded idiotic even to his own ears.  He looked around uneasily, although he realized that if the First were talking to Dawn, he would have no way to confirm that unless the Evil decided to reveal itself to him too.

Dawn stood up, holding an object in her hands.  She brushed past Andrew and went down the hall to Buffy’s room.  “Spike!”  Dawn rapped on the door imperatively.

It opened immediately.  Spike was frowning.  “What’s wrong, Bit?”

She didn’t answer him.  Before Andrew could utter a warning, she opened her hand and muttered, “Exeunt.”  The orb she was holding began to pulse and turn right red.

“Balls!”  Spike stepped backwards, wincing away from the glowing orb.  His hands reached up to his temples.  He stared at Dawn, a betrayed look visible even through the grimace of pain.  “Why are you doing this, Little Bit?” he asked, as he dropped to his knees in agony.

“Honestly,” said Giles.  “We’d have been better off leaving this lot at home to watch television.  Xander and Willow and the others were trying as teenagers, but I could usually get them to settle down for a bit of research.”  Anya followed his gaze as he stared across the library reading room to the large table where the Potentials were looking bored and chatting.  One of the librarians had just gone over to hush them, not for the first time that evening.

“I told you they wouldn’t be any good,” said Anya.  “Unlike me!”  She displayed a sheaf of papers.  “Look what I just printed off the microfilm machine.”

“The Hoboken Codex.  That’s a very obscure text.  The original was destroyed with the Council.”  Giles wiped his glasses in his excitement.  “I had no idea anyone had ever bothered to copy it.”

“And the abstract says it has stuff about the special vampire in it.”

“Excellent.  Because I’m convinced we need to find out where Spike fits in.  You’re right, Anya, he is important.”

“Do you think he has to die?” she asked casually.

Giles put his glasses back on and stared at her in astonishment.  “Why do you—have you read something in the Codex--?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t had time to read it yet.  I just thought maybe Buffy had some Slayer dream that Spike had to die or something.  Because of the way she keeps looking at him.”  She looked up into the Watcher’s eyes expectantly.  “You must have noticed.  Like he’s a diseased puppy she has to take to the vet and have put to sleep or something.”

“Anya, that’s appalling.”

“Well, Buffy seems to think so.”

“I mean—the way in which you expressed it—”  He sighed.  “I really can’t discuss this with you.”

“No.  Of course.  I mean Buffy would tell you everything.”  She patted her freshly-dyed, blonder-than-Buffy hair and smiled at him. “But if you can’t trust me—”  She pouted.

He sighed.  “She told me in confidence, Anya.  And I’m not sure it has anything to do with what we may find in that Codex.”  He glanced back at the table where the Potentials sat.  “Oh dear.”  He gave her an even more harried glance.  “I need to stop them immediately.  My dear, would you mind making a start on that?”

Anya’s pique at not being let into Buffy’s secret vanished.  She hugged the papers to her chest happily.  “Not at all.”  Her smiling eyes followed him as he hurried off.  “‘My dear,’” she repeated to herself as she sat down at one of the long tables and started turning over the crowded sheets of text, ignoring the very distressing spectacle the Potentials were making at the other end of the room.

Willow stared at the spectacle taking place at the other end of the room.  But she could only observe; anything she could do to fight back would be more dangerous than inaction.  She watched Principal Wood turn away from the three mirrors he had carefully set up to face each other on his desk.  In the circle of mirrors, a diagram had been carefully drawn in chalk. The replica of the goat’s head seal in the basement was reflected back and forth endlessly.

Wood did not glance at Willow or pay attention to her struggles against the shackles that bound her to a heavy table.  His eyes glazed over, he picked up an ornate dagger and bent down to the other woman who lay slumped against his heavy desk, her wrists and ankles also chained.  Buffy was unconscious and did not move, even when he sliced through the long sleeve of her white shirt and into the skin below.

Willow gasped, but the cut was shallow.  Wood reached up and held a small vial under Buffy’s arm, carefully collecting the Slayer’s blood.  The ominous ritual, combined with his apparent calm, were hard to watch.  Willow wasted no thoughts on the possibility of arguing with Wood; he was clearly under the First’s control.

But, still, she kept her eyes on the Principal.  Because the alternative would be to look at the First Evil and the abhorrent form it had taken.

She could choose not to look, but she couldn’t help hearing what the First had to say.

“You’re thinking that you could stop him with one thought.”  Tara’s voice.  And not Tara’s voice.  The tone was saccharine, wheedling.  “You could.  It would be easy.”

“Yes,” said Willow.  Her own tone was falsely boastful.  “It would.  And you would do well to remember what kind of enemy I can be.”

“Oh, Willow, honey,” cooed this repulsive not-Tara. “You know why you haven’t done it already.  Just as you know that eventually you will.  And we both know what it will mean.”  This was said in a low, earnest tone.  Willow imagined one of Tara’s grave glances accompanying the words.

She closed her eyes, almost choking on her tears.  This profanation of Tara hurt her far more than the ropes digging into her wrists and ankles.  She could hear the pleasure in that familiar voice.  In spite of her refusal to look, she could not help visualizing the crooked, radiant smile that she had loved so well on this evil thing’s face. If she looked at the First, she would do magic, just to stop this horrific masquerade.  But that was exactly what it wanted, of course.  It wasn’t pretending to be Tara because there was any chance of fooling Willow with this horrible impersonation.

“If you use your magic, it will take you over.”  Buffy’s voice, echoing Willow’s own thoughts.

Willow opened her eyes to see Buffy struggling to sit up despite the chains that bound her.  The Slayer looked pale, and she was making no effort to break out of the shackles. Not yet.  Buffy stared into Willow’s eyes for a moment and turned to the First, ignoring the Principal’s movements as he continued his sinister preparations.

He paused only to pick up another chain and wrap it around Buffy’s waist, binding her more securely to the metal pillar that was a part of the building’s support.  Breaking free from those bonds would be a challenge even for the Slayer.

“Spike!”  Dawn was screaming in his ear.  “Spike!”

“Whaaa—”  Spike opened his eyes and stared up at her.  He was lying on the floor of Buffy’s bedroom.  “Bloody hell, Bit, what did you do to me?”  He sat up, holding his hand to his temple.  “Felt like the chip went off, times a couple of million.”

“Yeah,” said Andrew, peeking over Dawn’s shoulder.  “And this shiny red arrow thingie came out of the orb and whipped around your head and then went like right through your skull!  And when it came out, it was like all different colors and then it flew up in the air and went kaboom like fireworks!  I mean, it wasn’t up to like a Lord of the Rings quality special effect or anything, but I could feel the sparks when they came down.  You don’t get that in the movies, even with THX.”

Spike tried to ignore Andrew as he staggered to his feet.  His eyes were on Dawn; her face was pale and intent.  “Hit me,” she said.

Spike shook his head and immediately regretted the gesture.  “What?” he demanded.

“Hit me.  I need to see if it worked.”

“Have you gone completely round the bend?  If what worked?”

“That orb thing,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other.  “Willow made it to destroy the chip.  I need to know if it worked.”

“To destroy—”   He stared at her, aghast.  “Why would you do that?”

“So you can hit people, of course.  Come on, Spike.”  She took his hand and pulled it to her chin.

He felt as if he had been assaulted again, this time by a blow to his gut.  He took a step backwards, away from Dawn.  He didn’t dare be too close to her at that moment.  He felt as if he had been trying to climb up out of a yawning chasm and someone had just yanked away the rope that was his only support.

“Hit me,” she demanded again.

Spike glared at Dawn through a red haze of pain and rage.  He kept from changing to game face by an immense effort of will and forced words out between clenched teeth.  “In case you haven’t noticed, hurting people isn’t on my agenda any more, Nibblet.  In fact, it’s the last bloody thing I want to do.”

“Principal Wood has Buffy and Willow captive and I need someone to save them,” said Dawn in a rush.

Spike’s eyes opened and met hers, the world suddenly coming back into focus.

“Wow,” said Andrew in an awestruck tone.  “So like, you’re all dangerous to people again?  So even with the soul, if you get really crazy or hungry or something, you could revert to the darkness.”  His words took on the pompous tones of an Ed Wood movie voice-over.  “The vampire must fight his mindless bloodlust, his desire to kill, to destroy, to feed.  The soul battles with the demon within him, goaded beyond all endurance until—”

Before Andrew could utter another word, Spike turned and clipped him on the jaw.

“I swear that if those girls don’t settle down immediately, I will commit mayhem,” said Giles.

Anya looked over her shoulder to the back of the van Giles had rented in order to haul about the gaggle of Potential Slayers.  “Just ignore them,” she said.  “I don’t think that Rona will really kill Vi.  She’s just trying to tear that stupid hat to pieces.  You know, we really need one of those glass barriers, like in a limousine.  Or, better yet, one of those cages, like in a police car.”  She mused happily on this image for a few moments.  “We could wear uniforms maybe.  You would look good in a police uniform.  You could carry a gun.”

Giles’ voice jerked her back from this pleasant image.  “What we really need is to concentrate on understanding the ritual the First is trying to perform.  We must get back to Buffy and warn her immediately.  Since, for some reason, she isn’t answering her cell phone, and no one is picking up at the house.”

“Cheer up,” said Anya, hearing the note of anxiety in his voice.  “At least, thanks to me, you know there is a ritual the First has to perform.  And the whole shopping list for the spell was in that codex.”

“And, unfortunately, most of the ingredients on that list are available here in Sunnydale.”  His fingers were clutching the steering wheel much more tightly than necessary.

“Two Slayers and a vampire with a soul,” Anya said triumphantly, and then frowned at the papers on her lap.  “I think some of the ingredients are meant to be destroyed while it’s mixing up this cake.  But we have a little time to make sure the First doesn’t pop anything into the oven.  The second Slayer isn’t anywhere near Sunnydale.  Faith’s still in the Big House in LA.”

“Two Slayers and a vampire with a soul,” muttered Giles.  “No wonder the First tried once before when Angel and Faith were both here.”

“Well, that could never have worked,” Anya said with absolute authority.  “That flimsy gypsy curse was a pretty good job for a bunch of semi-literate mortals, but there’s no way it wouldn’t shatter under the pressure of the heavy-duty magics the First has to call upon.  The Evil must have been really ticked off when it realized that Angel’s soul wasn’t stable enough for the ritual.”

“It was.  It tried to destroy him in revenge.”  The van sped up, in spite of the fact that he had already been exceeding the speed limit.

“Serves it right.  It should have known better.  It certainly would have known better if it had been toiling on the earth like some of us demons had to, instead of lounging around in the depths and plotting world domination night and day.  And destroying Angel wouldn’t exactly have been out of character.  After all, if it succeeds in completing the ritual, it will destroy Spike and Buffy and get rid of the whole concept of Slayers.”

She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly aware of the unusual silence in the back of the van.  The girls were all staring at her, listening intently.

“No more Slayers,” said Amanda.  “That means no more us.”

“It’s going to kill us,” said Rona flatly.

“Well, of course,” said Anya, impatient with their slowness of comprehension. “It has a plan.  And its plan means it has to kill you.  In order to get the Power.”

“You’re all about the Power,” said Buffy to the First.  “I get that.  And Willow is still learning how to control her power.  So if she taps into it, you’ll be able to get your foot in the door, to take her over, like you did Principal Wood.”

The First smiled happily.  Tara’s smile.  “You two are just so clever,” it cooed.  “If I were your mommy, I’d be proud of you.  You figured it all out.  Of course, you’ve also let yourself be drugged and you’re lying chained to some nice heavy office furniture and a pillar that reaches down into the hellmouth itself.”

“I’ve escaped from worse than this,” said Buffy.

“But you weren’t all full of tranquilizers then.  I admit I misjudged the amount I’d need to keep you unconscious, but I’ve no doubt we’ve impaired your fighting strength enough for our purposes.”

“Tranquilizers?” asked Buffy.  “Not really your style, is that?  Where are the blind guys with knives?”

“Perhaps I didn’t want their numbers reduced any more.  That does seem to be the result whenever they encounter you.”  The radiant smile returned.  “But not after tonight.”  The not-Tara looked over at Principal Wood and seemed to realize that he had been standing stock-still for some time.  It frowned.  “But why am I standing here chatting when there are things to do?”

“There’s actually a good reason for that,” said Buffy in her most authoritative tone.

“Really?”  The First seemed intrigued.  “And what is that?”

The door slammed open.  Spike stormed into the room, took in Buffy and Willow’s situation at a glance, and immediately vamped out in anger.  His golden eyes flicked over Tara’s form and dismissed it as the figment it was.

The Principal snatched up one of the ritual knives he had laid on the desk, but before he could raise it in defense or attack, Spike grabbed him by the throat and tossed him against the wall.  Wood crumpled to the floor.

“Like I said,” remarked Buffy to the First.  “A good reason.”

“We were stalling,” said Willow.  A note of triumph colored her voice. “I risked just enough magic to send one tightly focused message when you had Wood grab me.  I felt Dawn receive it, and I knew she’d bring help.”

“You can go now,” said the Slayer.

It was an order, but Buffy was still surprised by the alacrity with which the First obeyed.  She turned to catch Willow’s expression as Tara’s beloved form dissolved into a band of light and disappear.  Her friend’s look of bereavement did more than arouse her sympathy; remembering Willow’s previous reaction to the loss of Tara, Buffy felt a momentary stab of fear.

Xander opened his apartment door and grimaced at the figure standing there.  “Andrew, why aren’t you at Buffy’s house?  And what happened to your face?”

“Well, everyone else left,” said Andrew.  “I didn’t want to stay alone, and I didn’t want to go with Spike and Dawn, not after Spike hit me.”  He rubbed his jaw for a moment, then held up some DVDs.  “Want to have a Batman movie marathon?”

“Wait a minute—”  Xander pushed the DVDs aside.  “Spike hit you?  And went off somewhere?  With Dawn?”

“Uh huh,” said Andrew.  “Who do you like better? Michael Keaton or Val Kilmer—”

“Andrew, if Spike’s willing to risk setting off the chip to hit someone, Dawn could be in danger from him!”

“Oh, no, Dawn took the chip out.  That’s why Spike hit me.  And Dawn’s not in danger, Buffy is.  Oh, and Willow, I think.  At the high school.  My favorite is the one with George Clooney and Chris O’Donnell, but we can watch them all, if you’d like.  I don’t mind spending the night.”

“Get me out of these!”  Willow’s head jerked up at Buffy’s words.  The Slayer was struggling to escape now as she had not done while being taunted by the First. Willow followed Buffy’s gaze and saw Spike kneeling next to Wood’s body.  But he wasn’t searching for the key to the shackles.  He was staring at the unconscious man.

“I forgot,” he muttered.  “Been so long, since I fought one while halfway in my right mind.  I forgot.  How fragile they are.”

Willow had not seen Dawn enter the room, but now the teenager was at Spike’s side.  She ran a hand over the Principal’s chest. “His heart’s beating,” she said.  She grabbed Spike’s arm and shook it.  “You didn’t kill him.  Do you hear me?  You didn’t kill him.”

Buffy was still struggling against the shackles.  “Dawn, get me out of these,” she said again.

Dawn dropped Spike’s arm and fumbled through Wood’s pockets until she found a set of keys.  She quickly released Buffy, who went to check on the Principal for herself.

The Slayer gave a sigh of relief.  “No, not dead.”  She looked over her shoulder to Dawn, who was unlocking the cuffs that held Willow.  “Call 911.  Now.”

Buffy turned back to Spike.  He was still sitting, staring down at the body on the floor.  She touched his cheek gently, and turned him to face her instead.  “You didn’t mean it,” she said.

“Does it matter?” he asked.  “If someone else is still paying the price?”

Buffy winced.  Willow tossed the shackles aside and tried to rise, but her legs gave way beneath her, and she had to bend over to massage her legs and ankles.  She heard Dawn’s voice speaking urgently into the telephone.

“Willow, can you walk?” asked Buffy.

Willow pulled herself upright by holding on to the edge of a desk and nodded.

“I need you to take Spike and get out of here before the ambulance comes.”  Buffy looked unhappy with this decision, but she shook her head, as if resigning herself to the inevitable.  “Dawn and I are the only ones who have a good reason to be here.  If anyone catches sight of Spike in this condition, they’ll know something’s up.”

That, at least, was obvious.  Spike’s eyes were blank and grief-stricken, and he looked as disassociated from reality as he had when he was lurking in the school basement months before.

“What about you?” asked Willow.  “Those tranquilizers?”

“I’m okay,” said Buffy.  “The bad guys always underestimate what it takes to knock out a Slayer.”

“Yes,” said Dawn trying for a brave tone.  “No matter what they do, you keep coming back.”

Dawn watched out the window as Willow and Spike left the school yard.  “They’re gone,” she said.  “They both look pretty trashed.  It was a good idea to send them away before the ambulance shows up.”  She glanced at the man slumped on the floor.  “I hope it gets here soon.”

Buffy was staring at the Principal’s desk. “Those mirrors are broken,” she said.

Dawn looked at the patterns in the shattered glass and gulped.  The fissures formed three identical line drawings of the seal that covered the hellmouth.  The bright surface glittered menacingly as Buffy picked up one mirror and stared into it.  Her distorted reflection was trapped in the glittering image of the goat’s head.

“We need to clean this place up fast.”  The Slayer picked up a wastebasket and swept the mirrors into it.  Under her ruthless treatment, the copies of the seal disintegrated into glass shards.  She shoved the wastebasket into her sister’s hands and gestured at the knives and vial of blood.  “Put the rest of that stuff in there and get it out of here.  In my experience, the less Sunnydale’s finest see of blood and ritual sacrifices, the happier they are.  Maybe we can sneak these things out later for Giles to analyze.  He might be able to figure what the First was trying to do.”

“Are you sure that Principal Wood didn’t have time to finish the ritual?” asked Dawn as she complied with the order.

“I don’t know,” said Buffy slowly.  “I don’t know lots of stuff.  Like how you and Spike got here.  And how Spike was able to do this.”  She stooped down to check on Wood.

Dawn wiped up the chalk drawing that covered the desk and added the tissue she had used the rest of the trash.  “Willow sent out one of her psychic news bulletins.  I heard it.  I—I’m not sure why, but I was pretty sure no one else had.  No, I was positive no one else had.”  Dawn frowned in puzzlement a moment, then shook her head, dismissing that thought.  “I had to get help.  And I knew Spike couldn’t fight the Principal with that chip in his head.  So I got that orb Willow made and used it.”  She stepped outside the office for a moment to stash the wastebasket under a desk, hoping that it would escape the notice of the police and ambulance crew.

“He let you do that?”  Her face stern and intent, Buffy leaned over to check Wood’s pulse again.

Dawn hesitated in the doorway.  “I didn’t ask him,” she said in a quiet voice.

Buffy looked up at her.  “You didn’t ask?  You just did it?”

“Yeah.  He was—kind of upset.” Dawn was abashed now and less proud of her accomplishment.  She fought for bravado.  “I had to do it, Buffy.  I had to rescue you and Willow.  You’re always saying, ‘Use whatever tool you have.  Look around you, and if something will help you, use it.’”

“So you used Spike.”  The Slayer’s voice was very flat.

“I kind of meant the orb, but, yeah, I guess I used him.  So?  It’s not like you never do that.”  Dawn stopped, seeing Buffy’s anguished expression.

“We have to talk,” said her sister seriously.

“Thank heaven they’re gone for the moment,” said Giles as the horde of teenage girls clomped down the stairs to the basement in search of weapons to use on patrol.  “Now, perhaps, we can have a reasonable discussion about this.”

“Yes, for a bunch of potential superheroes, they get awfully whiny when someone mentions their impending destruction,” said Anya.

Giles was looking around the dining room anxiously.  “Dawn doesn’t seem to have left a note to say where she’s gone.  Or Spike.  Although Andrew left one saying he was going to Xander’s.”

“I’m sure Dawn’s fine.  Buffy probably came back and took her and Spike patrolling with her.  Besides, I like it better when we’re alone.  To discuss the First’s plans, I mean.”

"Two Slayers and a vampire with a soul,” said Giles, drawn from his worry about Dawn by the memory of Anya’s discovery.  “No wonder no one paid much attention to that Codex.  Getting those three together must have seemed impossible.  Impossible enough that the shamans felt justified channeling the demon power into the first Slayer.”

“Of course,” said Anya.  “It’s not like there’s some deep, mystical reason for those ingredients.  The shamans were scared shitless of what they were doing.  They would have peed in their pants, if they wore pants.  Probably did pee in their loincloths.  But they were even more afraid of the demons destroying their village, so they channeled demon Power into a living human.”

“But they only channeled the Power to one girl at a time, and they didn’t give even her all of it,” said Giles slowly.

Anya sat down at the table and paged through the sheets she had printed off in the library.  “Damn right they didn’t.  The source of Slayer Power is immense—seems like our Buffy’s been tapping into the basis for all demon energy.  If I were still a vengeance demon, I’d be way jealous.  When that Power comes roaring out of the hellmouth, the Krakatoa eruption should be nothing to it—and I say that as the girl who caused Krakatoa to erupt.”

“No wonder the shamans were afraid of their own creation,” said Giles.

“Those guys were almost as afraid of their Slayer as they were of the vampires that were destroying them.  So, in their annoying shamanistic way, they built a little fence around their new toy.   With a gate, keeping the Slayer from tapping too much of her Power, of releasing her full potential.  Because they feared her as much as they needed her.  But you can’t put up a gate unless there’s a way to open it.  That’s one of the immutable laws of magic.”

“Yes,” said Giles.  He leaned over her, his hand on her shoulder as he scanned the words of the Codex.  “You’re right, Anya.  The trick to unlocking the gate was very simple, but, they thought, impossible to manage. You need to perform the final ritual in the presence of three people.  Two Slayers and a vampire.”

Her hand crept up to touch his briefly.  “Shamans do love gimmicks. I can just about hear them giggling to themselves, “Who’s going to be able to find two Slayers in one place?  And there’s no such thing as a vampire with a soul, right?”  They must have just been high-fiving each other with delight over their own cleverness.”

“But what happens when the gate is unlocked?” mused Giles.

“I'm not entirely sure.  But I have a theory about that too,” said Anya proudly.

But, before she could explain, the world exploded around her.

The witch and the vampire shambled down the dark suburban street, silent, heads down, eyes on the ground, side-by-side but separate.

Willow stole a sideways glance at her companion.  Spike’s face was averted, making it difficult to read his expression in the uncertain and shifting light from the street lamps.  “This is where I’m supposed to say something brilliant that will make him feel better,” she thought.

Willow pushed her own feelings of grief into the back of her mind.  She had not for a moment confused the First with her lost lover, but the profanation of Tara’s image had scraped raw every healing scar on her heart.  It would be some time before it was safe to contemplate that wound again.

They continued on in silence for a few more blocks.  Suddenly, a lighter flared, and Willow saw Spike draw a cigarette to his lips.  His hands were shaking, but she thought he looked marginally less haunted than he had at the high school.  “My cue to speak,” she thought again.  She searched her mind for the right words and settled for the obvious.

“You didn’t mean to do it.”

“But I bloody well enjoyed it.”  He tossed the first cigarette aside, fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out another.  “What does that say about my efforts to put my evil past behind me?”

She winced.  “When I killed, I enjoyed it and I meant to do it.  You can’t say that.  Not since you got your soul.”  She forced a relentlessly cheerful note into the ghoulish speech.  “So I think that among the soul-having contestants, I’ve got you beat in the evil department.  Hands down.”

Spike turned to stare at her, at first incredulously, then admiringly, “You know, Red-” he started to say in something close to his normal voice.  Then he stopped, turning to look down the street.

His ears had caught the sound a fraction of a second before hers.   Willow stared in horror as the flames corresponding to the explosion shot up into the air.  The fire was--

“No!” she screamed.  “Not Buffy’s house!”  She turned to him, begging for reassurance.

But Spike was already gone.

“He should be okay.”

The ambulance driver turned away, and Buffy nodded, feeling a wave of guilty relief.   The guilt came from the realization that she was happiest not because Principal Wood would survive, but because she would not have to tell Spike the man was dead or permanently injured.  She glanced at the body on the stretcher.  He, at least, was now on the list of non-combatants.  He might yet be grateful to have been removed from the fight this early in the battle.

“The police should be here soon,” the driver went on, but he was interrupted by one of the EMTs, who had been speaking into a two-way radio.

“No,” said the EMT.  “The cops won’t have time to investigate this for a while.  They said to just take names and let the witnesses go.  And we need to get this guy to the hospital right away and get our asses over to Revello Drive.”

“Revello Drive?” demanded Buffy.  “What’s happening on Revello Drive?”

“Huge fire,” the woman responded tersely.  “Sounds like a house went up in a matter of seconds.  Lots of injured.  At least one dead so far.  ”

“What’s happening?  Where is everyone?”  Breathless with anxiety, Buffy ran up to Willow.  She could hear Dawn panting a few paces behind her.

Willow looked down the long hospital corridor.  “I’m still not sure.  They keep promising that a doctor will come out and talk to me, but there were so many hurt, I don’t know when anyone will be able to talk.  I tried to grab someone a few minutes ago, but they didn’t know anything other than that most of the girls were in the burn unit.”  She took a deep breath.  “And they confirmed what I already knew.  Vi is dead.”

“We went to the house,” said Buffy.  “What used to be the house.  They told me one girl was dead.  And--what about Giles and Anya and Xander?  Andrew too?”

“Anya and Giles are being treated for smoke inhalation.  They were the best off, I think.  Xander wasn’t there.   He was home working on some contracts for his job tonight.  I don’t think Andrew was there either.  If he was, Spike and the firemen couldn’t find him.”

“Spike?” asked Dawn.

“He got them out,” said Willow.  “Giles and Anya and the others.  No one else could have done it.  The firemen would have been too late, and no one else could get in because of the smoke.  But he did it, on account of the whole not needing to breathe thing.”

Buffy was looking around.  “Where is he?”

Willow pointed down the corridor, and the sisters stared at the lonely figure slumped in a chair at the far end.  “He just bundled himself in a coat and is kind of hiding out.  He’s hurt, but he can’t let them see him, because they’d try to treat the burns and they’d figure out he’s not human.”  There was guilt and frustration in her voice.  “I wanted to help, but he said he’d be okay.  I found him some bandages.”

Buffy started down the hall towards Spike, but at that moment a nurse stuck her head out of a room and said, “Miss Rosenberg?  One of the doctors may have a few minutes to talk to you, if you can go back into the waiting room.”  Her voice became more stern.  “Where we already asked you to stay.”  She threw a cursory glance at Dawn and Buffy before disappearing again.

Buffy hesitated, staring down the corridor at Spike but desperately needing news of her friends.

“I’ll make sure Spike’s okay,” said Dawn suddenly.  “You go talk to the doctor.”

Buffy was about to object, but she took a deep breath and accepted the impossibility of dealing with all her obligations at once.  “Okay.  Thanks.”

Dawn walked halfway down the hall towards the desolate figure slumped in the hard, plastic chair.  Then she stopped, close enough now to see the burn on the side of his face and the way his hands were shoved inside his coat, apparently to hide his injuries.  She turned abruptly and went down a side corridor.

Buffy paced the waiting room impatiently, wondering if she should burst into Giles’ room and make sure he was being treated properly and not being tortured by some doctor under the control of the First.  And Anya.  If there was torture going on, she supposed she should rescue Anya too.

The Slayer shook her head, as if that would help sort out her thoughts.  Willow seemed to think the doctors were taking proper care of the injured.  Buffy shouldn’t go wild and assume the worst, unless—

She looked up at her friend, struck by a terrible idea.

Before she could act on it, a phone rang, and Willow was fumbling in her pocket for the device.  “Too bad I couldn’t reach my cell when your Principal had us tied up, huh?  I probably shouldn’t answer this, because, you know—hospital—” the witch said as she read the caller’s number.  Her face was suddenly paler than usual, and she rushed to answer.  “Yes, yes.  Why, what’s happened?”

Buffy’s eyes were intent on Willow’s face.  She didn’t ask whether it was bad news; that much was obvious.  “Has someone else been hurt?” she said.

“Ow!”  Dawn blew on slightly scalded fingers.

She didn’t look at Spike as she dropped into the chair next to him.  She frowned ferociously, juggling the plastic bag in her hands as she tried to keep the Styrofoam cup she had balanced between her knees from toppling to the floor.

“I hope I didn’t heat this up too much.”  Dawn managed to tear the bag open at last.  She steadied the cup with one hand as she poured the bag’s contents inside.

Spike stared at the thick, viscous liquid.  “That’s human blood,” he said.

“Well, duh,” she replied.  “This isn’t Vinnie the Vet’s Animal Hospital, you know.”  She thrust the cup towards him.

He pulled back.  “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Drink it.”  Her voice was impatient and imperious.  “I haven’t seen you this much in need of feeding since Buffy dragged you back from being tortured by the First.  And no whining.  It’s not like anyone died for this.  It was donated.”

He shook his head.  “Whoever this belonged to donated it to help some poor, sick bastard.  Do you think they’d be doing cartwheels if they knew it was going to a bloodsucker?”

“I don’t know.”  Her voice became harsher.  “We’ll just have to tell them it went to a guy who got hurt pulling a bunch of people out of a burning building.  How do you think they’ll feel about that?  Besides, human blood will heal those burns faster than a pig’s would.”

He took the cup at last.  “When did you become such an expert on first aid for the undead?”

“That summer Buffy was dead.  The summer you took care of me.  Some babysitter you were.  You were always dragging your sorry ass in with some wound or burn or something.  I think you must have been set on fire more often than any living vampire.”  He still wasn’t drinking, and she went on ruthlessly.  “I stole that for you, you know.  And I broke all kinds of rules by going into a doctor’s lounge to microwave it.  If I can regress into juvenile delinquency to do all that, the least you can do is drink the results of my misdemeanors.”  She waited a few more seconds before breaking out the biggest gun in her artillery.  “Please,” she said.  “For me.”

Dawn waited until the cup had been drained and tossed aside before she spoke again, this time in a small, quiet voice.  “I’m sorry I took your chip out of commission without asking.”

The surprise in his face was a blow.  He shouldn’t look so astonished that someone felt the need to apologize to him.

“Don’t worry, pet.  I would have let you if you asked, if you’d explained.”

She winced.   “Then I should have asked you.  I shouldn’t have used you—”  She stopped, took a deep breath, and went on.  “Willow explained to me that she and Buffy had talked about taking the chip out.  That’s why Willow made the orb.  But then they realized you wanted the chip, that it made you feel more secure.  At least for now, while you deal with the soul and what the First did to you.  I did understand that it would be harder for you without it.  But I wanted Buffy safe, so I destroyed it anyway.”

He started to reply, but she threw up her hand.  “Don’t, Spike.  I know you’d do anything for Buffy.  That just makes it worse.  Because the whole truth is that what I did—and the way I did it—it wasn’t just to save Buffy.  It was because I was still so mad at you I wanted to hurt you.  Sometimes, I’ve wanted to kill you, even.”  Her eyes were wide, intent and full of pain.

“I earned that hatred, Bit.  You’ve got a right to feel it.”

The self-loathing she saw on his face tore at her heart, and the next words tumbled out.  “I didn’t want to kill you because I hated you.  I’ve wanted to kill you because I kept remembering all the stuff you did for me, and I couldn’t make myself really hate you.  Even when you—”

“I know what I did,” he said bleakly.

“Do you?  Because, you know, what you did to Buffy, that’s between her and you.  And you made up for it by getting the soul and everything.  But, what really still hurts—”  She looked away, acutely aware how petty this would sound, but unable to refrain from saying it at last.  “You stopped coming around.  You stopped talking to me.”

“I—”  He seemed at a loss.  “Didn’t want to stop seeing you, Bit.  But your sister didn’t approve.  Afraid you’d notice what we were up to.  She had this idea that shagging the evil undead was setting a bad example.  Besides, I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.  You didn’t need me any more.  You had Buffy back.  Ow—!”

Dawn stared in horror at the hand she had used to slap his arm.  “Oh, I’m sorry!  Did I hit one of your burns?  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  Hurt you worse than I have already.  “But you deserved it, you stupid vampire.”  All the exasperation and guilt she felt poured out in an incoherent jumble of words.  “If having you couldn’t make up for losing Buffy, what made you think that getting Buffy back would make up for losing you?”

He didn’t respond, but one look at his face made her sigh with relief.  She felt tension that had been building for more than a year pour off her shoulders and fall away.  It had been that easy.

She moved towards him again, this time to hug instead of hitting him, but remembering too late that his recent injuries would make her embrace as hurtful as a blow.  She pulled back at his gasp of pain and embarrassment.  Even the need to apologize once again couldn’t dim her conviction that everything was all right between them now.

This sudden and unexpected sensation of peace lasted for perhaps thirty seconds.  Then she saw Spike’s expression change as she looked over her shoulder.  Her head whipped around as Buffy came toward them.

“What’s wrong?” Dawn demanded, jumping up out of her chair.  She realized that the question was ludicrous, given the events of the day.  “I mean, what’s happened now?”

Buffy’s face was a mask of stoic grief. “Faith’s dead,” she said.

"Xander went where?" demanded Buffy.

Andrew shifted uneasily from foot to foot.  "The high school," he muttered.  "He was all worried about you."  He looked over her shoulder down the hospital corridor.  "Did you see the house blew up?  I heard it on the news, and when I went there, it was really gone."

He looked back just in time to see Buffy nod at Spike and hear her say to Dawn, "Take care of things here.  And watch Willow."

Andrew blinked as Buffy and Spike ran off down the long hallway while Dawn marched off in the opposite direction.  "Hey!  Where are you guys all going?" he cried.  There was a pause.  "Can I come?"  His voice echoed pathetically down the corridor.

"Everything is all wrong," said Anya.  She frowned worriedly at Giles.  "I don't like this."

"No one likes this, Anya," said Giles, as he buttoned his shirt and looked around the room.  "My jacket's not here," he complained, sorting through the plastic bag where a nurse had dumped his personal possessions earlier that evening.

"You took it off before the kaboom," Anya reminded him.

"It was my favorite."  His voice was bewildered.

"It's gone," said Anya again.  "Along with lots of other stuff, some of it my stuff.  Not to mention Vi, who's dead."  She was huddled in a chair in the corner of his hospital room, looking miserable.  "I can't get too upset about tweed right now."

"It was corduroy," said Giles.  He pressed a hand to his forehead.  "But you're quite right.  I'm still a bit disoriented, from the blast, and from being poked about so much.  I still don't understand why that doctor insisted on all those x-rays."  His voice broke and he began coughing, leaning against the bed he had just been allowed to vacate.  Anya watched him anxiously.

"Those x-rays showed that you were lucky," said a nurse who had come into the room in time to hear his last comment.  "You two got out quickly."  She dropped a clipboard on the credenza by the wall and tapped it with one finger.  "Unlike these poor girls."

"Are they—" Giles stopped.  "I'd understood that they'd stabilized."

"Stabilized, yes.  But they're all unconscious and either in intensive care or the burn unit."

"Love, you are aware we're walking into a trap?" asked Spike.

"Yes, of course," said Buffy.  She stopped halfway down the high school corridor, broke the glass covering a fire axe with her elbow, and helped herself to the weapon.  "It's not like I have a choice, not with Xander down there."

"Right.  Just wanted to make sure you were using your head. "

Buffy glanced at his pale, drawn face, her heart lurching at the still raw burn on one cheek. "You have a choice," she said.

"Same as yours," said Spike, finding another fire axe further down the corridor and copying her actions.  "I've got your back, Slayer.  Let's go."

"No," said Buffy, and added when he turned to her in surprise, "You know the basement better than anyone else.  You lead this time."

At that, his surprise turned to astonishment.

"At least, until we find them," she added quickly.

"Well, all right then," said Spike, pushing open a basement door.  "I thought for a minute there my girl was slipping."

"Faith is dead?" Giles was staring at Willow, his expression stunned.  He looked at Dawn, who was standing next to the witch, and seemed to read confirmation of the bad news in her face.

Willow nodded sadly.  "Angel called.  He was positive.  The First really is going after all the Slayers and the Potentials."

"Very successfully," said Giles.  He sat down on the hospital bed, staring up at his visitors.  "It's done it," he whispered.  "It's won."

"No, no," cried Anya, horrified at his expression.

"No," Dawn hastened to agree with her.  "Only Vi is dead.  And the other girls are going to get better.  The doctors say so.  They'll all recover, eventually."

"Eventually is too late," snapped Giles.  They stared at him.

"Are we in time?" demanded Buffy.

Spike had stopped, one arm outstretched to halt Buffy's progress, his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply.

Buffy tried to make out his features by the dim light trickling in from a side tunnel.  "What is it?" she insisted.

"Bringers.  And Harris.  Alive.  Scared."  He frowned.  "And one other human—familiar, but not— "  He pointed.  "Over there."

Giles tried to control his voice enough to explain.  "In order for the Power to pass from the dying Chosen One, the new Slayer must be awake and at least reasonably competent, both physically and mentally.  An unconscious girl in Intensive Care cannot become the next Slayer.  Even the Council doesn't—didn't know everything about how the Power chooses Slayers, but we were sure of that."  He paused.  "There are no Potentials anywhere who meet the qualifications to become the new Slayer."

"None?" asked Dawn.  "Are you sure?  I mean, there could be one in Timbuktu or Peoria, or someplace—"

But now Willow was shaking her head.  "The coven's been searching.  The ones at Buffy's house were the last that were the right age to be Chosen.  There are no others."

"So," said Anya, trying to be cheerful, "when Kennedy or one of the other girls wakes up, and starts talking and walking a little—"  She stopped, catching sight of Giles' face.

"The transfer is immediate," he said.  He pulled off his glasses and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "It must be completed as the previous Slayer breathes her last, or it will not happen at all."

"Then," said Dawn quietly, "like, there aren't going to be any more Slayers?"

"Except for Buffy," said Giles.  "She is truly the last of the Chosen Ones.  And I am the last Watcher."

Buffy swung her axe again, severing the last of the chains that held Xander to the wall.  Behind her, Spike was holding the Bringers at bay.  Buffy grabbed Xander around the waist and pulled him towards the exit, yelling at Spike to follow.

"Sorry, Buffy," said a voice from the opposite end of the room.  "Recess hasn't been called yet."

Anya had been mulling things over, and she was the one who finally broke the stunned silence.  "There are a couple of things I don't get," she said.  "Like the bomb."

They all turned to stare at her.

"The bomb," she repeated impatiently.  "Remember that?  The reason we're in this hospital?  The thing that almost killed me?  I want to know who set it, and how!"

"Bringers," said Dawn, almost absently.  Like the rest of them, she was still overwhelmed by the enormity of Giles' announcement.

"The Bringers couldn't get in," said Anya.  "Or so Willow said."

Willow winced.  "They shouldn't have been able to," she said after a moment.  "I didn't put any of my own magic in that spell, but the coven helped me design it, and it was a good one.  It could be set or removed by anyone in that house, Anya.  I taught you all.  Did you set it when you came back?"

"Yes," said Anya.  "I did it myself.  So unless someone else removed it—"

"Now, Anya," interjected Giles.  "I'm sure that you don't mean to say Willow had anything to do with the bomb.  For one thing, she was nowhere near the house, and for another, well—" he gazed at Willow like a man trying to hold on to a last illusion.  "I just can't believe it."

"Me either," said Dawn, but her voice was less assured.

Anya looked unconvinced.  "Who else—?"  She stopped, as she suddenly thought of someone else.

The same thought struck them all, and they turned as one to stare at the person who had followed Willow and Dawn into the room, and who had been hovering near the doorway ever since.  But Andrew seemed not to be paying attention to their conversation at all.  He was holding the clipboard the nurse had dropped earlier and staring at it intently.  His lips were moving, and he was counting on his fingers.

While they watched him, he shook his head, made a fist, stuck out his thumb, and began to count again.

"Andrew!" called Dawn.

He started at his name and blinked at her.

"We need to ask you a few questions," she said in a threatening voice, folding her arms across her chest.

"Oh," said Andrew vaguely.  "Hey, Dawn, how many Potentials are there?  Besides Vi, I mean."

"Never mind that," snapped Dawn.  "What—?"

"Wait," said Willow, stepping between Dawn and the boy, holding up her hand.  She looked at Andrew.  "Why does that bother you?"

"It's like the seven dwarfs," said Andrew earnestly.  "You try to count them while you say the names, but you keep forgetting one, and saying another twice, and—"

"Andrew, why are you saying their names?" interrupted Willow.

"Because," he said, "this list of girls in Intensive Care—"

Consumed with impatience, Dawn snatched the list from his hands and skimmed it quickly.  "Rona's missing," she said in a tight voice.

"So," said Buffy.  "Rona is dead too."  She stared at the thing that had moved between her and the exit.  "I don't know why you think using her body is going to do anything except make me angry."  She saw out of the corner of her eye that the remaining Bringers were trying to regroup, and nodded at Spike and Xander to follow her.  She strode towards the exit, intending to march straight through the First's smirking, illusory form.

She was caught in the stomach by Rona's sneaker as the girl in front of her threw a very solid and powerful roundhouse kick.

What's the other thing?" asked Willow suddenly.

"Huh?" asked Dawn, still bemused by the discovery that Rona was lost.

"Anya said she didn't understand two things," said Willow.  "One was the bomb."  She turned to the ex-vengeance demon.  "What was the other?"

Buffy crouched on the basement floor, staring up at Rona's body in horror.  "You're the new Slayer," she said.

"Of course I’m the Slayer."  The girl was smiling from ear to ear, almost bouncing up and down on her heels.  She looked like a child with a wonderful new toy.  "Kind of a gimme, really.  With all the other Potentials dead or unconscious, the Power had to pass to me.  No place else for it to go."

Buffy pulled herself to her feet, managing to put some more space between herself and the girl as she did so.  "You set the bomb in my house and left before it went off.  I've been wondering about that.  It had to be an inside job."

"Sure.  But I bet you've been all upset, suspecting Willow of not playing fair with her spell, or of messing it up out of guilt and nerves.  I knew you'd do that, instead of thinking of me.  The only time you think of Rona is to be annoyed that I'm so scared."

"And just who are you?" asked Buffy.  "Rona, or the First?"

"Both.  But mostly the First.  I needed a vessel.  A volunteer.  Rona was scared enough of dying to agree.  She even used all those little books and toys you had Xander gather up to make the bomb for me."  Her arms stretched towards the ceiling, and her face glowed with pleasure.  "This is really, really cool, you know.  Well, of course you know.  What it's like to have all this Power."

"The ritual to obtain the Power," said Anya.  "I thought Rupert and I had figured out how it worked.  But if Buffy is the only Slayer left, we must have been wrong."

Giles, who had been staring gloomily at nothing in particular, finally looked up at that.  "Good God, yes," he said. "I'd forgotten.  If all the Slayers are dead except Buffy, then the First cannot complete the ritual.  Unless—"  He looked around, and seemed to become aware of the Slayer's absence for the first time.  "Where is Buffy?"

"Go," muttered Spike, shoving Xander's shoulder.  He'd maneuvered the two of them towards the exit.

"No!"  Xander pulled away, his gaze was fixed on Buffy and the First.

"It's forgotten us for the moment.  And you'll be useless in a fight.  Go to the hospital and tell your Scooby mates what's happening."

"Hospital?"  Xander's eyes were finally drawn to Spike's face.  "Why are they at the hospital?"

"You'd better run and find out, hadn't you?"  Turning away from Xander, Spike shouldered his axe and turned to watch the Bringers, who were huddled in a corner, clearly waiting for their next orders to attack.

"This is terrible.  We need to keep Buffy safe!  Why did you let her go?" demanded Giles.

"Hello?" said Dawn.  "We're talking about Buffy, remember?  It's not like I could stop her.  Besides, Spike went with her."

"Spike?"  Giles' voice was hoarse.

"Is that bad?" asked Dawn, taking a step backwards, away from what she saw in his face.

"It's very likely the only thing that could make things worse," said Giles.

"So," said Buffy, "What's next on the agenda?"  She'd seen Xander, his expression agonized as he threw her a backwards glance, scoot off down the corridor.  Spike had moved to position himself a few steps behind and to the side of her, his axe at the ready.   Xander's safe.  No point in dragging this out any more.

"I'm going to kill you," said the First happily.  "Because while you were busy killing some more of my minions and releasing poor Xander, I finished the ritual.  At dawn tomorrow, all of the Power, not just the tiny bit you and I share right now, is going to pour into the blood of the current Slayer.  And that will be me.  Corporeal and all powerful.  Because, you know, I'm all about the Power."

"Except," said Buffy, "I'm still alive.  And while I'm alive, there's always a little question about who the current Slayer is."  She tried to back up a few steps, to position herself closer to Spike and the exit.

The First watched her with a sarcastic smile, but made no move yet.  "A problem, yeah, but the joke is that it's also part of the solution.  I couldn't have started the ritual without your participation.  It needed two Slayers, you see.  Your escaping Principal Wood, just as the rest of the Potentials were being slaughtered and one of my Bringers was slashing his knife into Faith’s chest—that was a pain," the First said.  "I’d counted on Spike coming to rescue you, but not on his getting there so soon, or that he'd be able to attack a human.  But it didn’t matter.  Because you came back. You just don’t know how to back down from a fight, do you, Buffy?"

"No," Buffy agreed.  "I don't."

The First gave a hand signal, and the Bringers moved in.

Too much melodrama there, and not enough of an element of surprise, thought Buffy critically as she glanced at Spike, assuring herself that he too was moving to the defense.  She should have just had them attack us without bothering to explain like the bad guy in a James Bond film.  But the First was always big with the talking.  Probably because of not having a body.  At least, not until now.

This was no time to critique the First's speechmaking talents.  She and Spike were outnumbered by Bringers, which might not have been fatal.  But the thing in Rona's body really was a Slayer.  A Slayer who hadn't been shot full a load of tranquilizers just a few hours ago.  She moved to block Buffy's every blow, and threw immensely powerful kicks and punches of her own.

Spike had killed two Bringers, but in the process, he'd lost his weapon.  Buffy thought the Bringers' next blow would take him down, but instead of stabbing him, they were merely pushing him back, further into the cellars, away from Buffy.  She gauged the distance between them out of the corner of her eye, and dropped down, hands to the floor as one leg swept out to knock Rona's feet out from under her.  The newest Slayer fell back, snarling, then flipped herself upright again.

But Buffy had taken advantage of the First's momentary retreat to run to Spike's side and slash her axe into the back of one of the Bringers attacking him.  She shoved another aside, and saw a dark space behind her.  A doorway.   Her axe was pulled from her grip by another Bringer, just before she grabbed Spike by the arm and pulled him inside.  It was a desperate attempt to buy a momentary reprieve from death.  There was no other possible escape, so she risked retreating, even though she knew it was probably—

"—a trap," said Buffy, as the door swung shut.

"Let me see if I understand this," said Dawn, in the tone of someone who doesn't understand at all.  "This ritual has to take place in the presence of two Slayers and a vampire.  So even though the instructions were all written out and everything, nobody could perform it.  But when Buffy came back from the dead the first time, and Angel was still around, and Faith showed up, there all the ingredients were, right here in Sunnydale."

"Of course," said Willow.  "And that explains why that time around, the First wasn't able to do more than play the Grinch and try to steal Christmas.  Because Angel's soul is only held in place by a curse."  She shrugged.  "It's a good curse.  I mean, I put it there.  But it's just a curse."  She and Anya exchanged a rare glance of understanding.

"So the First goes away," said Dawn, still relentlessly trudging down the path to greater understanding, "but comes back when Spike earns his soul by trial, because that makes him a much better prospect than Angel.  And then—"  She frowned.

"And then, the First, like Evil Incarnate—which, of course it is—kills or incapacitates all the Slayers and Potentials except Buffy!" announced Andrew triumphantly.  He shook his head in awe and admiration.  "What a demonically clever plan!"

"Yes, except for the part where it makes no sense at all," snapped Anya.

"It makes some sense if the First wants there to be only two Slayers," said Giles quietly.

Dawn looked incredulous.  "So you think it was stupid enough to count wrong?" she asked.  "To do that, you'd have to be as stupid as—"  She glanced at Andrew, but refrained from finishing her sentence.

"Perhaps.  But I doubt it."  Giles pointed to the clipboard with the list of names on it.  "It's more likely that—"

"Rona isn't dead," said another voice.

Xander stood in the doorway, looking tired, dirty, and battered.  "She's just betrayed us," he said wearily.

"Balls," said Spike.  His voice came from somewhere near the floor, and his curse was punctuated by the sound of a heavy object being pulled down to bar the door from the outside.  "The bitch has done for us now."

Buffy leaned against the door for a moment, even though she knew it would be unmovable.  She turned her back to it, and asked anxiously, "Where are you?  Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said.  She heard him moving, boots scraping along the cement floor, and then his voice came from higher up.  "Yeah," he said again, and his lighter flamed in the darkness.  "Not much in the way of interior design here, is there?" he asked.

Buffy's eyes were drawn to his face, not the walls of the room.  He looked drawn and exhausted, and his eyes were so dark they appeared black.  But his gaze was darting around, looking for a way out.

The lighter went out and he flicked it on again for just a second.  "Better conserve this.  But the damned bitch has thrown us into an empty room."

"Are you sure?"  Buffy forced herself to stop worrying about him for a moment and to assess her surroundings.

"Well, it's obvious she put a bit of thought into things," said Spike.  "I'm guessing this is where your pal the Principal was going to take you as soon as that ritual was over."  His voice came from near the wall now. "There's nothing in here.  Either it's never been used at all, or the First had it cleared out, just for you."

"There has to be some way out," said Buffy, feeling her way along the wall in the opposite direction.

Spike's voice came from the direction of the door.  "No keyhole."

"No," said Buffy, still moving along the wall, searching for something to use as a tool. And then as a weapon.  Because once I bust out of here, I'm taking down that thing in Rona's body.  "They barred the door.  Why would they need a key?"

"I don't know."  His voice was confused, uncertain, and she heard something like the bewildered tone he had used after they had discovered the bodies in the cellar.  "I just thought—maybe Dawn—"

"Dawn?"  Buffy's voice sharpened in surprise.  "Why would you think she could help?"

He was closer now, still moving slowly along the wall.  "Something the Mad Girl told me once about a key that opened more than one door."

Buffy was very still.  The silence stretched out, and her voice sounded hesitant to her own ears when she finally forced out words.  "The Mad Girl?"

There was another pause, ominous in the chill darkness of the cellar.  "Drusilla," he said at last, and she knew he was lying.  "I meant Drusilla."

"No, Spike.  You said 'the Mad Girl.'  It was like you didn't know her name."

"I—"

She knew then that he didn't want to lie to her, but was afraid to confess to the truth.  "You remember, Spike."  Her voice was more assured now, almost strident.  "Why didn't you tell me?  You remember that place.  The mansion with the amazing garden.   The place where you were William and she was the Mad Girl."

She heard a shuffling noise, as if he had stumbled and nearly fallen.  Then a rustle of clothing, and, finally, the flick of his lighter.  Sudden flame illuminated his startled features for a moment.  His eyes held astonishment, fear, and something like hope.  "You know about that place?"  The flame went out as he uttered his next, incredulous words.  "It was real?"

"Of course," said Buffy.

"You're sure?"

"Of course," she said again.  "I was there.  Or don't you remember that part?"

There was a long pause before he whispered, "I remember."

The Scoobies huddled gloomily in the hospital waiting room, trying to figure out enough of what was happening to make plans for a rescue.

"Buffy told you something," said Dawn to Giles suddenly.  "We've all guessed that.  About her coming back.  Could that help?"

"No," the Watcher shook his head.  "I hoped when she told me that she finally understood what had happened to her while she was dead—  But from the little she said, I don't think it's of any use at all in our battle against the First.  It's something entirely between her and Spike."

"Spike, why didn't you tell me you remembered?" whispered Buffy.  Here, in this basement, trapped in darkness so profound she couldn't even see his face, with the world hanging in the balance yet again, she could think of nothing else but the amazing fact that he remembered.  He knows.  The thing that I was so sure I could never tell him.  He knows.

"Wasn't sure it was real.  It's not as if I've been the poster boy for sanity lately. And it was too perfect, too like the way I wanted you and me to be, not the way we really were."  He paused.  "How long have you remembered?"

"Not very long," she whispered.  She sat down on the floor, wearily.  "I should have remembered sooner, but I fought it.  Like I fought you."  She felt him settle himself down beside her, their shoulders touching, not rejecting her, but still too uncertain to embrace her.  "It was hard for me, too, to believe that something as good as you and me in that place could have been real.  Especially because I knew I'd come back wrong.  I didn't know how exactly, but I was sure that I was all wrong and that you'd had something to do with making me that way.  Hence with all the fighting and hurting--and the pretending I didn't care."

"Do you think it was a good idea to leave Andrew in charge of things back there?" asked Dawn, as the bedraggled group of Scoobies emerged from the hospital and set off for the high school.

"It gets him out of our hair, and there's no way those doctors and nurses will let him near the patients," said Anya.

"But what if he goes rogue?" asked Xander.

"Like Rona?" said Giles. "I doubt it.  Besides, the First has its vessel.  It's unlikely to want a reluctant Andrew when it has the body of a willing Slayer."

"We should have figured out a long time ago that it was trying to become corporeal so it could get the Power," muttered Anya.  "I mean, what how else could it have been planning to achieve evil world domination?  By making more and more of those Ubervamp things until they overran Sunnydale like a bunch of cockroaches?  How did we ever get distracted by that stupid idea?"

"What I want to know is how Rona could do it?" asked Dawn.  "Set that bomb, and let the First take over her body?"  She shivered.  "Which do you think happened first?"

"Fear happened first," said Giles. "Buffy and Spike were trying to frighten her just enough to make her a fighter, but instead they terrified her into becoming a traitor."  He thrust his hands in his pockets, staring at the sidewalk as he walked along the darkened street.  "I blame myself.  It's a common phenomenon in the battle-weary, and I should have been prepared for the possibility."

"So," said Xander after an awkward silence, "Now that Rona's let herself become the First's hand puppet, how do we fight her?"

"Fight her?" asked Willow. "Can't we get her back somehow?  I mean—"  Her eyes pleaded with him.  You got me back.

Xander looked away.  "You didn't see, Will.  She—Rona—whatever is left of her is buried pretty deep.  And didn't look like it was ready to listen to any arguments.  Even if I knew what to say to her."  He brightened.  "Hey, maybe you can use magic to separate her from the First."

It was Willow's turn to look away.  "I might figure out a way.  If I had access to the Council libraries.  But the originals all blew up in London, and the copies all went kaboom with Buffy's house.  Besides, we're only a few blocks away from the high school and whatever's happening there.  There's no time to solve this with research."  She skipped a few steps forward to catch up with the Watcher.  "Unless you found something last night, Giles.  You and Anya seem to have figured out a lot of this."

"A good deal of it, I think," said Giles.  "For instance, we know that if the ritual has been completed in the presence of two Slayers and a vampire with a soul, then at dawn tomorrow the Power will begin to channel into the blood of the Slayer."

Dawn, who had fallen to the rear of their small procession, spoke up.  "But there are two Slayers."

"Well, we hope there are still two," said Anya with her usual brutal frankness.

Giles rubbed his eyes wearily.  "There must be some way to avert this disaster.  I just wish we knew what Buffy was doing and thinking right now."

I started remembering that horrible night in the church.  Something you said started bringing it all back."  Buffy's words seemed harsh to her own ears as they echoed in the almost empty room.

"That night—that's why you ran away."  Spike's voice was a low rumble.

Buffy nodded, realized he couldn't see the gesture, and then discovered she had somehow moved into his arms and was sitting with her head resting against his shoulder.  "My poor love," he said tenderly.

"Me—?"  She shook her head more violently now.  "I ran away, leaving you there, burning on that cross!  I'm not trying to make excuses for that.  But I got so scared, Spike.  I thought I was going crazy.  I tried not to believe it, decided it was wishful thinking, some stupid fantasy like the time I got poisoned by the demon, only nicer.  At least, the first part was nicer.  But—"

"But?" he asked when the silence had stretched out for over a minute.

"The memories were so real.  And they kept coming.  At first I thought I was just using things you'd said to make my daydreams seem more real.  But then you'd say something else, use a phrase, that I'd already remembered him using, there, in that place.  So I knew it was real."

Buffy shifted in Spike's arms, resting her head against his still chest.  "It seemed so simple there," she said wearily.  "I think that's why Willow's spell worked.  She shouldn't have been able to pull me out of heaven.  I must have wanted to come back, because of that look in William's eyes.  Except, when I did come back to life, I'd forgotten.  Or refused to remember.  And instead of releasing you, I used you again.  And abused you."

"No, Buffy, I was the one who—"

"No, Spike.  I was the one with the soul.  I should have been the one to— Oh, I'm still not sure of anything, except that by the time I realized what I'd come back to do, it was completely impossible."  She touched his cheek.  "I don't have it in me to kill the person I love any more.  Not even to help him escape from hell instead of sending him there."

"Ah, love," said Spike.  His voice was unsteady.  Buffy tried to imagine what he was thinking.  It was almost physically painful to her not to be able to see his face.

"So this is all my fault," she said at last.  "I came back to try to save you, and instead I may have destroyed us all."

"Bollocks," said Spike.  "We're here because yet another sodding supernatural pest decided to make a bid for evil world domination.  Not because of anything you did, love."  His arms tightened around her.

"No, Spike, I—"

"You've always got to make it all about you, don't you, Slayer?" he interrupted, the note of exasperation in his voice increasing.  After a moment, he added, "It's not, you know.  For one thing, you weren't the only one who made a decision about coming back into this world."

"What do you mean?" asked Buffy.

"And I thought it would have been warm where you were from," William replied to this apparent non sequitur.

Suddenly, Spike released Buffy and stood up.  "What the—"  He went over to one wall and listened.  "Do you hear that?"  She heard him fumbling in his pocket.  Then she had the impression that he'd frozen in place.

"Something is hissing," said Buffy.

"Bloody hell," whispered Spike.  "And I almost used my lighter just now."

"Xander and Andrew," said Buffy.  Her voice was level and angry.  "They've been trying to impress the Potentials with tales of fast times at Sunnydale High. One night, I saw all the girls, including Rona, listening like it was ghost story time at Girl Scout camp.  Xander was talking about the time that crazy invisible girl trapped him, Willow and Giles in the basement and turned on the gas. And that's what I smell now.  Gas."

"Well, this looks oddly familiar," said Xander.  He stared at the buzzing, constantly moving, impenetrable barrier that stood between the Scoobies and the high school.

"Swarms of insects?" said Anya critically.  "I remember a few plagues of locusts, of course, but I thought this kind of thing had gone out of fashion centuries ago, even in vengeance circles."

"Well, it was the height of fashion for one very, very upset ghost from the 1950s," said Willow.  "A few years ago, he took over the whole high school and a few of the student bodies.  Not to mention Buffy and Angel."

"And he kept us from following him with an impassible swarm of insects," said Giles.

"I told Rona that story," said Xander, shamefacedly.  "Looks like her memories are being tapped by the First."

"When the sun comes up, the Power will pour into the blood of the Slayer," said Buffy.  "And the First wants to be that vessel, so it's not feeling good about sharing the title.  I thought it would be dueling Slayers at dawn, but I guess it's too much of a coward for that."  Her voice dripped with cold anger.  "If this thing thinks I'm going to get out of Dodge without a fuss, it missed my first two exits."  Her final words were punctuated with a rattling cough.

Spike was at the door again, feeling along the walls.  "We have to get out of here, or find the leak and stop it, to—"

"No!"  Buffy was pulling on his arm, dragging him back to the center of the room.  "Listen to me, Spike!  There's no time for that.  I'm going to be dead in just a few minutes.  We can't waste them.  I'm so sorry, Spike." She coughed again.  "But I have to use you one last time."

"I don't get it," said Dawn. "When did Rona learn to make plagues of insects?"

"She didn't," said Anya.  "The First had plenty of time to learn magical theory, but there were limitations to what it could put in practice without a body.  It had to use the Bringers, and they aren't all that good at mystical stuff.  They may be able to handle the odd chant or charm, but assassination by knife-point seems to be their major skill-set."

"This is a good spell," said Willow.  "In a bad way.  I mean, it's really, really strong."  She slapped her bicep and stepped back.  "And those things really sting."

"Can you break it?" asked Giles urgently.  "Willow, I know you've been trying to restrict your use of magic, but—"

"Yeah," said Willow.  "I was afraid the First was trying to take me over.  But I'm hoping now that it's having too much fun with its pretty new body to bother.  I have to risk it, anyway.  This may take a while, though."

"Buffy may not have a while," said Dawn.  She reached out to hold Xander's hand as Willow's eyes went black and the witch focused on the buzzing swarm.

—and Spike's mouth opened in a scream of pure agony.  His body was throbbing with pain from a thousand wounds and sores.  Every muscle shrieked in exhaustion, as if he had fought a dozen battles.  He was naked from the waist up, and he felt chilled to the very core.

A red-eyed demon stood over him, lowering a hand to his chest and saying, "Very well.  We will return your soul."

He had tried to explain it to Buffy, before she grew cold in his arms.  But it was difficult to describe how things worked in that other, too-perfect place.   He was sure that the tale he had told had been too garbled for her to understand.  It had all been filtered through the mind of the bad poet he had once been, complete with clumsy, borrowed metaphor and imagery that failed to express the desperate desire that had enabled him to break the rules of Paradise.

He hoped she understood that the return of his soul had not been entirely the work of the demon Spike had sought out.  William had chosen to return his soul to his demon-inhabited body, just as, in some way, Buffy had found a route back from heaven into this world.  They had tried to rescue each other’s souls.  He found a bitter irony in that now.  "Our road was paved with good intentions, love," he murmured, gently kissing her still lips.

There was a crash as the barrier was removed from outside the heavy metal door.  Then a grinding sound as it slowly began to open.  Spike stood up, holding Buffy’s body in his arms.  It was a few minutes before dawn.

"I suppose you had to tell Rona about the hell-hounds at the Prom," said Dawn to Xander.  She gestured angrily with the steel rod she'd swiped from the construction site near the school.

"That was Andrew," he replied, keeping a safe distance from her. "I think it was family pride or something.  Anyway, they're all dead now."  He looked over his shoulder and shifted his grip on his sledgehammer.  "I hope."

"It seems so," said Giles, turning off his chain saw and staring with distaste at the mangled body lying at his feet.  "Is everyone all right?"

"As all right as possible when covered with hell-hound entrails," said Anya, wiping at her shirt as she stood up in the high school corridor.

Willow, still exhausted from dispersing the insect swarm, only nodded.

"We have to get down to the basement," said Dawn.  "The sun's rising."

Ignoring the Bringers standing near the opened door, Spike carried Buffy across the basement floor to where Rona stood next to the huge goat's head seal.  The girl's eyes were bright with excitement and the assurance of victory.

"At last," she said.  "Did you know, Spike, when you're in a body, time moves in strange ways?  This night seemed longer to me than the eons I spent planning this.  Is it like that for vampires, or just humans?"

Spike ignored her, only looking up from Buffy's face when footsteps echoed down the corridor.

"Sounds like your Scoobies broke through my barriers," said the First.  "I liked Rona's ideas, but I guess they were a little too predictable.  It doesn't really matter.  I've won already."

"Buffy!"  Dawn was the first to arrive.  She and Xander stopped in mid-stride, their gaze fixed on the small body in Spike's arms.  Dawn's eyes, still full of hope, sought the vampire's.  What she saw there crumpled her expression into despair.

"Sorry, Bit," said Spike, as he laid Buffy on the seal.  He straightened her limbs carefully, as if trying to make her comfortable.  "Don’t worry, pet, it will all be over soon."  His left hand twitched the set of Buffy's high collar before brushing her hair away from her eyes.  Dawn couldn't tell if he were talking to her or to her sister's body.  He seemed completely resigned to what was going to happen next.

"What?"  Giles and the others caught up with Dawn and Xander, taking in the situation in a horrified glance.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Giles, you must've figured out 'what' by now," said the First.  "Kinda late, though.  Anyway, just in case you're as stupid as Rona thought you were, I'll tell you.  In just a few seconds, the sun will touch the horizon, and all the Power will begin to flow into the blood of the Chosen One."  She looked over the bedraggled crowd of would-be rescuers.  "And you're out of ideas, your witch is out of power, and none of you is strong enough to fight my Bringers.  Even the vampire must be all tuckered out by now.  I know that he never got up to full strength after the last time I played with him."

"Rona," whispered Giles.  "If there's any of you left in there—"

"Oh there is," said the First.  "The bits you promised to protect and didn't.  The bits you scared so much with tales of hell that she decided to go there in her own way.  The bits you kept telling that she could be the next Slayer."

Dawn gasped.  The others were staring at the First, but she couldn't take her eyes off Buffy.  And she could have sworn that the body at Rona's feet twitched once, almost imperceptibly.  Her head ached with terror and hope.  She leaned forward, praying for another small movement—

And her stomach lurked violently as Buffy, fangs bared in game face, surged up from the floor in one fluid movement and snapped Rona's neck.

"Did I hear someone mention the Chosen One?" asked Buffy.  "Here I am—dead and kicking."

"Of course," said Buffy to Rona's corpse, "you're dead too, but I don't think you'll be doing much kicking."  She looked around and laughed at the huddled group of Bringers near the door.  "And look at your minions!  I guess a certain someone doesn't even have enough power to keep them running around blind any more."  She turned away from the collapsing forms to find an angry face staring at her.

This new vision made her laugh more than ever.  "My mom?  You think pretending to be my mommy is going to hit my heart strings now?  Get lost.  'Cause that's what's happened—you've lost."  Contemptuously, she turned away from the fading illusory body the First had borrowed.

Her expression lost none of its scorn as she turned and kicked Spike across the room just as he rushed towards her.  His attempt to take her unawares foiled, he skidded to a stop at Dawn's feet, staring up at Buffy in anger and grief.  Dawn bent to help him, and he struggled to sit up.

"And you've lost too, my Sweet William," Buffy said.  "I've just instituted a slight change of plan.  Or do I mean a major change of plan?  Damn, I've never been good at this speechmaking stuff."  She shook her head in irritation. "And this Power thing seems to be taking its time.  I feel stronger, but—"  She grimaced again.  "Damn evil masterminds.  I wish they'd get their stories straight."

She moved forward suddenly, backhanding Willow and flinging the witch to the floor.  "Sorry, Will," she said with intense sarcasm.   "But I saw your lips moving with the mojo.  Anyway, just take that as my sincere 'thank you' for all those favors you did me.  Like pulling me out of heaven and making me feel like one of the walking dead before I actually became one.  Not to mention all your other stupid magic tricks.  You should have stuck to floating pencils."

"She's unconscious," said Xander hoarsely.  He had dropped to Willow's side and was checking her pulse.

"Oh, well, I'm sure you'll give her the message when she wakes up, Xander.  You're slow, but not too slow for that."  In spite of her arrogant tone, Buffy was maneuvering around the room cautiously, keeping a close eye on Spike; she was clearly worried about his next move.

"Buffy—"  Giles said hoarsely.

"Oh, it's my father figure!" Buffy was edging her way towards the exit.  "Hey, Giles, remember how you left me when I was all in despair mode?  Pay back time.  And you can just wait, and wait, and worry, about what will happen when I come back."  She laughed raucously.  "And worry about who I'll go after before I bother with you."  With a meaningful but contemptuous glance at Anya, she was gone.

Spike stood up and pulled away from Dawn's arms.  "She's playing for time," he said.  "Hoping the Power inside her will increase before I can catch her.  I need to take her on alone.  The rest of you see to the witch."

"Spike, do you know what to do?" cried Dawn, still on her knees on the hard, dirty floor.

"Yeah.  Problem is, she knows too—everything Buffy and I talked about."  He cast his eyes around the room, found a broom, and picked it up, breaking off the business end and leaving a jagged, splintered spear.  "Maybe the part of Buffy that's left in her won't make sense of it all, though.  If she was listening with her soul, and—it doesn't matter, Bit.  I can't count on Plan B."  He started for the door.  "So—Plan A."

"Wait!"  Dawn had no idea how she managed to get across the room fast enough to grab his arm.  He stopped for her.  She knew he wouldn't have for anyone else.

Her eyes were fixed on his.  She was trying not to look at the thing in his hand.  "Plan A?"

"You already know, pet," said Spike, his voice unbearably gentle.  "She’s weakened by the change.  And I've just fed.  Now’s my best chance.  Once she’s made a kill, it will be harder."  He touched her cheek, looking unbearably sad.  "Stupid thing to say.  As if anything could make it harder.  Buffy and me, we didn't want to do this, Bit.  Neither of us.  Maybe if we'd had more than a few minutes to think it through—but there was no other way to stop the First."

There was no time to rage about that now.  Dawn went back to the first part of his speech.  "Your best chance to do what?"  she whispered, pretending for one last precious second that she didn't know the answer.

Spike entered the maze of tunnels that led eventually to the surface.  "To honor her last request."

Giles spared a moment to instruct Xander to stay with Willow and call for medical assistance before he, Anya, and Dawn made their way to the main corridor of the school, only to stop there, suddenly indecisive.

Buffy and Spike were battling in front of the principal's office, hissing and snarling, striking at each other with ferocious violence.  He had already lost his weapon; Dawn almost tripped over the abandoned broomstick.  The vampires' bodies were flying through the air, crashing through glass and wood, sending debris swirling dangerously in their wake.

Buffy lunged towards Spike, but he caught her in the stomach with a vicious kick, and she staggered back into a classroom.  The others tried to follow, but were driven back as a desk and two chairs smashed against the doorway in quick succession.

"How do we stop them?" Dawn sobbed.  She grabbed Giles' arm.  "What do we do?"

"Well, they keep finding a lot of wooden things to hit each other with," said Anya.  "Sooner or later, one of them is going to stake the other."

"Thank you, Anya, I had figured that out!" spat out Dawn.

"No!" cried Giles.  "I believe I'm starting to understand what's happening, and it is absolutely imperative we keep Spike alive.  We must save him, at all costs."

"Save Spike?" said Anya.  "Okay, I can see that being on the to-do list, but it seems to me that killing Buffy is the number one item.  If she's going to get all that Power, on top of being the Slayer, and on top of being Buffy, she's going to be more dangerous than the First would have been."

"Precisely.  But I am very afraid that killing Spike is specifically what will give her unfettered access to the Power."  He paused for a moment.  "Considering what Buffy told me of her reasons for returning from heaven, this is really a somewhat ironic plot twist.  However—"  He abandoned that train of thought to duck away from an airborne football trophy.

Anya gasped in realization as she dodged a flying chair leg.  "Of course," she said, as she crawled behind a trophy case for safety.  "That's the piece I couldn't quite figure out.  Now the ritual is over, she has to destroy all the other links to the Power."

There was a huge crash, and Buffy's body came slamming through the classroom wall and back into the corridor.  She rose from the floor, fangs bared, shaking off bits of drywall.  The moment that Spike, also in game face, emerged through the gap, she launched herself at him, and the two of them disappeared down another hallway.

Dawn stared helplessly.  It would have been pointless suicide to throw herself between those two.

"One of the texts indicated that the vampire must be alive at dawn to begin the transfer," said Giles.  He was making his way down the hall, stopping at a fire alarm, and staring in frustration when he realized the fire axe had already been removed from the wall.  "But I very much fear he is intended to be dead by twilight."

"Do you think Buffy knows that?" asked Anya.

"I pray not," said Giles.  "If we are lucky, she may just flee, leaving the fight for another day, after she's had a chance to feed."  He grabbed the fire extinguisher.   "This might slow her down a bit," he said doubtfully.

Dawn, who had been staring down the hallway as the sounds of battle receded, spun around to face him.  "How can you?  How can you talk like this about her?"

Giles seemed struck by the anguish in her voice, but Anya was impatient.  "Dawn, she isn't Buffy any more.  You know that."

"We can't give up on her! Anyone else, but this is Buffy.  There has to be a way to get her back!"

Dawn turned and raced down the corridor.

Buffy and Spike were fighting in the stairwell now, in front of a huge window.  The morning sun was slanted away from the glass and Dawn had trouble making out their features.  She had less trouble hearing Buffy’s words.

"Come on, Spike.  You know I’m just trying to do poor William a favor.  The one Buffy didn’t have the stones to do herself."

For an answer, Spike threw an angry blow at her face.  She blocked it easily and kicked him in the ribs, but he turned aside in time and was barely thrown off balance.

"She came back from heeaaaven to put you out of your misery.  A mercy killing.  But she just wasn’t merciful enough."  Buffy dodged his next, reckless attack with ease.  "But it's your lucky day.  Because there’s no mercy in this new me at all."

Spike pulled back, moving up a few steps, his back to the wall, while Buffy stayed on the landing.  They were gauging each others' ground, planning the next assault.

Dawn, shrinking against the opposite wall a half-floor below them, had a clear view of Spike's face for just a moment.  It was covered with tears, and he was visibly trying to control his rage and horror.  "She should have asked me what I wanted," he growled.  "That stupid git William may have wanted to die, all right.  Go beyond the door into the bleeding light and the rest of that shite.  But I’m not William.  There was enough demon left in me to want to keep fighting."

"Fighting for what, Spike?"  It occurred to Dawn that she hadn’t heard Buffy laugh like this in years.  Carefree, as if she were truly enjoying herself.  "No, death wasn’t your goal.  I know what you really wanted.  You wanted to be a real boy.  Poor little Pinocchio.   But, guess what?  Instead of getting life for yourself, you gave me death.  Feeling a bit of a failure, Spike?"

"Not yet," gasped Spike.  He launched himself towards Buffy just as she moved to the attack.  His furious momentum carried both of them through the huge plate glass window and onto the sunny lawn below.

Dawn had no memory of running to the broken window.  Suddenly, she was leaning out to stare at the patch of grass below.  Buffy and Spike had reached the earth in a shower of glass and splintered wood, rolling to the ground a few feet apart, their bodies bathed in the early morning sunlight.

Blood welled up between Dawn’s fingers as her hand clenched the remains of the windowsill.  Too caught up in the scene below to notice her own injury, she waited breathlessly for Buffy and Spike to burst into flames.

Instead, the two vampires merely snarled and stared angrily at the calm blue sky.

"Well, this is weird," said Buffy after a few seconds.  "And painful—ow!"  She held out a hand, watching it redden before her eyes.

"Yeah.  I seem to have gone from a tendency to spontaneous combustion to just spontaneous sunburn," said Spike.  He took up a defensive posture.  "Not that it changes much."

"Really?"  Buffy’s smile was evil.  "Who was trying to distract me with the big talk about not wanting to die a few seconds ago?  But the sunlight didn’t kill us, Spike.  Want to take bets on what will?  Or what won't?"

"We’ll just have to go with trial and error," he said grimly.

"Works for me," said Buffy, kicking out and landing a blow on his shoulder.

He spun around and landed on all fours, growling like an enraged animal.  She moved forward.  For a moment, it looked like she would be able to press her advantage.  But instead of trying to rise and block the blow, Spike caught her foot in his grip and twisted.

Buffy rolled along the ground, not seeming to try to stop herself.  Dawn thought at first that she had been knocked unconscious, but then realized her sister was taking advantage of the momentum that was moving her away from Spike and into the shade of some trees near the edge of the school campus.  Spike howled and moved with amazing rapidity.  A moment later, both of them had disappeared into the small patch of cover.

"How—?" cried Anya.  Dawn turned to see both her and Giles standing just behind her.

"The blood of the Slayer," said Giles in an awed voice.  "The Power has begun to flow into the blood of the Slayer."

Dawn understood immediately.  "And Spike drank from Buffy just a few hours ago," she said in a small, sick voice.  "He's getting the Power too.  That's why they risked changing her.  Because they knew he'd probably be stronger than her, at least at first."

"So they’re both becoming like—super vamps?" asked Anya.

"I don’t know," said Giles.  He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  He looked incredibly tired, and his voice shook.  "I don’t think the shamans ever imagined this particular set of circumstances.  The transmission of the Power was never described very accurately, and now the entire process is completely out of control."

Anya was still trying to work out the implications.  "So, it's not that they're becoming like that Ubervamp thing the First made.  This is different.  All we know is Buffy and Spike are stronger than ordinary vampires, but we don’t know in what ways.  And we have no idea what will actually kill them.  We're not even sure if they'll stay like this until the Power transfer is complete at nightfall or just keep getting stronger until then."

"Essentially, yes," sighed Giles.

"Well, I’m essentially scared," pronounced Anya, staring at the spot where Buffy and Spike had disappeared.

"Well, maybe this Power-sharing thing means she’s not as strong as she would be otherwise," said Dawn eagerly.  "Maybe there’s a chance we can capture her, or—or something."  She scanned the faces of her companions, grimaced in anger and frustration at what she saw there, and pushed her way past them, running down the steps and out of the building.

Dawn was desperate to catch up with Buffy and Spike, and she soon realized she had to track them by sound rather than sight.  They were sensitive enough to the light to be using every patch of cover they could find.  Dawn tried feverishly to think of some way she could use that fact to her advantage, but she needed all her wits just to track the fast-moving combatants.  She barely noticed that she had long since left Giles and Anya behind.

Dawn hadn’t thought she could be sickened even further by the morning’s events, but that was before she came close enough to hear her sister’s words over the sounds of blows.

"You can’t fool me.  You can’t unlive by yourself, Spike.  You have no life of your own.  You only stayed around with that soul gnawing at your gut because she needed you, right?  Because of that stupid chivalrous streak of yours.  Sir William, the Slayer's black knight.  You can’t abandon a woman you love.  You clung to that wacko bitch Drusilla as long as you could.  Then whining, snooty Buffy kept you here, and, when she was dead, even the useless brat Dawn was pitiful enough to keep you mooning around.  Wasn’t she?"

"Yeah."  Spike’s voice was surprisingly strong and steady.  "Love’s bitch, that’s me.  I told Buffy that a long time ago.  You can’t expect to overwhelm me with the revelation now."

Dawn followed the angry voices into a graveyard.  A tombstone crashed over.

"You told me that, Spike!  Not some other girl. I’m your Buffy."

"Can’t seem to make up your mind about that, can you, pet?  Having a bit of an identity crisis, are we?"

The battle moved behind a mausoleum, and Dawn crept along its walls, wishing she couldn’t hear the bitter words.

"You’re a good one to talk, William."

"I’ve had time to work through my issues.  Seems to me you’re still a bit conflicted."  There was a splintering sound, and a tree tottered and fell, tilting over onto the roof of the mausoleum.  Dawn reached up a hand to grab a branch just before it struck her head, crouching down as leaves and debris rained over her.

Then she stood up slowly.  That branch was awfully easy to hold over her head. She looked around her.  Just how fast had she run here from the high school, following those two?

The horrible parody of a lovers' quarrel continued.  "Hardly," said Buffy.  "I know what I am for the first time ever, and I’m loving it.  I love what I’m about to become even more.  I'll finally get to channel my inner bitch without suffering all those nasty guilt trips every time I'm a bad girl.  Damn, I can't wait to really enjoy the killing!"  She grunted as if in pain, but went on a moment later.  "Too bad I won't be able to convince you to team up with me.  But you couldn't even manage to be completely evil when you were soulless.  Now, you're just useless.  Still, you were an awfully good lay.  Finding a replacement won’t be easy.  Since we all know that fangs and lumpies are my turn-ons, I suppose I’ll have to sire a few good candidates."

The entire mausoleum vibrated as if something or someone had been thrown against it with tremendous force.  Probably Buffy, because there was a slight edge of panic underlying the bravado when she continued, "Or I could find my ex and fuck him until he loses his soul and agrees to play.  I never really had the chance to find out what he could do in the sack."

Dawn gulped and hoped this baiting wouldn’t attain its obvious goal of driving Spike to furious, jealous imprudence.  She was already sure he was holding back, playing a delaying action for some reason.  What the hell is Plan B?

"Think a bit much of yourself, don't you?" said Spike harshly.  "I got over Drusilla.  I'll get over you."

"Trying to fool me that you’re going to stake me and go back to watching Passions and cutting jokes?  I was right when I said you're a shell of a loser. You'd never get over killing me, Spike."  There was another huge crash of masonry.  "Never.  And you know what's the only thing more pitiful than you?  Poor stupid Buffy.  Tearing herself up because she used you.  Because she needed you.  Well, congratulations, Spike.  I don’t need you anymore.  In fact, you’re in the way.  So little Buffy is going to get her wish!  She gets to kill Spike for good and for all."

Dawn saw Spike now.  He was reeling backwards, shoved out of the shadows by some ferocious blow.  He blinked and snarled in pain, but before he could rush back into the fight, a tombstone flew through the air, striking him down and pinning him in the harsh daylight.

Dawn began to run to him.  She had barely taken a step when she was grabbed from behind and pulled back into the shade of the mausoleum.  "I thought I smelled something good to eat," said Buffy.  She spun Dawn around so fast the girl's head reeled, and she was barely conscious that her sister was holding up her red-streaked arm, staring in fascination at the long trickle of blood trailing down it from her cut fingers.  "The perfect choice for my first victim."

"No, Buffy, no!"

"Now, how did I guess you'd whine?" said Buffy.  "My greedy little sister doesn't like sharing."  Her skin was still reddened from her encounter with sunlight, and it was hot against Dawn's.  Hot with a rosy, hellish warmth that parodied the glow of living flesh.  Her eyes gleamed in the shadows like amber jewels.

Dawn twisted her arm away from Buffy's seeking lips and, in spite of herself, she smiled grimly at the look of astonishment in the vampire eyes.  "Blood of the Slayer, remember?" she said.

But Buffy just grasped Dawn's wrists more firmly and pulled the girl back towards her, shaking her so brutally the world began to blur.  Dawn smelled something sweet and horrible, and realized sickly that it must be Spike's flesh burning where he lay trapped in the glare of the morning sun.   His resistance to light wasn't going to save him from immolation; it was just going to draw out the agony.

"So my little parasite got some of the Power too?  It's not enough for you to beat me, and it just proves what you owe me.  Do you hear, bitch!"  Buffy's voice quivered with rage as she slapped Dawn across the face.  "You. Owe. Me.  You were never real, never had a right to live.  The monks stole my blood to make you.  You're a thief—you shoplifted my whole damn life.  I can't believe even Buffy was stupid enough to sacrifice herself for you."

Dawn kept struggling throughout this speech, but her head was spinning too much to make a concentrated defense.  Viciously, Buffy punched her in the stomach, knocking the breath out of her, before slamming her against the mausoleum wall and pinning her there.

"Now I need my blood back to win this fight."   She bent her head and was about to lick the red streak on Dawn's arm when Spike made a noise between a groan and a grunt.  Buffy glanced over her shoulder.  Dawn's vision began to clear, and she saw that although his skin was smoldering, he was trying to push aside the tombstone.

"Damn.  No time to play with my food, I guess," said Buffy.

Dawn should have closed her eyes as her sister's mouth descended on her neck.  Because then she wouldn't have seen Spike free himself faster than she had believed possible, rise, grasp a thick tree branch, and aim it at Buffy's back.

Dawn's last thought before oblivion took her was that at least she wouldn't survive this disaster, wouldn't be stuck trying to put her life together again after this final, most devastating loss.

. . . and felt the rich, salty taste of Dawn’s blood in her mouth.

Giles and Anya followed the sounds of sobbing into the graveyard.  They found Spike crouched on the ground next to Dawn, murmuring words of comfort to her as he pressed a cloth torn from his shirt against the wounds on her neck.  He was naked from the waist up, and they could see the patterns of horrible burns where the sun had scorched him earlier.

It took Giles a moment to realize that Dawn was not the one who was weeping.  She was clinging to Spike and staring blankly at the small, crying figure curled in a fetal position over a nearby grave.

Spike helped Dawn to her feet and pushed her into Giles' arms.  "Here's another one for the hospital," he said tiredly.  "But she's going to be all right, aren't you, Bit?"

Dawn nodded at him, but her face was grim and her eyes devoid of hope.

"We're all going to be all right now," Spike said in the voice of a man trying to reassure himself.  He looked at the Watcher.  "Take care of the Little Bit for me, Giles?  For a few hours, at least.  I'll see to Buffy."

Giles stared at the woman sobbing on the ground.  "Buffy—?"

"Buffy's like Spike now," said Dawn dully.

"Yeah, Bit, and I'm all right, ain't I?" said Spike.  He brushed a lock of the girl's hair out of her face, meeting her eyes carefully.  "She will be too.  I'll find a place to keep her safe 'til nightfall, then I'll call you.  She needs to stay out of the sun, and to get more used to things before she's got to face everyone."

Giles led Dawn towards the street, with Anya, silenced for once, trailing behind somberly.  None of them turned to watch Spike kneel beside Buffy, but they heard her first words to him before they exited the cemetery grounds and stepped out onto the sunny street.

"I’m so cold inside."

Xander gathered up the three sleeping bags that lay scattered across the floor of his living room and bundled them unceremoniously into the spare room.  There, the bed lay unmade, with several of Willow’s spell books scattered on top of the covers.  Dawn’s sleeping bag was still unrolled on the floor next to the bed.  Xander dropped the additional bags he held on top of it.  Housekeeping was not at the top of his priorities today.  If the girls wanted a neat room, they could straighten it up themselves.  After several nights of sleeping on his living room floor, he wasn’t feeling like the world’s most attentive host.

Xander returned to the main room of the apartment to find most of his guests milling around, scattering the crumbs of their breakfasts, and generally acting as out-of-sorts as he felt himself.  Giles was holding the small of his back and complaining about the sleeping arrangements.  Anya came out of the kitchen.  Great.  It wasn’t bad enough he had all these houseguests, his ex-girlfriend had to come to visit too.

Anya stared at Giles in concern.  "You shouldn’t be sleeping on that couch," she said, and then brightened.  "Why don’t you come stay with me?  I have a comfy bed."

Xander opened his mouth to protest out of automatic jealousy, and then shut it.  Anything that reduced the population of his apartment was to the good. And no way would Anya let Willow or Dawn room with her instead.  She knew both of them still woke up screaming at least once a night.

"Yeah, then it'll be just you and me, sleeping in this room," said Andrew to Xander.  "At least until some of the other girls get out of the hospital."

Before he could respond, Dawn clumped past him and threw herself onto the couch.  "No sign of the creatures of the night yet this morning," she commented, glancing at the door of what should have been Xander’s bedroom.

"They were out late last night," said Willow, following Dawn slowly to avoid spilling the cup of coffee she held.  She still moved carefully, neck and head stiffly erect, as if she felt the lingering effects of her concussion. "Hunting."

"Hunting what?" asked Anya nervously.

"Vampires," said Dawn defensively.  She fingered the bandage on her neck, and added less certainly, "Other vampires.  I think."

"Just vampires and the odd demon, I imagine," said Giles.  "There's no sign of anything more sinister lurking about Sunnydale."  His cheerful tone sounded forced.  "Certainly no sign of the First.  Everything indicates it has lost its ability to access this plane, perhaps permanently.  Unless Willow's latest researches-?"

"Nothing," said Willow.  "No sign of that particular Big Bad anywhere.  The coven back in England has found another little girl with the potential, though.  I got an email this morning.  But she's only in kindergarten."

"You can't expect any of these new kids to become a Slayer any time soon, Giles," said Xander.  "Instead of a Scooby gang, you'll have a Chosen One who wants to patrol with Laa-Laa and Tinky Winky."

"They are certainly too young now," said Giles. "But I'm hoping that it will be many years before another Slayer is called.  And most of the girls in the hospital should recover sufficiently to be candidates again.  However, it's very encouraging to have some names, some more girls we may be able to train for the future.  Now that the line has been restored."

"Even if it is wearing a cast and bandages and won't be released from the loony bin for another three weeks," agreed Anya.

Andrew brightened.  "We should go visit Amanda after we see the others today.  The nurses should let us in now.  They haven't had to restrain her since that one time."  He went over to a side table and began sorting through some comic books. "I'll bring The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen to read to her.  She used to like that."

Giles winced.  He'd taken Dawn to the hospital after leaving Spike and Buffy in the graveyard, to be met by the news that one of the girls in the burn unit had gone on a a rampage, fighting with berserker strength against the personnel who had been trying to care for her.  They had had to tranquilize her and strap her down.  Her injuries had also begun to heal with amazing rapidity.

Apparently, Amanda had regained consciousness near dawn, and had been just barely alert and strong enough to be called when Buffy snapped Rona's neck.  This had been good news, of course.  The fact that she was now the subject of intense psychiatric evaluation and would probably not be released for at least a few more weeks was not.  But it appeared that the final diagnosis would be some sort of strange, allergic reaction to the pain medications she had received.

"How are the others?" asked Dawn suddenly.

"They're doing better," said Giles cautiously.  He moved to sit next to the girl.  "They should all recover almost completely, although some of them will carry scars for life.  They're proving to be very resilient, though.  You could visit them with us, come see for yourself."

"Maybe," said Dawn.  "I don't like hospitals much." She shrank down in the sofa cushions, shifting away from the Watcher.

Giles watched Dawn with concern.  Since that night in the basement, she'd become distracted and clumsy, breaking things easily and staring at the mess as if she'd no idea how she'd achieved it.  And she was too quiet, never wanting to go anywhere, barely talking to anyone except Buffy and Spike.  He'd been surprised at that; he thought that she would be angry that the two had made the decision to turn Buffy and traumatized by soulless Buffy's attack.  Instead, she was gentle with Buffy and clung to Spike—at least, she clung to him whenever the vampires bothered to emerge from the bedroom and associate with mere humans.

"I hear noises in there," said Anya, eying the bedroom door nervously.  "Do you think they're having sex right now?"

"Anya!" protested Giles.

"Well, we don't know exactly how Buffy got her soul back," said Anya unrepentantly, "and until we do, it seems to me that her orgasms may not be our friends."

"We know how it happened," said Andrew, still paging through comic books. "Spike explained it."

"If you call that an explanation," said Anya.  "Getting a really goofy look on his face and saying that she was in an alternate dimension doesn’t really clarify the matter much."

"It pains me to jump in and agree with Anya," said Xander, who had paused in his task of collecting the dirty plates that littered the room.  "But when Spike starts talking about angels requisitioning wings, his first fun stay in the high school basement comes to mind."

"Some kinds of magic have to take place on two dimensions," said Willow.  She sat up straighter, still moving carefully, but showing sudden animation.  "Maybe Buffy's soul did something, wherever it was.  But on this plane, I think it was tasting Dawn’s blood that brought Buffy back to us." She smiled at the teenager.  "The connection to her own blood through her sister.  You brought her back, Dawnie."

"And what does that say about me?" said Dawn very softly.  Only Giles’ ears caught the girl’s next words.  "Can I call my soul my own?"

Anya was still standing in the center of the living room, staring at the bedroom door.  "Even with souls, they're still vampires," she said.  "Extra-strong ones.  I don't like thinking about them ever being out-of-control ones."

How does Spike control himself at moments like this?  Buffy couldn't begin to try; she was whimpering one moment and snarling with fangs bared the next as his full weight bore down on her and he moved inside her.  Above her, his eyes were as profound as the twilight sky, and he chuckled lasciviously at her unrestrained cries and movements.

As hard and fast as his thrusts were, they weren't enough.  Maddened by her need, Buffy shoved at his shoulder, meaning to roll them over so that she would be on top.  That way, she could control each movement.  She would be in charge.  Me.  Buffy.  Not the demon that lurks inside.  Not the demon that lurks inside both of us.

In her confused haste, she knocked them both off the bed and they landed on the floor in a tangled heap.

"Gah," she growled in frustration, struggling to her hands and knees.

Spike was behind her instantly, grabbing her around the waist.  A moment later, he was inside her again, penetrating her from behind while she was still on all fours.

"Grrr," growled Buffy, this time in mindless satisfaction.  She had always loved it like this, the way animals did it.  Animals that didn't have to think about who they were with and why.  Animals that just knew what it felt like and could enjoy passion without words, especially words like "relationship," "soul," "right," and "wrong."

Except the animal on the top usually didn't rain kisses down its mate's back and neck while murmuring, "I love you."

Buffy had learned to appreciate some words, at least.

She reached behind to push Spike away as she raised herself up on her knees and twisted her body.  Before his mutterings could change from sighings of affection to protests of frustration, she was astride him at last, riding him so that they were face to face, and his expression was one of unambiguous love and desire again.

"Had to see you when you said that," she gasped.

"I love you," he purred obligingly.

"Had to make sure you still looked at me the same way—even when I don't look the way I used to."

Spike morphed into game face at last.  "You're my girl," he said.  "Whatever faces we wear."

The final remnants of tension in Buffy's body gave way.  She would have sent an inhuman howl echoing through the apartment and moving Xander one step closer to an eviction notice if Spike hadn't rolled them both over again and brought his fanged mouth down over hers, his tongue delving deep into her.  She felt the sting of his incisors against her lips, and blood flowed into her mouth.  She could tell from the sharp, salt taste of it that his lip bled too, and she lapped up this bit of him eagerly.

Their kiss seemed to last forever, his mouth becoming more and more insistent.  Buffy suffered a momentary panic when she realized she couldn't draw breath properly, then an instinctive surge of triumph as she remembered she didn't need to.  She let herself drown in his embrace until she realized that they were both lying completely still, limbs intertwined, in an unnaturally silent room.

Some time later, they lay on the bed together, sleep eluding them both. Buffy's eyes slitted open, and her gaze flicked around the dark bedroom.  Although the blinds were shut tight against the late morning sun, she had no trouble making out her surroundings.  But, except for the body lying next to her, there was nothing here worth looking at.  Not the untidy piles of clothing and sheets on the floor.  Certainly not Xander's bland bedroom furniture.  Not the art on the walls, which was of distinctly motel room quality.  And especially not the blanket that had been tossed over the huge mirror above the dresser.   She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow for a few more minutes.  Then she rolled on her back again.

"I’m hungry," she complained at last.

"There’s a quart of Porky’s finest in the fridge," Spike replied.  His voice was still lazy with happiness.

Buffy moved away from him, irrationally irked that he was content.  "I don’t want to go to the kitchen," she sulked.  "They’re all out there, and I don’t like the way they look at me when I drink blood."

"I’ll get it for you."  He rolled over on his side to smile at her. "Warm it up in the microwave.  Breakfast—uh, dinner—in bed. Couple of mugs at 98.6 for us to share."  He paused.  "If you don't like it straight, I can mix something in it."

"One of your Weetabix cocktails?  No, thanks."  She lay on her back, arms crossed, sulking.  "We both know I don't really need to feed, and that pigs' blood won't help.  Damn, it’s just gruesome to walk into a room full of your friends and think ‘Happy Meals!’  I hate these cravings."

He leaned over her.  "Don’t fret, love.  You’ll learn to suppress them.  Besides, old Rupert thinks we may not be done changing.  We can stand a lot more sunlight than any vamp I ever heard of, and I quite enjoyed that plate of garlic bread the witch prepared the other night.  And I will treasure forever the memory of Xander's face when he realized you didn't need an invitation to get in here. Maybe we’ll be able to kick this blood drinking habit eventually.  Go on the wagon.  Find a twelve step program or some such."

She smiled faintly, but shook her head.  "You know as well as I do that's not going to happen.  The blood-drinking goes deeper than all the other stuff.  It's all about what we are."

He stroked her cheek gently.  "Well, maybe. But there's more to unlife than food, love."

"What is that, Spike?  Besides the fighting and the sex, which I admit are a whole lot nicer than the dietary requirements."  She smiled reluctantly, running her fingers lightly over his shoulder and along his upper arm.  "I thought that last battle would end it all for us. Nothing more to do.  Instead—"

"Immortality making you cranky again?  This isn’t heaven, but it’s better than bloody boring Paradise.  That was a different kind of pain.  One I couldn’t do anything about."

"That’s my guy," said Buffy, throwing herself back down against the pillows and rolling her eyes.  "Give him perfection, and he’ll fight his way out.  Just for the sake of the fight."

"Bloody right.  Don't know how even William stood the Mad Girl's nattering and those endless days for so long."  He ran a hand over her stomach and up to cup one breast; his lips were soft against her throat.  "And who's the girl who decked an angel on her way out of Eden?"

She snorted, partly because his touch tickled, partly because she was amused in spite of herself.  "What a jerk.  I can't believe those clowns are allowed to run the afterlife."

"Not sure they are," muttered Spike into her shoulder.

Buffy grabbed his shoulders and jerked his head up, staring into his eyes.  "What does that mean?" she demanded.

He sighed and sat up.  "Been meaning to mention it," he said.  "Secrets have caused us enough trouble.  It was something the Mad Girl said."  He always referred to the Drusilla he'd known in Paradise that way.

"Damn, and damn, and damn," said Buffy emphatically, seeing where this was going.  "Prophecies and mystical revelations!"

"'Fraid so, pet."  From his expression, he disliked the notion as much as she did. "Before I escaped, she said something.  'All confusion and chaos.  Or it would be if someone didn’t need the man in the monster.  And the monster in the girl.'   He grimaced and added carefully, "'A very special someone.'"

"Who the—"  Buffy was enraged now.  "Who, Spike?"

"No idea.  Someone very high up, I imagine.  Celestial VIP."

"I don't care if it's—" She bit off any attempts at speculation.  "I don't care who it is.  Someone played us, Spike.  Some damn thing out there arranged it all, just so we'd wind up here, a couple of magically enhanced bloodsuckers, able to do—what?"

"Don't know, pet, but expect we'll find out," he said.  "And I think Dawn's involved too.  Not just because she's kept that bit of extra strength the Power bled into her.  Because the Mad Girl used to babble about a key that opened lots of doors."

"Damn, damn, damn," Buffy repeated.  "Another stupid avert-the-apocalypse mission.  And this one will probably be even harder than the last one.  They always are.  I wouldn't mind so much except—it's like the past two horrible years have turned out to be nothing but an audition for the next job, which I don't want any more than I wanted the last one.  It was all arranged, Spike.  Even that beautiful afternoon under the tree in Paradise.  I hate knowing that someone set that up—"

He caught her hand and spoke urgently.  "Doesn't make it anything less than it was, love."

"But to let us have that, then take it away!  Whatever did this is cruel beyond belief."  She saw his reaction to her anger and grief and turned away.  She didn't want to be responsible for that look.  Not any more.

Some things never changed.  Buffy got angry and upset.  Spike tried to make her feel better.  The pattern of their relationship.  She knew that his voice would soften and he'd begin to coax even before he began to speak.  "Coming it on a bit too strong there, love.  We both left that place of our own free will.  Besides, we still have each other.  And—"  His arms wrapped around her waist from behind and his lips moved against the back of her neck, just as William's had done in that faraway place.  "—you can’t tell me this was any better there than it was here right now."

"It was simpler there," she said, less fretfully, giving into the sheer pleasure of his body pressed against hers.  "And so beautiful."

"The sun shining. Our hearts beating as one," he murmured.  His tone was sarcastic now, but his mouth was still soft and teasing.

"Our hearts beating period.  And it was very sweet and wonderful.  Just perfect.  If we could be like that again—"  She realized as she said it that her whining had gone too far.

He released her.  "Nostalgia's all well and good, Buffy.  But don't confuse me with William.  I'm not him.  And if it's that git you're imagining you're shagging now—"

"I don't," she interrupted.  She flipped her hair back and shifted away from him.  "You're not William.  I get that.  Just like I get that I'm not the girl he met in Paradise."  She moved into game face.  "But you're not the Spike who came to Sunnydale, either."

He was unimpressed.  "Hardly a newsflash, love.  None of us is what we were yesterday, or the day before."

"Not many people change as much as you did, though.  And William is a part of that change.  I love who you are right now, Spike.  Whatever you are."  She shook her head, restoring her human features.  "So let's stop arguing about who we are and figure out what we do next."  She leaned over, looking deep into his eyes, their faces only inches apart.  "And to before we can do that, I need to know what it is you really want."

He looked away, as if he were trying to distance himself, but then put out a hand and ran it up and down her arm.  "Thought you knew that, pet."

She twitched away, rolling off the bed.  "Don't lie to me, Spike.  And don't use sex to distract me.  You just said you wouldn't keep secrets any more.  What do you want?"

"Doesn't matter," he said at last.

She stared at him, adamant, her arms crossed.  "What you mean is, 'it's not possible.'  That's different from 'it doesn't matter.'"

He sighed and stared at the ceiling.

"You wanted to be human, didn't you?"

He sputtered with anger then.  "See, if that isn't just like a woman!  You had to say, it right?  Okay, it's what I wanted.  But what's the point of even talking about it?  It's not like you could run down to Super Target and buy me some humanity!  And now, you're not even—"  He stopped.

She turned and walked to the window, moving the blinds slightly and squinting outside, making sure that the tiny sliver of light that entered the room slanted away from her and the bed.  He was right, of course.  It didn't make anything better to say the words.  Not only couldn't she give him what he wanted, she didn't even possess it herself any more.

She'd tried, the first couple of days after the change, to convince herself that she was just the old Buffy in a slightly different package, but it hadn't worked.  Whenever she tried to act as if it wasn't too different from a fashion makeover—hey, I'm a Midnight instead of a Noon now!—she was assaulted by the memory of Dawn's hot, salty blood in her mouth.  She couldn't even feel ashamed of the way she'd cried for hours after she got her soul.  Or for the way she'd begged Spike to stake her, just as he'd once begged her.  If she was ashamed of anything, it was the impatience she'd once felt with Spike and even Angel.  Finally, she understood the challenges they faced.

Consciously, she stopped breathing.  That helped a little; the scent of humanity eased, and she was tempted less.

She should have been wigged out by her attempt to feed on her own sister.  She should be thinking, "Oh, gross!"  That was how she talked about it to the humans, when she couldn't avoid the subject entirely.  But Dawn's blood had been the most wonderful, delicious, intoxicating thing she'd ever tasted.  And the sensation of her fangs sinking into living flesh had been—no, not good.  But it had felt right.  Perfectly evil. What she was meant to do.  Unless she kept an iron leash on her desires, she would literally kill to enjoy that experience again.

She wasn't just the old Buffy in a slightly modified body.  Her humanity was gone, replaced by a completely new set of physical laws to obey and terrifying urges to try to ignore.  And her soul sometimes seemed like a pitiful opponent for the hunger gnawing in her belly.

She realized that Spike was talking again.  His voice was gentle, shaded with regret.  "Want lots of things, pet.  Want Beckham to go back to Man U.  Want a hair gel that doesn't give up in the rain so I don't have to stop to zhush my 'do while I'm battling for my unlife against overwhelming odds.  Want them to stop making movies based on bad TV shows.  Doesn't mean I expect to get them, or that I'm going to waste eternity being miserable because I can't have them."

No, I'm the one who's the expert at making myself miserable.  And right now that seems like that really should be the next item on the agenda.   Isn't that how it goes?  Become a vampire.  Get your soul back.  Brood.

She turned to look at Spike. He has a lot more to brood about than I do.  Oceans of blood to regret, where I only took a sip.  And now I've forced more guilt on him, because of what I insisted he do to me in that basement.  Buffy knew that his first horrified protest when she'd asked him to turn her would would echo in her mind forever.  And she'd been grateful, in a cowardly way, that she hadn't been able to see his agonized expression in that pitch-dark room.

The problem was, there was only one way to really deal and move on.  And that was to acknowledge her human life was over.  And the hardest thing for her to admit about that loss was that she didn't entirely regret it.

For just one more minute, Buffy peered out into the sunlight and tried to hang onto her old, aching need to be normal, to consider herself just another girl.  That desire had been so much a part of her human self.  But the part of her that had always wanted to be wild, to glory in her power as a Slayer, rose up and took charge.  Finally, inevitably, she let it.

She released the blinds, and the tiny ray of light she had let creep in disappeared from the room.  It didn't matter.  She could see clearly in the dark now.

She wasn't giving up the old Buffy entirely.  She would go on to fight evil, and probably win, because that was what she always did.  And, eventually, her friends would stop jumping up and stuttering whenever she came into the room.  And, maybe, they'd forget the things she'd said when she didn't have a soul.  Or, at least, they'd convince themselves that she hadn't meant those things.  Because even though a part of her had meant every word, she still loved them and she needed to rebuild those bonds.  She would find some way to conduct a semblance of a human life that included them.

But changes would need to be made, and soon.  The Scoobies had encouraged her to stay near them, and she appreciated their awkward efforts to treat her like the woman she had once been.  But it just wasn't working.  Xander needed his bedroom back, and she and Spike needed a place of their own.  Not a crypt.  Someplace where Dawn can be comfortable visiting.  But where I can let myself breathe most of the time without smelling people.  So that means--what?  A cozy cabin in the woods for Spike and me to share?  Just the two of us, far from the madding crowd?  Except it's not just the crowd that maddens Buffy.

She shuddered at the thought of Spike as a permanent roommate.  She loved him, but he wasn't going to be the easiest person to unlive with.  When she'd thought he probably wouldn't survive the confrontation with the First, she'd put up with a lot.  But, now, with the prospect of eternity before her . . .

She glared at him, and he smirked back, blowing a puff of smoke towards her face.  She drew in breath to make an irritated comment—and realized that the smell of tobacco was masking the enticing odor of human blood that had been oozing into the room from the rest of the building.

She glared harder.  He smirked harder.

Spike was watching her through the curls of smoke from his cigarette, his scarred eyebrow raised, and she could read his features clearly.  He was hoping he'd eased her distress, and plotting to tease a smile out of her.

And how have you treated him?  He's the only one you haven't apologized to for the things you did and said while you didn't have a soul. And that's not because you know he understands--it's because you know there were times when you were still human that you hurt him even worse.

Abruptly, she turned to face the dresser and tore the blanket off the mirror, dropping it on the floor.  She stared into a dim, blank, deserted room, empty of all human presence.  She could tell from Spike's stillness that he was expecting an emotional outburst.  "This is kind of cool, actually," said Buffy.  "But it's going to make shopping for clothes a major pain."

He exhaled then, in a sudden, relieved gust, and she saw the reflection of a puff of smoke drifting over the bed.

She turned and saw him sitting with one arm draped across his knees, cobalt eyes questioning, the cigarette dangling from his left hand.

"You know what, Spike?" she asked in a challenging tone.

He eyes were still wary. He had no idea what to expect next.  She crawled onto the bed next to him, sliding her body across the sheets, almost, but not quite, touching him before she rolled over on her back to sprawl wantonly before his delighted eyes.

"I really don't think you've cheered me up enough yet," she said flirtatiously.

He dropped the cigarette on Susan Ivanova's face and dove for her.

Yes, William and his soul had come a long way from Paradise.  For one thing, he totally gets flirtation now.  He's acquired lots of other useful experience, too.  Not to mention the fact that his strength almost matches yours, so there's no holding back.  And, yeah, you've always found the fangs and the wrinklies really, really hot.  And then there's the truly breathless kissage. . .

That night, Buffy and Spike slunk past their human friends with a few muttered comments and escaped outdoors into the welcoming darkness, bickering happily about the best way to corner the remnants of the vampire gang they'd almost annihilated the evening before.  Within an hour, they had dusted two others of their kind and were chasing the last survivor of the nest to the outskirts of Sunnydale, towards the ocean.  The smell of sea salt began to mix with the earthier scent of vampire blood, but couldn't mask it entirely.  Buffy smiled as she tracked her prey.

"It's the Slayer!" one of their earlier victims had cried out in terror just before she'd staked him.  He had recognized her new nature, but it seemed that being turned was merely adding to her former reputation.  The nasty things in Sunnydale still feared her.

She felt alive in a strange new way as she reveled in this hunt, in her new senses that made her hyper-aware of the presence of her enemies—and of her lover.  Their hearts certainly didn't beat as one, but Buffy and Spike matched each other, predatory stride for stride, as they closed the gap between them and their quarry.  Listening to the thud of Spike's footsteps as he raced beside her, she began to make longer-range plans.

She might not be the Slayer she had once been.  She certainly wasn't the old Buffy.  But she still had a mission.  In fact, she had at least two.  Buffy decided she would write her own agenda.  She needed to track down whatever celestial or infernal menace had decided it needed to turn her and Spike into a couple of supervamps, and deal with its issues—on her own terms.

And she needed to make sure Spike was content.  Because it was clearly her duty to see to it he stayed occupied and more or less out of trouble.  After all, there was no telling what kind of problems he'd cause if she didn't find some way to keep him busy and satisfied.

The first goal—she gave that job a year, at the most.  She bet she'd have it licked by next May.

She might just need eternity to work on the second.

The End