The pale sun of a wintry afternoon sparkled through the windows of Giles' office. Seated behind his desk, he held the telephone to his ear and randomly shuffled papers in front of him. His expression was tense and from the dark smudges beneath his eyes. it was apparent that he hadn't slept well the night before. The words he spoke into the receiver were strained and heavy.

"When I looked again, no one was there." He sighed and stared fixedly at the closed door. "I spent hours searching from top to bottom, but the flat was empty."

As he listened, Wood propped his feet on the desk of his London office and watched the scurrying clouds journey across the darkened sky outside, threatening to bring a fall of snow before daybreak. The room was similar to that currently inhabited by Giles, but contained far fewer research books and a more extensive collection of personal mementos. Of particular note were the vast number of photographs on display. Hanging dominantly on the wall above the open door was a tastefully-matted rectangular picture set in a magnificently carved walnut frame. Reminiscent of a high school graduating class, it depicted Wood standing in the center of a huge group of fresh-face girls and young women. The hallway beyond was a buzz of activity, but Wood didn't seem bothered or even distracted by the incessant hubbub.

"I don't doubt it was," he said and then paused before continuing. "You know that what you're saying is impossible."

Giles massaged the back of his neck. "Is it?" He corrected himself. "I mean, yes, of course it is."

"Has this happened before?" asked Wood, thoughtfully twirling a fountain pen between his fingers.

Initially, it didn't appear as though Giles were inclined to answer, but Wood simply waited in sympathetic silence.

"I saw—" Giles eventually responded hesitantly. "I thought I saw her a few times at the facility yesterday. Just staring at me."

Wood's feet hit the floor as he leaned forward in his chair. "Maybe you need a rest," he advised with all sincerity. "A nice vacation to someplace tropical, where they serve drinks with funny names. God knows the stress levels never go down in this job."

"No rest for the wicked," chuckled Giles mirthlessly. "I appreciate your concern. I know it's foolish, I just ..."

"You wanted to hear it from someone else," suggested Wood.

Giles nodded, even though Wood was unable to see the gesture. "Yes."

"It's foolish," Wood immediately furnished.

"Thank you for the reassurance."

"Any time," Wood told him with a wry smile. "It's not too far from here, you know," he added. "If you're really concerned, I can send some of my Slayers to check on her. Hell, I'll go myself if it'll make you feel better."

"That's quite all right," Giles replied, perhaps a little too hastily. "I'm sure it's nothing."

Wood frowned. "If you change your mind, just call me. It's no trouble."

"Thank you."

There was another period of hush before Wood spoke again.

"Rupert ... You did what you had to do. Nobody blames you."

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, I expect they don't. That would be difficult, seeing as how they don't know there's anything to blame me for."

The ensuing silence spoke volumes between the two men. Wood's expression was one of anxiety. Giles simply looked very tired.

"Well, now that I've done an exceptional job in overrunning this conversation and killing it quite effectively," said Giles in a businesslike manner, "I suppose I'd best incorporate some pleasantries. And how are things on your end? Is there any news about that poor girl?"

Wood's features rapidly transformed from concern for Giles to an open show of regret. Rising from his chair, he strode to the door, firmly grasping the handle.

"None good," he admitted worriedly. "She's still in a coma ..."

As the door closed behind him, Kennedy strolled past making her way along the hall. A cell phone was all but glued to her ear. She was chatting, loudly and enthusiastically.

"It's great. No more being tethered down, no more waiting in line to make a call ..."

"Because I could so see you waiting," said Willow, rolling her eyes as she one-handedly maneuvered the car through a thankfully light flow of traffic in downtown Trillium.

"Believe it or not," returned Kennedy curtly, "I do possess the ability to be patient."

This was greeted by another eye-roll. "Please. You're the one who told me Quaker Instant Oatmeal should change its name to 'Quaker Instant Starvation'."

"I said I possessed the ability," returned Kennedy with a grin. "I didn't say I used it. Anyway, my point is, the freedom of phone mobility is mine. I intend to abuse it at least as much as the Council credit card that'll be paying its bill."

"I appreciate the warning," nodded Willow, grinding to a stop at a red light.

Arriving at the kitchen, Kennedy busied herself with making a cup of coffee – smidgen of milk and heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Making sure she was alone and unobserved, Kennedy then helped herself to an unopened packet of chocolate digestives. She tore open the cellophane with her teeth.

"So. I got your e-mail this morning," she mumbled into the mouthpiece.

Willow's fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel. "Yeah. I was— I thought we could talk. About ... something."

"Little fuzzy on the details," said Kennedy, vigorously stirring her coffee, "but confident in my ability to fake it if I have to. Go ahead."

"It's ... big." Willow jumped as the jarring blast from an impatient motorist informed her that the light had turned green. She smiled apologetically into the rear view mirror as she pulled away.

Kennedy was unfazed. "Okay."

"Really big. Or, well, not really big. Sort of ... pseudo big." Willow wrinkled her nose. "A bigness that can really only be determined by perception which, really, isn't that what size is? I mean sure, you can look at a- a humpback whale and say, 'Wow, now that's big!' But put it next to Jupiter, and suddenly you're not so big now, are ya Mr. Whale?" She nodded, seemingly satisfied with the comparison. "It's like that."

"Like a planet-sized whale?" asked Kennedy, frowning in her confusion.

Willow's eyes grew wide. "Oh god, you think it's that big?"

"...yes?"

"Oh god!"

"Wait, I mean no?" Kennedy hastened to correct. "Will, you're doing serious damage to my confidence in faking it. What're we talking about?"

Even though Kennedy was the only person within earshot, Willow's voice still lowered to a conspirative whisper. "I have ... something. Something important. I-I wanna tell everyone, but ... I mean, the way they'd react would just ... Because this isn't supposed to be me, right?"

Kennedy munched thoughtfully as she tried to follow along. She was meeting with limited success but nonetheless, decided to give it her best shot. "Are you breaking up with Tara?"

Willow blinked in horror. "What? No!"

"Oh, okay," returned Kennedy. "Good. Cuz I'd have a lot of feelings on that one, and I'm not sure they'd all be feelings I should have."

"There's a secret," confided Willow. "A big one. But nobody knows about it."

"In keeping with the 'secret' theme," remarked Kennedy.

Willow had no time for irony. "Yeah. This secret, though ... I think it's good. I honestly do. The thing is, nobody else'll see like that." She nibbled at her lower lip. "They'll get judgey, a-and confiscatey. Which, you know, not blaming here. But still ... it's lying, right? Knowing something and not telling anyone, that's wrong?"

Kennedy returned the milk to the refrigerator and put her cup in the sink. She stowed what remained of the digestives in her pocket for later consumption.

"First up, I'm not even gonna pretend I know what you're talking about here," she counseled. "That makes it rough to pass a judgment. Even if I could, I'm not sure I would."

Arriving home, Willow pulled into the driveway and removed the key from the ignition. The engine idled for a moment before shutting down, but Willow made no move to leave the vehicle. She stared through the windscreen, twisting her fingers in her lap and waiting for Kennedy to continue. The wait was not a lengthy one.

"Here's my take, a page from the Kennedy rulebook: if it feels like you've done something wrong, you probably did."

Willow visibly wilted and Kennedy was sensitive to the ensuing silence.

"Not what you wanted to hear, huh?" she smirked.

"Well I was sorta lookin' for someone to either slap my wrist or give me a pat on the head," Willow admitted somewhat ruefully.

"Sorry babe, you lost pain and pleasure rights," Kennedy informed briskly, smiling at Willow's burst of laughter. "Feeling better?"

"Not really," responded Willow, still grinning.

"Then my job here is done," Kennedy determined with an affirmative nod.

"Thanks," Willow told her. "Seriously."

"Hey, I said if you needed me for anything at all. I meant it."

"I know," acknowledged Willow. "You too."

An evil glint crept into Kennedy's eye. "Of course, if you ever do decide to break up with Tara ..."

"Leaving now."

"Later," said Kennedy, thoroughly amused.

She hummed cheerfully as she snapped shut the phone and sauntered from the kitchen. Her spirits were high and she seemed more than a little pleased with herself as she reemerged into the hall. The mood persisted until she turned a corner and was confronted by a small group of Juniors heading her way. They moved slowly in a tight huddle. Some were openly crying while others wore expressions of shock or stunned disbelief. Instantly concerned, she hurried toward the sad gathering.

"What's wrong?"

The girls looked at her, but none seemed able to speak. Eventually, a slim brunette found her trembling voice. "Carla just got back from the hospital."

The assembly parted to reveal Carla, a petite Junior with bobbed blonde hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the elfin face marred by blotches. Tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks as the girl closest to her laid a protective arm around Carla's shuddering shoulders.

"Filippa's dead," whispered the brunette, staring at the floor.

Kennedy's gaze traveled over the sorrowful little group with no small amount of shock. She shook her head in an attempt to fully process the news, almost as though she were denying the truth. Moments that found Kennedy at a loss for words were rare indeed, but this was just such a moment. Her eyes came to rest on Carla, whose own brimming eyes were fixed on Kennedy's face.

"She just gave up," Carla murmured miserably. "The doctors, they said she ..." Wracked with sobs, she started to cough and then appeared to pull herself together somewhat. "She was my best friend. I should've—" The composure was short-lived.

"It's not your fault," said Kennedy numbly.

"She was my best friend!" cried Carla. "She must've been so sad, but I ... I never noticed. I should've noticed!" In despair, she looked around the hovering group and was immediately enveloped by a communal hug. "It is my fault!"

"No," said Kennedy. Her tone was detached, almost distant, as she struggled for comforting words. "We couldn't ... I know it feels like you did something wrong, but ..."

The company regarded her with sober faces. Some looked to her for leadership – a way to make sense from the senselessness – but a few others accosted her with unspoken accusations. Kennedy floundered, unable to provide any answers.

Her grip tightened around the cell phone in her hand. With one rapidly smooth movement, she turned and hurled it with all her strength into the wall. It shattered on impact, fracturing the plaster and spewing particles of plastic and delicate circuitry onto the floor. The girls visibly started at the violent outburst and some of them begin crying with renewed desperation. Kicking aside the rubble, Kennedy said nothing as the Juniors watched her walk away.

"I'm home!" called Willow, closing the front door behind her and depositing her keys onto the hall table. She set her backpack on the floor. "Freshly erudite from the hallowed halls of higher learning!" She removed her jacket and hug it on a vacant peg, tilting her head in search of a greeting. None was forthcoming. "Hello?"

There was still no welcoming answer and she peered into the living room. It was empty. There was no sign of life in the kitchen either so Willow made her way upstairs. All was still and silent until she reached the room she shared with Tara. The blonde was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back toward the open doorway. Focused solely on the book she balanced on her knees, Tara was unaware of Willow's arrival.

Drawing an involuntary sharp breath, Willow froze on the threshold. She couldn't see the book from where she was standing, but could tell it held Tara's rapt attention as the blonde riffled through the pages.

"Tara?" she asked nervously.

As Tara turned, Willow could see the book was the photograph album that Tara had brought back from Hope Falls. For a second, Willow's eyes closed in grateful relief, but Tara didn't seem to notice. With a smile, she extended her hand and Willow was only too happy to comply. Settling herself comfortably behind Tara, she rested her chin on the blonde's shoulder so she could get a good view of the pictures.

"Nice stroll down Memory Lane?" she asked, lifting Tara's hair to kiss the hollow of her neck.

"With a brief detour down Introspection Avenue," Tara added.

Willow waggled her eyebrows. "If you're wonderin' what to get me for Chanukah, I've got a few ideas that won't cost ya a dime."

Tara chuckled as she gently patted Willow's cheek. "We already celebrated Chanukah, silly."

"Christmas then," declared Willow. "I'll convert this year. What I have in mind is totally worth my father's wrath."

Tara's eyes twinkled with amusement as she resumed browsing. The album was open at a drab picture of a young woman, probably in her mid-teens, wearing a gown with belted waist and skirted blouse. A wide-brimmed hat sporting an overly-large flower adorned her head, but it was an otherwise unimpressive portrait. Willow was content to simply observe and wait until Tara felt like talking, which she eventually did.

"It's funny. All these women ... all part of me, and I hardly know anything about them." She ran a finger over the picture. "This is my great-grandmother, and I don't even know her name."

Snaking an arm around Tara's shoulder, Willow reached out and lifted a corner of the sheet covering the page. She looked questioningly at Tara and after receiving a nod of agreement, cautiously lifted the plastic. Delicately, she removed the photograph and turned it over. The penciled letters were barely legible and Willow squinted to make out the words written on the back.

Mary E. Maclay Sunday, May 14, 1916

She turned it around again so the picture was face upward.

"Mary, meet Tara. Tara, meet Mary," she introduced formally, handing the photo to Tara, who stared at it as though it were the key to some great mystery.

"She died years before my mother was born," Tara told Willow softly. "Mom said my grandmother never talked about her much." She indicated the picture. "Mary. She was a witch, of course, but she hardly ever practiced. She was ashamed of her power. Of the demon."

Carefully Tara replaced the picture and smoothed the plastic over the page before turning to another. There were a few more shots of Mary as she advanced in age. A smattering where she was proudly cradling a baby girl – presumably Tara's grandmother – and then again when the infant had grown to be a young teenager. Those were followed by photographs of the teenager herself on her own now, but somewhat older. Approaching 20 perhaps. As with most of the females shown in the album, there was a strong physical resemblance to Tara. One of these poses in particular caught Tara's fancy. The woman appeared to be uncomfortable, even self-conscious, in her tailored suit with the padded shoulders and slim pencil skirt. She almost glowered at the camera and seemed to be in a decidedly grumpy mood. Tara chuckled as she curiously peeled away the film and extracted the photo.

Edna R. Maclay, Peregrine Park, Hope Falls
August 4, 1946

Tara examined the picture more closely. While there was little outwardly interesting about Mary, doubtless attributable, at least in part, to the morose style of early photographs, the same certainly couldn't be said for Edna. Despite the facial expression, there was something more behind the scowl. An air of audacity and confident set to the jaw, coupled with a certain indefinable quality that Tara herself sometimes exhibited.

Willow arched an eyebrow. "Not seeing her taking the ashamed route."

Tara smiled at the keen observation. "No. My grandmother was the one who really embraced magick. She believed in the demon, but thought that if she understood it, she could break the curse and finally free us." She shook her head in wonder. "She had so much power. But not enough."

With a sigh, she replaced the photo. "She died a few weeks after mom turned 20."

Willow's arms encircled Tara in a warm hug as she continued to thumb through the album, finally arriving at pictures of her mother. These, she didn't need to inspect quite so diligently. Her gaze meandered to the bare tree branches beyond the window before traveling back to the collection of photographs.

"Mary died, Edna died. Mom died ... I died."

Instantly concerned, Willow craned her neck to better see Tara's expression, but Tara's attention remained riveted on the album.

"I keep wondering why," Tara murumured, as much to herself as to Willow. "All of these women lived their entire lives, afraid that they were something so evil. Knowing that deep down they were. When I think about the things they went through, all because of a lie ..." She rubbed her forehead. "But I got to escape. To go to Sunnydale and finally find where I belonged. It was my second chance, Will." Her eyes raked Willow's anxious face. "My new life. When it ended ..."

Willow swallowed hard, obviously not wishing to pursue a topic that was distasteful to her. Still, she allowed Tara to continue.

"That should've been it," said Tara with conviction. "I was done. I-I wanted more, because you always do, but ... but it was more than THEY ever dreamed." Her fingers trailed over the pictures as she turned the pages one by one. "So- So I shouldn't be selfish, right?"

Upset and lost, Tara looked to Willow, blinking rapidly to hold back tears.

"Death is cruel and unfair but it's natural," she said in a thick voice. "It's what's supposed to happen. And if death is what's natural, then I must be ..."

Willow gently laid a forefinger across Tara's lips. "Shh." It was followed by a tender kiss, but nothing served to calm Tara's desperation.

"I thought that if I went home I'd find some sort of answer," Tara insisted. "Maybe that the demon thing wasn't so much a family legend after all. But it w-was, and I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. I just keep wondering, why? Why am I back?"

"Because there are people here who love you too damn much to let you go," Willow told her, her own voice catching. Brushing the album to one side, she pulled Tara into a fierce embrace.

"It's not natural, Willow," murmured Tara, her head buried in Willow's shoulder. "It can't be right."

Willow's response was to hug Tara even tighter as their tears mingled.

"I don't care," Willow stated firmly, smothering Tara's wet cheeks with tiny kisses.

Over Tara's head, Willow focused on the desk with its stacks of books. Somewhere near the bottom, she spied one in particular – Calvin & Hobbes. Her chin jutted defiantly.

"I don't care."

Floundering in the moody depths of apathy, Dawn rested her chin on her forearms and listened to the repeated rap of fingernails drumming against the surface of the table. Raising her eyes only, she looked up to find Buffy staring down at her. This was a grumpy-faced Buffy. A Buffy who seemed to be somewhat put out that Dawn was just sitting.

"Didn't you come in here to do research for a history paper?" asked Buffy, meaningfully eying the library in general.

Dawn sighed. "Yeah."

"Is this some new form of research?" asked Buffy, quirking an eyebrow. "A bookless variety of which I was previous unaware?" She frowned. "Bearing in mind that if the answer to this question is 'yes', you are in so much trouble for not telling me about it until now."

Dawn blinked mournfully. "So basically, I'm screwed no matter what I say."

"Pretty much."

Dawn sighed again. "That sucks."

"Life's savage cruelty knows no bounds," agreed Buffy wisely.

"Now she tells me."

Lifting her head, Dawn leaned heavily upon her upturned palm and slid further down her chair.

Buffy's expression softened a smidgen with sympathy as she stroked Dawn's hair. "I know it hurts."

Dawn gave a bitter laugh. "Why did the monks have to mix in a heaping tablespoon of your relationship drama?" She waved dismissively. "Sure, leave out the super strength, but don't forget the angst!"

Buffy nodded. "I know."

"I keep thinking I should've done something different. Like ... I dunno." She shrugged. "Brought you along for the big show and tell."

Buffy took a seat next to her sister. "That's still an option."

"He won't even stay near me long enough for us to sling barbs," said Dawn with a sorrowful shake of her head. "I don't think forcing him into a demonstration will help a whole lot."

Buffy squeezed Dawn's limp hand – the one not supporting her drooping head. "You're probably right."

She watched Dawn drag a stack of books closer and flip indifferently through the pages. It was no more than an ostensible effort at research, but one that Buffy appreciated nonetheless. Then, a curious expression crossed her face.

"'Sling barbs'?"

"I watch too much TV," admitted Dawn morosely.

Buffy rocked back and forth on the legs of her chair. "Just remember I didn't say it."

Hitting the ground with a thud, she decided to leave Dawn in peace with her project, but Dawn seemed reluctant for her to depart.

"You know what I think the problem is?" she pondered. "Grip's normal."

Buffy sat back down. "Oh, sure, cuz that's usually a big issue."

"Honestly?" said Dawn, eyes wide. "It's not. I mean, look at you guys. Vampire, werewolf, commando guy, vengeance demon, witch ... The supernatural, not so super, you know?" She regarded Buffy seriously. "So when it comes time for the big confession, it's like, 'Okay. Movie on Saturday?'"

"Point," conceded Buffy. "Maybe you just need to find a vampire, demon or werewolf then."

Frowning, she replayed the words in her mind.

"We never had this conversation," she stated firmly. "Normal is good."

Dawn's shoulders slumped. "Not when it won't talk to me any more."

"Give him time," Buffy told her, elbows leaning on the table. " If he's the one, he'll be back."

Getting to her feet once more, she kissed the top of Dawn's head.

"Now speaking of normal, you have some very normal homework that needs doing." She nudged the research books an inch or two closer. "Meanwhile, I have a very abnormal class to teach. You be okay?"

"Yeah," nodded Dawn unenthusiastically. "I'm not getting anywhere with these things though." She shoved the volumes further away and pushed back her chair. "I'll talk to Giles. He was, like, there when history was created, so he'll know stuff."

Linking arms, the sisters exited Slayer Central's library together before heading their separate ways, Buffy departed with an encouraging wave, while Dawn shuffled dejectedly toward her destination. Buffy hadn't traveled very far when she encountered Faith approaching from the opposite direction. Coming to a halt, the Slayers faced each other and the atmosphere was immediately rife with tension.

"Faith," nodded Buffy affably.

Faith responded with a likewise nod, though not quite so affable. "B."

"I was heading to the gym," Buffy explained. "I've got a class."

Faith jammed her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. "Don't lemme keep."

Since there appeared to be nothing more to say, they sidestepped each other and continued on. But then, Buffy frowned and turned back.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"You mean apart from bein' a murderer?" Nonchalantly, Faith leaned against the wall. "Peachy."

Buffy's frown deepened as she opened her mouth to speak. Faith never gave her the chance.

"'I'm not Faith. I'm not a murderer'," she mimicked with a sneer. "Slayer hearing. Handy."

"Faith, I didn't mean—" began Buffy.

"Yeah, y'did."

"I'm not," insisted Buffy.

Faith shrugged. "Wouldn't dream of sayin' you were."

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples. "It's not the same," she tried to clarify. "Killing humans— Killing people, it's ..."

Setting her jaw, Faith delivered a sharp nod. "Nah, I get it, don't need a picture."

Buffy's eyes snapped open and she vehemently shook her head, but Faith wasn't about to be dissuaded.

"I thought we were maybe, I dunno, gettin' better." She pushed away from the wall. "My bad."

"No, we were," assured Buffy, taking a step forward. "We are."

Faith cocked her chin to one side. "'Cept for the fact that I'm still a killer, right?" She grinned in Buffy's direction. "But that's okay. It's true. It's what I am. An' that just makes you so much better'n me."

Appraisingly, she examined Buffy from the top of her blonde head to the toes of her boots. "It's an important little detail, B. Don't ever forget it." Her lips twitched mockingly. "Shouldn't be a problem for you."

Buffy was still searching for something to say long after Faith had long since walked away without a backward glance.

Reading through a pile of reports, Giles sat behind the desk in his office. His face was a study in concentration, although the rest of him was a little ragged. His tie was askew and his shirt badly crumpled. His usually neat hair was in desperate in need of a comb and there was over 24 hours of stubble on his chin. The 'five o'clock shadow' style was definitely not the most flattering to Giles' normally clean cut appearance, but there was no denying his devotion to duty. Indeed, he didn't even flinch when a figure suddenly materialized at his shoulder. Focusing steadily upon the task at hand, he didn't look up and refused to acknowledge the presence.

"And what do we have here?" asked the black-clad female. "Hiding?"

Giles didn't respond but from the set of his jaw, it was apparent that he heard every syllable.

Leaning forward, the girl read from the paper Giles had in front of him.

"'Our first sampling of Slayers come from a wide assortment of ethnic, cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. In this study we hope to learn what role experiences – prior to activation by W. Rosenberg – play in development of natural aptitudes and blah blah blah ...'" Disdainfully, she rolled her eyes and bent down to murmur in Giles' ear. "Oh please. If you're going to pretend I'm not here, couldn't you at least pick something interesting?"

Again, Giles declined to qualify her existence with an answer. Instead, he reached with a trembling hand to open the bottom drawer. Inside was a bottle of scotch and a shot glass.

"Good choice," she told him approvingly. "If you can't drown me out one way, try another. See, that's what I like about you, Rupert. You're so ... inventive."

Pouring himself a stiff measure, Giles promptly downed the contents of the glass and immediately went to work on a second.

The girl moved to stand in front of the desk. "It's only in retrospect that I really appreciated just how good you are," she remarked thoughtfully. "How ruthless. I've had a lot of retrospect on my hands. Almost as much as the blood on yours."

Giles watched his hands become instantly drenched in rich, red, glistening blood. It ran in rivulets over his skin, trickling downward to soak through the papers on his desk. He snapped his eyes tightly shut to obliterate the horrifying image.

"Squeamish?" asked the girl in amazement. "You? The man who used a pair of pliers so slowly that I could feel each and every one of the bones in my little finger shattering?"

Fumbling blindly for his glass, Giles drained every drop before opening his eyes once more. The blood had vanished.

"It wasn't long after that, was it? When I started calling for my mommy?" The girl perched comfortably on the edge of Giles' desk.

Giles shuffled the pristine papers before him. "You're not real," he said quietly.

"Oh, I'm real," she assured.

Giles was unresponsive. Getting to his feet, he walked across the room to face the wall, deliberately skirting the girl who watched him with avid interest. She followed, hovering at his elbow.

"I've been thinking lately—" She shrugged with a heavy sigh before adding, "—because really, what else is there for me to do? – and wondering what exactly is it about me that bothers you? It's not the pain and damage. They're old friends."

"Shut up," advised Giles. His tone was calm and controlled. Almost natural, but not quite.

She moved to stand by his other elbow. He continued to stare at the wall, but she didn't seem to mind the conspicuous avoidance of eye contact. She also blatantly ignored his advice to keep her observations to herself.

"And it wasn't the crying and begging either, because we both know you don't hear it."

Giles' hands clenched into tight fists, held rigid against his thighs. "This is all in my mind," he grimly reminded. "Tricks."

Blithely, the girl resumed her dissertation. "So if it wasn't me ... then I guess that just leaves you." She peered into his face with an ugly and twisted smile. "Doesn't it, Rupert?"

He fixated on the floor. "I can drive you out."

"The part of you that told yourself it was necessary." She shrugged. "That torturing me was the best thing. The right thing."

Giles insistence grew stronger. "Leave."

"Or maybe it's more than that," she pondered, beginning to pace back and forth behind him. "Maybe what's really getting to you, what's eating you alive from the inside—"

"Get out." Giles' tone was threatening now, eyes glittering like granite through his glasses.

The girl smirked, sidling next to him in intimate proximity, "...is the part of you that liked it."

Fists raised, Giles whirled to face his accuser. His lips were drawn back in a feral snarl, savage and livid. "I said get out!"

But the black-clad figure was gone and Dawn stood in her place. She visibly blanched and drew a sharp intake of breath as though she'd just been sucker-punched. Tears stung at her eyelids as she looked in confusion from Giles to Hannah, who had witnessed the outburst from her position in the doorway, face registering complete shock.

Shaking his head, Giles was utterly stunned. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus and regain his footing.

"Dawn, I—" he attempted to explain, extending a reassuring hand.

But Dawn took a step backward, her expression a curious mixture of intense hurt and extreme anger. Turning sharply, she exited the room, flouncing past Hannah who, while keeping a wary eye on Giles, stepped aside to afford Dawn clear passage. Giles watched Dawn's speedy departure, seeming not to know what to say or what to do. Hannah, however, was not afflicted by the same restrictions. She marched unwaveringly into Giles' office, virtually pinning him to the wall.

Her eyes were cold and her words frost-coated. "What the hell was that?"

Bewildered, Giles took stock of his surroundings. Quickly, he scanned the room, frowning in his realization that the sole inhabitants were himself and Hannah.

She inched forward, driving Giles even further back against the wall. "Taking Dawn's head off for no good—"

She paused and sniffed suspiciously, aghast at the distinct smell of alcohol. Without missing a beat, she immediately spotted the open bottle and empty shot glass. Her mouth curled contemptuously.

"You're drinking?"

"She's not here," said Giles, brow furrowed.

"No, she's bloody well not," snapped Hannah, "and I don't blame her. With the way you've been acting lately, I'm frankly surprised that anybody wants anything to do with you. Including me."

"But it was ..." He stared at his upturned palms, apparently unable to discern whether they were clean or contaminated. "The blood ..." Desperately, he searched Hannah's face for reassurance, offering his hands as though they were a sacrifice. "Can't you see it?"

There was nothing to see and her fury evaporating, Hannah's expression became one of deep concern.

"Rupert, what's wrong?" she asked gently.

Giles stumbled to the desk, his singular purpose to secure another shot. Hannah was instantly in tune with his intentions, deftly removing both bottle and glass. Uncertainly, Giles raked his hair and rubbed the nape of his neck in an almost vicious fashion.

"I must ..." he murmured vaguely and then, came a moment of clarity. He blinked in Hannah's direction. "I have to go."

But she deliberately barred his path to freedom. "Go? Where?"

"I can't be here," he insisted, trying to shoulder Hannah out of the way. "She'll return, and I- I might ..." His fingernails dug into the back of his neck. "I don't know what I'll do."

"'She'?" queried Hannah, standing her ground. "Who are you talking about? Dawn?"

Pushing her roughly to one side, Giles brushed past and as he did so, Hannah was provided with an unhampered view of the back of his neck. Gripping Giles' belt loop in order to prevent a hasty departure, she peered closer at the strange symbol etched into the flesh. It looked to be a blood-red teardrop. Inside was a second, smaller one, and inside that, a third even smaller still. It sparkled dully with an eerie glow and Hannah's eyes narrowed.

"What is that?"

But Giles was in no mood to investigate.

Hannah maintained her tenuous hold, despite Giles' struggle for liberty.

"Rupert, what's that mark?"

She staggered backward as the stitching which secured the belt loop to Giles' waistband abruptly gave way under the strain. In heartbeat, Giles had possession of his jacket and was bolting for the door. He paused and turned upon reaching the threshold.

"You should stay here," he suggested. "Just in case she ..." He shook his head and threw Hannah a weak but hopeful smile. "Please tell Dawn that I'm sorry."

And with that, he was gone. Stunned, Hannah could do nothing but stare in confusion at the now vacant doorway for a few brief seconds. But she wasted no further time. Hurrying to Giles' desk, she grabbed a pen and the first scrap of paper at hand. With the image still fresh in her mind, she quickly sketched the unusual mark she had seen on the back of Giles' neck. Then, she scoured the bookshelves laden with research materials. Before too long, she settled on a tome entitled, Symbology – A Complete Reference of the Magickal and Demonic. She pulled the thick book from its resting place and tucked it under her arm. On her way out, she spied a few more promising titles. She took those with her as well.

The hotel room was comfortable enough. Nothing too fancy, nothing that would have qualified for a five star ranking, but it was pleasant in a rather mediocre and unimaginative way. A small stack of preprinted stationery proclaimed the establishment to be located in one of Trillium's upper scale districts, within easy distance of exclusive shops and fine restaurants, but the dismal view from the window somewhat belied that assertion. Still, the surrounding neighborhood was peaceful and the aforementioned shops and restaurants could be seen from a distance.

The personal belongings that littered the room were few and meager, although there were a large number of newspaper clippings and grainy photographs scattered atop the small desk.

A figure huddled miserably by the baseboard in a corner. Despite his shock of white hair, this was a young man, probably no more than 20 years of age. His face was haggard and drawn beneath the artificial light. Dark purple smudges in the hollows above his cheek bones suggested that he may not have enjoyed a decent night's sleep in several months, or perhaps much longer than that. The deranged cast to his eyes seemed to indicate an individual who was clinging to sanity by the most fragile of threads. In one hand, he clutched the handle of knife and he wept, silent and shuddering tears.

He traced the tip of the long blade up and down the inside of his forearm. Back and forth, back and forth, with unerring regularity. Although he didn't apply sufficient pressure to pierce the skin, it was apparent he was only a heartbeat away from doing so.

A woman's hand, complete with curling fingernails, reached out and stayed the restless rhythm of the blade. The young man didn't appear startled by her presence and he listened as she addressed him in a calm and pacifying tone.

"Not yet," she said softly.

His features crumpled pathetically at her words.

"There's something we have to do first," she told him. "Do you remember?"

The young man's troubled gaze traveled to the small desk and its collection of news articles. He blinked and soundlessly mouthed some of the more visible headlines:

"Murderer tried and convicted, gets 25 to life"
"Mayor appalled by brutality. Vows, 'I will not rest.'"
"Daring daylight prison break; fugitive still at large"

Prominent among the pictures included with the clippings was a mug shot of Faith.

His lips trembled as he gave a brief nod.

"You can't rest until it's done," the woman said, her voice laced with a hint of severity.

The young man shrank against the wall. "I don't ..." He looked to his companion with something akin to desperation. "What if I can't?"

"You can," assured the woman confidently, her mahogany eyes glowing and mesmerizing.

She massaged the back of his neck, kneading the tensed muscles, but he seemed to find little comfort in her soothing touch. As she withdrew her hand, his chin slumped wearily to his chest, revealing the same mark that was etched into Giles' flesh.

The woman stroked his white hair.

"We'll help."