Employing extreme wariness, Tara walked the darkened street. Her eyes darted from side to side at every few steps and she was obviously fighting the desire to look over her shoulder. Her stride faltered as she approached the mouth of an alleyway but steeling herself, she marched past with enforced confidence.

"You gotta relax," came a voice from behind.

Every nerve in Tara's body jarred as she visibly jumped. Spinning around, she breathed a sigh of relief to see Faith emerging from the shadows. The Slayer's expression revealed her amusement, but she made a concerted effort to be stern.

"Try an' look natural," she advised.

"This is completely natural," Tara pointed out. "For me scared out of my mind." She threw a quick glance in Faith's direction, hastening to add, "Not that I don't trust you or anything."

Faith waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, makes sense. I ain't B, so ..."

"Oh, all that stuff earlier?" clarified the blonde with a vigorous shake of her head. "That was nothing to do with you, trust me. Just that, you know how Buffy can get when she's in super protective mode? Since Willow's her best friend and all, I figured it would trigger big time. I really think Will's the likely target here, so I hoped, you know, the emotional attachment would help." She smiled reassuringly. "I'm totally okay with you."

Faith quirked an eyebrow. "I could tell, with you lookin' over your shoulder every two seconds."

"Sorry," offered Tara. "I'm sort of new to this 'bait' thing."

"Bein' less obvious would probably help."

Tara was forced to concede. "Probably. I'll get right on that."

With a nod, Faith melted back into the shadows as Tara returned to her evening promenade. She hadn't gone more than a few paces, however, when Faith suddenly reappeared, although this time, the Slayer was ahead of her. Startled, Tara jumped again.

"So you're okay with me, huh?" Faith asked.

Tara was busy trying to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. "And this is less obvious how now?"

Faith shrugged and leaned against the wall. "Eh, I figure we already blew this block." She dug in her jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of Marlboros and waited for an answer.

Taking a final deep breath to steady her nerves, Tara responded, "Sure, I'm fine with you. I know if anything happens, you'll jump right in, fists flying or boots kicking or ..." She shook her head, the mechanics of physical combat eluding her. "Or claws slashing. Whatever it is you need to do."

Faith threw a smirk in her direction. "Claws slashing? Who am I, Freddy Kruger?"

"I just mean, I know you'll keep me safe." The blonde's tone was almost matter-of-fact as she resumed her stroll.

Faith tapped out a cigarette. "You sound pretty sure." She delved back into her pocket for a light and then fell into place next to Tara.

"Of course," came the confident reply accompanied by an arched eyebrow. "Shouldn't I be?"

"No, no, 'course you should," agreed the Slayer, easily striking her match against the brickwork without missing a step. "Guess I'm just ... surprised. Everybody else keeps lookin' at me like they're just waitin' for me to snap."

Tara hesitated momentarily before responding. "Well, uhm ... No offense?" She shot Faith a sideways peek. "But y-you sort of look like you're waiting for that too."

Faith opened her mouth to protest, but no words materialized. Instead, she took a deep drag from her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the night sky. "Yeah. Maybe."

"I just don't get that," Tara told her, open confusion invading her features. "Well, the self-recrimination stuff, I get that pretty well. But the other? The 'waiting for you to snap'? It doesn't make sense to me."

Permitting herself a snort, Faith mused, "Huh. An' here I thought Red liked 'em smart."

Stopping mid-stride, Tara turned to face the Slayer with a challenging expression. Surprised, Faith instinctively also ground to a halt.

"Okay then, since you have it all worked out," declared Tara, crossing her arms and tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Why should I be afraid of you?" Her head tilted to one side as she waited expectantly for a sufficient answer.

Faith's expression twisted into a sneer. "Glinda, you never met the old me."

"That's right." Tara's words were direct and forthright. "I didn't."

No further response was forthcoming. The Slayer was content to simply level a flat look at Tara and her seemingly bottomless ignorance.

"I know what you did. I mean, I heard the stories." Tara frowned in thought. "A-And I guess we did kind of meet one time, and yeah, that was ... painful." She shook off the unpleasant memory. "I didn't know you then though, so I guess that means I don't really have anything to sort of refer to, you know? All I have is what I've seen since I came back. So ... so yeah. I don't see it."

She studied Faith's face intently. "You know what I do see?"

Shifting her weight to the other foot, Faith puffed a lungful of smoke from the corner of her mouth. "What's that?" she asked, feigning exaggerated interest.

"I see a person who lost someone she loved very much," Tara replied. "When that happened, she dealt with her grief by embracing rage. Because of that, people died. I see a person still suffering for her loss, and for her actions." She gazed up at the stars with a half-smile and something of a shrug. "I've had a little experience with that sort of thing."

Faith considered Tara curiously. "You're one of the last people I thought'd agree with what I did,"

"I don’t agree with it, Faith, but I don't have agree with it to understand it. I also don't have to agree with it to see that it haunts you." Tara sighed and tried to explain from another perspective. "From the way everyone talked about you ... you know, from before? You didn't really care about what you did. I mean you killed people you'd never even met and it didn't bother you. I don't think anybody can say that about you now."

Faith let her gaze drop, eventually finding the burning end of her cigarette. "So ... that means what?"

"I only know what it means to me." The blonde's voice was gentle and she greeted Faith's questioning glance with a sympathetic smile. "That I trust you to keep me safe from witch-hunting serial killers. Oh, and the fact that it's just you and me? I'm guessing everybody else does too."

Faith chewed on this food for thought but didn't say much in return. She simply rolled the burning cigarette between her thumb and forefinger.

"Ready to try the next block?" ventured Tara after a while.

Faith flicked her cigarette into the gutter and nodded.

"Lead the way."

Dawn moaned softly as she slowly began to regain consciousness. She frowned and then immediately winced as the cut on her temple began to ooze fresh blood. She tried to lift her hand to investigate, but was unable to move. Her wrists had been trussed to the posts of the bed where she had been placed. Her ankles were similarly shackled. As her mind cleared, the memories returned in a flood and her eyes snapped open. She blinked apprehensively into the face staring down at her.

Dante greeted her with a charming smile. "Hi."

Dawn didn't answer. Her head snapped from side to side, assessing her surroundings – a dimly-lit and squalid, but otherwise nondescript, little room. Desperately seeking a means of escape, she struggled against her restraints, vigorously testing their holding strength.

"That's not really going to do you any good," Dante informed her helpfully. "I know you'll try anyway – I just thought I'd mention it. Peter has an incredible knack for bondage."

His neck swiveled toward the young apprentice seated in the corner. Locked in the lotus position, Peter's eyelids flickered slightly as he meditated. Seemingly oblivious to everything but his induced trance, the boy was again bare-chested, revealing his sparse but prominent tattoos.

"He's gifted." Dante's voice brimmed over with pride as he refocused on Dawn. "And has an incredible eye. You're a perfect choice."

Dawn swallowed hard. "For what?" she asked shakily.

"Magick mostly," came the reply. "Not in a conventional sort of way, but ..." His voice grew distant and contemplative. "Still you've got it. I can practically hear it, singing in your blood. Blood. Just like hers ..."

Preoccupied within some personal reverie, Dante was momentarily lost to the world. Then, without warning, he returned sharply to the present.

"Right, so first there'll be torture," he announced, sounding like a waiter describing the house specials. "A lot of that, I'm afraid. Then he'll finally kill you – a pre-'you're welcome', by the way – and then he'll gather your blood and ..." Dante paused to indicate his own series of tattoos, "...make it part of him. It's pretty exciting actually – you're the last one before I leave Trillium. Can't stay too long in one place. You know how it is." He nodded briskly in self-affirmation.

In the darkened corner, Peter gradually emerged from his abstraction. His heavy-lidded eyes traveled first to his Master before drifting toward Dawn. Instinctively, she shrank beneath his glassy stare. Gaze never leaving her horrified face, he reached for the hood next to him and pulled it quickly over his head. Dante regarded Dawn benevolently.

Her struggles began anew as she choked down the sob bubbling in her throat. "Why?"

Dante seemed somewhat surprised at the query. "That's a pretty existential question for such a young thing. Why? Why you? Why not me?"

Peter's black mask swam into Dawn's line of vision. The lone eye peering at her twinkled with anticipatory delight.

"I don't know," Dante answered. "But you'll have a while to try and figure it out." He smiled. "Let me know if you come up with anything."

Willow had positioned herself at a small outdoors café. Claiming one of the tables closest to the shadows, far away from any streetlights, she sipped on a frothy mocha and kept her eyes alert. She leaned forward and glanced through the window of the tiny restaurant, but she was well beyond the attendant's line of vision.

Across the street, Buffy was stationed on a flat rooftop. Keeping low, she constantly scanned in all directions. Although tense and watchful, she didn't even jump when the phone in her pocket began to vibrate. She pulled it out and flipped it open, her focus never wavering from the area below.

"This better be important," she whispered curtly into the receiver.

But as the caller announced himself, her demeanor changed. Her muscles grew even more taut and an expression of concern crossed her face. "Grip?"

Outside the Scoobies' house. Grip paced back and forth along the pavestones leading to the front door. Every other second, he paused at the end of the walk to look hopefully up and down the street, obviously searching but without success.

"I hate to call you, Miss Summers," he said into the phone, trusting that he didn't sound too panicky, "but I'm worried about Dawn."

Buffy's eyes narrowed as she continued to focus on Willow. Nonetheless, it was now a case of shared attention. She too began to pace, to and fro behind the low parapet of the roof.

"What about Dawn?"

Grip cleared his throat. "She asked me to meet her here. At your house. She was pretty upset about something. I'm not really sure what and I guess it doesn't matter now." He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to spike even more than usual. "Anyway, she said she'd be here in about 10 minutes. That was 20 ago."

Buffy's heart beat faster. "What?"

"I dunno," sighed Grip nervously, "maybe she just stopped at the store or something, but with some crazy guy out there ..." Unwilling to even contemplate the possible conclusion of that sentence, Grip's words trailed away.

The Slayer turned sharply on her heel as realization hit home. "Magickal," she murmured. "He's looking for magickal people." Her gaze darted to Willow, who was still walking the tightrope between casual and tense.

"What?" came Grip's confused reply.

"I think I know what's going on," she told him hurriedly. "Grip, go back home."

His chin jutted with determination. "But if Dawn's in trouble—"

Buffy couldn't spare the time to argue. "No. She's fine," she assured before muttering under her breath, "Until I get my hands on her." Raising her voice again, she addressed Grip. "I just need you to go home. Right now. I'll have Dawn call you in a little bit."

Grip wasn't so sure. "If I can help—"

The Slayer's patience meter was running low. "I'll call you. But please – for now, go home."

Declining to wait for a response, she flipped shut the phone and without hesitation, leapt down from the roof. Landing solidly on both feet, she sprinted toward Willow, issuing orders as she ran.

"Will! Locator spell! Now!"

Dawn's cheeks were wet with tears. Her eyes glistened as she looked up at Peter, looming over her with a raised knife. The cuts on her shoulder and torso oozed blood, but the wounds were not fatal and the apprentice seemed to be choosing his areas of assault with great care, like a sculptor working meticulously upon a block of marble. Far from broken in spirit, Dawn attempted to reason with her aggressor.

"Peter ... Stop, please. This ... spell he has on you, you can fight it."

Peter appeared surprised at the idea. "What spell?"

Dawn bit her bottom lip and tried again. "Okay, no spell, but whatever ... whatever he's ... blackmailing you with, or—"

"Blackmail?" His voice was laced with humor and beneath the hood, an unseen smile crossed his lips. "There's nothing like that."

With casual precision, Peter wielded the knife once more. The serrated edge sliced jaggedly into the flesh, its movement slow and deliberate. A cry escaped from Dawn's throat and fresh tears prickled behind her eyelids. She watched with something akin to morbid fascination as the blade pierced the fragile skin around the inner wrist and slid effortlessly toward her elbow. The nasty cut was long but essentially superficial in nature. Like those delivered earlier, it was not life-threatening.

"It's more complex," Peter told her thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side as he admired his handiwork. He twirled the bloodied knife between his fingers. "And less," he added. His tone became amused. "Dichotomy."

Dawn gritted her teeth, rage all but surpassing the anguish. "Then why?"

Peter shrugged. "For the greater purpose, I suppose. It gives me a ... a connection. You know? You spend your life wondering what it's all about, wondering where you fit in. Dante, he had those answers. I'm part of something now. A greater calling. It's bigger than you, me, any of us."

Leaning forward, he inflicted yet another cut. Dawn did her utmost to stifle the ensuing whimper, but it would not be denied an outlet.

Kneeling by the bed, the apprentice sat back on his haunches for a moment. "I guess it's hard to see from where you're at, but this is a good thing. The work we do will live long after we're both gone." He gazed upon his weapon with much affection. "Plus, it's just fun."

Dawn struggled against her bonds. "You won't be thinking that when my sister gets here," she spat between clenched teeth. Raising up as far as she was able, she threw Peter a look of contempt. "She is so gonna kick your ass."

As if on cue, the door to the apartment burst open. Startled, Peter turned to be greeted by the heavy brass knob striking him squarely on the bridge of the nose. His neck snapped backward, the force of the blow sending him sprawling to the floor.

Swiveling her head, Dawn looked down upon him. Her expression was pained but self-satisfied. "Told you," she informed him smugly. She turned to see Buffy hurrying toward her. The Slayer's eyes betrayed her relief and underlying anxiety.

"Oh god, Dawn. Are you all right?"

She fumbled at the restraints around Dawn's left wrist. To the right, Tara worked on the knots that confined the teenager's right hand. At the foot of the bed, Willow loosened the ankle bonds.

Dawn did her best to appear nonchalant about the whole affair, but there was a catch in her voice. "Just scarred for life. I hope not literally."

Once free, however, the brave façade promptly crumbled. She threw her arms around Buffy's neck and began to sob. The Slayer gathered her sister close and stroked the matted hair.

"Shh, honey. Shhhh ..." she whispered consolingly.

In the middle of the small room, Faith hauled Peter to his feet by the armpits. He winced as she firmly trapped his throat in the crook of her elbow. Roughly ripping off the hood, she scornfully tossed it aside. The boy's eyes were beginning to blacken courtesy of the doorknob's violent attack, but the other bruises and swellings displayed on his face evidenced even more recent well-aimed injuries. Jerking his chin upward, Faith sneered with complete and unfettered disgust.

"They got a word for people like you: Sick, twisted mother fu—"

"Technically, that's several words," came the interruption from the rear.

Standing on the threshold of a tiny anteroom, Dante surveyed the scene. He seemed unconcerned at the events taking place, his demeanor calm, commanding and intrinsically dangerous. Without a word, a line of defense moved to establish a barrier between Dante and Dawn. Still firmly gripping Peter around the neck, Faith positioned herself with legs astride. She was immediately joined by Buffy, followed by Willow and then Tara. Eyes fixed on the imminent threat, they stood ready for any eventuality.

Peter clawed ineffectually at the rigid forearm constricting his windpipe. "Master ..." he gasped, "they're here for you."

Dante's brief nod indicated that he was well aware of the situation. "Yes," he sighed, "it does appear that way."

Buffy took a step closer. "Who are you?"

The inquiry went ignored.

Peter labored for breath. "The work ... the work is everything."

Dante looked to his protégé with some surprise.

"The work is everything," repeated the boy, his voice rising to a throttled screech of protest.

As the strangled words faded, Peter's eyes rolled in their sockets, the revealed whites contrasted starkly with the dark purple welts forming on his face. As his body shuddered, his head lolled sharply backward.

"Watch o—!" came Willow's warning, but it was cut short by the boy suddenly self-combusting.

With a shocked yelp of pain, Faith released her hold and shoved the flame-engulfed body away from her own. Staggering, Peter thrust both arms outward. A stream of white-hot flares erupted from each finger, creating a virtual barricade of fire between Dante and his would-be antagonists. The heat was overpowering and each woman was obliged to throw up her arms as a protective shield from the searing blaze.

Without hesitation, Dante seized the moment. He leapt through a nearby window, heedless of the splintering shards.

"Spengere!" cried Willow.

On command, the roaring inferno became compacted, its fiery tongue being snuffed out as though smothered by an unseen force. The flames quickly died, leaving in their wake only charred walls and a scorched floor – and a sizeable mound of gray ash that had once been a boy named Peter. Instantly, Faith rushed to the shattered window. She thrust her head through the jagged opening, looked left, then right and then left again. She turned back to the waiting group with narrowed eyes.

"He's gone."

Buffy's lips grew tight. "Okay. Now I'm mad."