Muttering irately, Buffy made her way along the corridor. Occasionally, she would gesture in agitated fashion with her hands, drawing curious looks from passersby but Buffy didn't notice. Her head was down and she moved with a purpose. Still, there was a weary slump to her shoulders and she seemed tired. Upon entering the library, she wasn't aware of Dawn sitting a table, her own expression none too pleased. With a frown, Dawn took note of her sister's solo conversation.

"I knew I should've put the funny farm on speed dial," said Dawn with a smirk. Shaken from her reverie, Buffy looked in Dawn's direction with a 'Huh?' quirk to the eyebrow. "Hey, when they lock you up and throw away the key," continued Dawn, "can I have everything of yours that's cashmire?"

"First: no," returned Buffy sharply, "and second: what?"

"Your outer inner monologue," clarified Dawn.

"Oh," sighed Buffy. "I've just got a lot on my mind. Hey, have you seen Faith?"

Dawn shook her head. "Nope, not unless she played an important part in The Protestant Reformation." She tapped her pencil thoughtfully on the table. "What's up?"

"Nothing," groaned Buffy, collapsing into a chair next to her sister " Except that I can be a huge jerk sometimes."

"Trust me," informed Dawn with an eye-roll, "she knows."

Buffy regarded Dawn with a look that screamed 'Very funny' before prodding the stack of books.

"I thought you were gonna get Giles in on this?"

Dawn's features immediately became dark. Buffy blinked and sat upright.

"Whoa, sudden thunderstorm warnings. What happened?"

The response was delivered with a great deal of bitterness. "He told me to get out."

A frown of confusion crossed Buffy's face. "Was he in a meeting or something?"

"No," returned Dawn curtly. "He was just standing there, doing nothing. I went up to him, and then he turned around and screamed at me to get out." The pencil-tapping resumed with a high degree of irritability.

Apparently, Buffy found this difficult to comprehend. "Giles isn't exactly the screaming type."

"Shouted, then," snapped Dawn impatiently. "Hollered. Bellowed." Petulantly, she indicated the many rows of bookshelves. "Grab a thesaurus and pick a word."

"I just mean that's not very Giles-like."

Dawn tossed her hair. "Yeah, well, maybe it is now. Maybe 'jerk' is his new default setting."

Buffy considered this for a moment and then vehemently shook her head. "No, I don't believe that. There's something going on. He's been weird for a while, but yelling at you for no reason?"

"Oh, like it's so out there?" returned Dawn, her eyes accusing. "You do it all the time."

Dismissing that statement with a casual wave, Buffy continued. "But that's me, that's not Giles. When Giles wants to cut someone to shreds he'll do it with big words and piercing stares, not yelling. It's too uncouth."

She shook her head again, sure that she was correct. "No," she said with confidence, "there's something else." She pushed away from the table and got to her feet. "It's time we find out what."

"How about I give you a head start?" came a voice from the doorway.

The sisters turned to see Hannah standing at the entrance. She held an open book in her hands, one of the volumes she had taken from Giles' office. Hannah displayed the pertinent page for them to see. It bore an illustration – the image of three combined teardrops.

Giles sat on the edge of an armchair, hunched over the low coffee table at the center of his loft. The area was dimly-lit, illuminated only by two small wall lamps. Keeping a bottle of whiskey and tumbler close at hand, he poured over one of the many research volumes surrounding him. His glasses had been tossed aside, revealing eyes that were bloodshot and bleary. Still, he scanned the material in front of him quickly, riffling the pages with an almost desperate air. His appearance hadn't improved any. If anything, he seemed to be in worse shape than before. At regular intervals, he took a stiff pull of liquid sustenance and then raked his fingernails across the nape of his neck.

Directly across from him, seated comfortably on a small leather sofa, was the girl. She observed Giles' every move with keen interest.

"Trying to get rid of me?" she asked.

He had gone back to deliberately ignoring her, but she didn't seem bothered by the fact. Getting to her feet, she wandered around the room, inspecting and assessing with a critical eye. She paused before a bookcase and tilted her head. Partially obscured by a stack of publications on one of the shelves were some framed photographs of the Scoobies. Clasping her hands behind her, she rocked on her heels and admired the pictures with a wistful smile.

"I had friends like this," she murmured. "Before the whole Slayer thing. Before Robespierre found me. God, I loved them so much." She chuckled wistfully and shook her head. "The trouble we used to get into. Bonnie especially, she could never resist a challenge. One day we dared her to—"

She turned to look at Giles, but he gave no indication he was listening. An expression of mild disappointment crept over her face, but then she continued as though his interest – or lack thereof – was of no consequence.

"They're what convinced me to follow him. The stuff he was saying about making the world a safer place for everybody just made so much sense." She sighed as her attention wandered back to the collection of photographs. "I miss them. Do you think they maybe miss me too? I guess they never found out what happened to me. Unless you told them? Maybe gave an address so they could come visit me sometimes?"

Giles focused on his research but the mask of indifference slipped for a brief second and he was unable to fully suppress the flicker of regret. It did not go unnoticed by the girl.

"Didn't think so." She peered around the publications in order to get a clearer view of the pictures. "Maybe I can just make some new ones," she suggested, indicating the familiar smiling faces. "What do you think? I know we'd have a lot to talk about."

Casting a sly glance in Giles' direction, she watched him from the corner of her eye, waiting for a reaction. She was not disappointed.

His neck snapped in her direction, fists so tightly clenched that the knuckles showed white. The girl's outline with its dark clothing was vague in the dim light. She was little more than a young pale face radiating mockery.

"Don't you dare go near them," he warned.

She threw her hands into the air and backed away. "Fine, fine. It's not like I'd hurt them or anything." She smiled sweetly. "I'll leave that to you."

"I would never ..." declared Giles, instantly on the defensive.

But he found himself unable to complete the sentence and the girl's smile transformed into a wide grin of triumph.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Can you ever really, truly be sure what you will or won't do?" Her eyebrow arched questioningly. "I mean, if someone told you a year ago you could torture a fourteen-year old girl for ..." She tapped her forehead, as though trying to remember. "How long was it?"

Giles' chin fell heavily to his chest as he reached shakily for the whiskey bottle. The girl simply shrugged. "Well, for however long it was. Do you think you would've been all nods and agreement?"

Filling the tumbler to the rim, Giles carried it to the window, purposefully avoiding his accuser. The mark on the back of his neck was more livid now, more prominently angry.

"I would never hurt them," he whispered.

The girl clacked her tongue disapprovingly. "Of course you would."

"No."

But the rebuttal lacked conviction.

She moved to stand at his shoulder. "If it came down to any one of them – every one of them – or the world, you know it's the world that gets to keep right on turning."

Giles shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"So you make it that simple. That's why you've been such a bastard to everybody, isn't it? Pushing them further and further away, so that when the time comes – and we both know that time will come – you can do it, and still live to sacrifice again another day."

Upper lip curled contemptuously, Giles whirled. Amber liquid spilled down the front of his shirt.

"You think you know me so well," he gritted.

The girl smiled at his open hostility. "They do say there's nothing like pain to bring people together."

"You know nothing," was the muttered reply.

"'All that stands between victory and complete annihilation may be those girls'," she mimicked.

Giles flinched to hear the words he had recently spoken to Buffy and was painfully aware that no amount of denial in the universe could make that statement less true.

"'Perhaps the fewer names you can recall, the better.'" She smirked at the fleeting display of recognition. Yet another of Giles' wise doctrines. She sidled closer until they were only inches apart. Giles could see his ravaged reflection in her eyes.

"What's my name, Rupert?"

He swallowed hard and didn't respond.

"What's my name?"

Alone in the room she shared with Tara, Willow lay full-length on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Her face was a study in absorbed contemplation. She didn't notice Xander appear in the open doorway until he rapped lightly on the wooden frame. Raising her head, she smiled in welcome.

"Hey."

Xander nodded. "Hey."

For a moment, an uneasy hush fell between the pair as Xander continued to loiter at the entrance.

"Well don't just stand there," instructed Willow with a grin. "You'll let all the cold air in."

With a dubious expression, Xander wondered at the oddly-placed colloquialism. Willow rolled her eyes and gestured for him to come forward. "Just get in here."

Hesitantly, Xander's shuffling feet obeyed but once inside the room, he didn't look particularly comfortable. Plumping her pillow and then propping it against the headboard, Willow sat up and squirmed backward, legs stretched out in front of her and fingers twisting in her lap.

"I'm glad you're here. We ..." Her voice faltered. "I really need to talk to you. There's a thing."

Xander nodded again. "I know all about it."

"You do?" asked Willow, eyes becoming wide and round. She pulled her knees up to her chin to make room for Xander to sit on the comforter.

"Yeah," he said.

"But," stammered Willow in amazement. "But how did—"

Xander glanced in her direction with a knowing grin. "Because you're so naturally good at subterfuge."

Willow's dumbfounded expression rapidly deteriorated into one of panic.

"Well, I didn't at first," admitted Xander, "but I've had a little time to process."

"What?"

Now, it was Xander's turn to stammer. "I just ... I think it's too soon, you know?"

Willow shook her head in emphatic denial. "No. Here's me with no knowing whatsoever."

"Serafina's nice and all," confessed Xander, fixating on the floor. "But—"

"Oh!" breathed Willow with some relief. "Oh. Yeah. That. No, she's totally nice."

"I just don't think I'm ready to, you know," Xander rubbed vigorously at his forehead. "Make that kind of commitment."

"Xander, it's a date," said Willow. "No commitment. Except to the general dating principles."

Xander wasn't so sure. "Yeah, but dating could lead to fun. Fun leads to repeat dating. Repeat dating leads to relationships. Relationships lead to the dark side."

"You're being silly," huffed Willow. "Ask her out!"

Xander wasn't convinced. "I don't know."

"Then I'll ask her out for you," Willow determined.

Xander frowned. "You're being very pushy."

"Someone needs to."

"I'm never telling you the name of anybody I ever speak to ever again," sighed Xander, leaning back on his elbows. Willow retracted her feet so they wouldn't get squished.

"Look," she said sternly, "either you go out with my picks or you go out with Buffy's."

Xander turned to look at her. "What's wrong with going out with MY picks?" he challenged.

"Nothing," assured Willow, ruffling his hair. She seemed rather pleased with the mussed and boyish appearance she'd just created. "If you'd ever actually pick. Butcha won't, cuz you're scared and you feel betray-y and I get it." She sat back and looked at him sympathetically. "Believe me, I get it. Someone had to push me back in the pool, and now it's time to return the favor. So put those trunks on, mister. Ooh, and make 'em those really tight ones."

Xander raised an eyebrow at that, but Willow simply favored him with a leering grin and nudged his thigh with her big toe.

"I dunno," said Xander grudgingly. "We'll see."

Willow clasped her hands behind her neck. "Best I'm gonna get right now, huh?"

"You're lucky you're getting anything but my continued cold shoulder," threatened Xander.

"Yay for lucky me."

"It's a blessing to be counted," affirmed Xander. He shot her a sideways glance. "So. I couldn't help but notice you got wide panicky eyes earlier. What's up?"

"I did not get wide panicky eyes," Willow quickly refuted. "And even if I did, it's your job to pretend you didn't notice."

"Didn't I get fired from that job? Sometime between ice cream man and waiter at House of Lard?" He shook his head wryly. "There were so many during my year of shame."

Suddenly, the bantering mood took an abrupt nosedive. Gone was the playful atmosphere, replaced by an aura of seriousness. Xander was acutely aware of the change. Honing in immediately, he moved to close the door before returning to the bed.

Perching on the edge of the mattress, he regarded Willow earnestly. "What's wrong?"

Willow fidgeted uncomfortably beneath his penetrating gaze.

"Will?" prompted Xander.

She visibly buckled under the strain, fingers plucking restlessly at the comforter. "I need to tell someone. The pressure, the ... I hate secrets. All the time, just the- the stress of, 'Will someone find out today?' A-And it's like half the time you want them to find out, just so you don't have to walk around with this huge weight, but- but then it's like, 'What'll they do if they do find out?' There's the rejection, a-a-and the judging, and—"

Xander held up a restraining hand to stem the rambling tirade. "Hey. Hey, this is me," he reminded gently. "No rejection, no judging. But starting to get some fear. What is it?"

Willow stared at Xander's apprehensive expression and inhaled deeply. She held the breath for a second and then blurted, "Swear."

"Oh come on," said Xander incredulously.

"Do the swear!"

Obviously, Xander couldn't believe his ears. "What, are we six?"

As she crossed her arms, Willow's jaw became tightly set with determination. It was clearly the swear or nothing. Xander gave a resigned puff of defeat.

"I solemnly swear, on the—" he began in rapid monotone.

But Willow wasn't about to accept such an inadequate rendering of something so sacred. "Do it right!"

Shooting a withering glance at Her Stubbornness, Xander pushed away from the bed and stood up. His ensuing performance was hardly delivered with a good grace but much to Willow's satisfaction, at least he made no further protest. Putting his right hand over his heart and then covering his right hand with his left, Xander crossed one foot over the other and proceeded to hop up and down while turning in a circle. As he hopped, he recited the hallowed vow.

"I solemnly swear
On the grave of the bear
With my feet in the air
And my heart under there
That I always will care
And not even with dare
Will this secret I share
I'll tell no one nowhere
Or my toes and fingers and eyeballs will be eaten by the tiny mutant rat people who live in my closet."

Somewhat winded, he stopped bouncing and looked to Willow. Rather than seeming appeased, however, she continued to watch him expectantly.

Xander frowned. "I'm not doing the other verses."

"Aw," said Willow with a disappointed pout, but she didn't push. What's more, she appeared more genuinely at ease for having heard it.

As Xander flopped onto the bed, she scooted next to him. "I have a book."

"Please tell me there's more to it than that," he implored.

Willow nodded and after a moment of due consideration, went to her desk. Unearthing the book in question, she carried it to Xander, cradling it in her palms with some reverence. Xander eyed it unenthusiastically, obviously not sharing Willow's awe. She sat next to him on the bed and opened the book, twisting it so he could easily see its contents. He sat up and took note of the exposed comic strips. The look he tossed her way might best have been described as distinctly odd.

"You're afraid Bill Amend will find out you're cheating on him?" he suggested.

Willow didn't respond. Instead, she closed her eyes and after a short period of concentration, ran her fingers over the page. Xander blinked as the cartoon characters disappeared to be replaced by lines of spidery writing.

"Okay," he acknowledged slowly, "mine doesn't do that."

Opening her eyes, Willow watched as Xander moved closer to get a better view. His mystified gaze went from the book to Willow and then back again. "What is it?"

"It's a spell book," said Willow, face aglow. "Only, not so much like other spell books. It can show you how to cast pretty much any spell ever. You just ... think of what you want to do, funnel in a bit of your own power, and ..." She indicated the book with a sharp nod.

Xander peered at the open page. "'To Silence the Barbed Tongue'," he read before tossing Willow a look confusion.

"I wondered how to make big sarcastic guys shut up," she told him with a mischievous little grin.

However, Xander found no humor in the situation. "Will, where did you get this?"

"Last week, when Amy zapped me to Never Ever Land? You guys wondered what she wanted?" She gestured at the book with her chin.

Xander frowned. "You told us you didn't find it."

"Yeah," muttered Willow nervously. "That was sort of a lie."

With narrowed gaze, Xander was obviously getting geared up for a significant chastising rant, and Willow had no trouble in seeing that coming.

"I know. Believe me, I've been ..." Her eyes raked Xander's face with its dour and accusing expression. "I don't know why I lied about it. Just that ... Nobody would understand. Yes, it's powerful and yeah, it can be used to do bad stuff, but- but think of all the good it can do too! That's why I went back and took it. We need it, Xander."

Xander was not so easily swayed. "We've come this far without it."

"And how much further do you think we're gonna go?" asked Willow honestly. "The law of averages. How many times can we win? How many more people will we lose?"

They studied each other intently for a moment and, warily, Xander inspected the book again.

"It's just a tool," said Willow. "Like- Like your power buzzsaw thing. It's how we use it that matters, right? Sure, you could disembowel the neighborhood, or you could use it to build 'em a pretty table."

Still, Xander was doubtful. "I dunno. Maybe ... Maybe, but ..." He pondered the proposition for a long moment. "We need to take it to Giles," he finally decided.

"No," declared Willow, clutching the book protectively to her chest. "Giles would ... He'd take it away. You know how he is, always with the- the poking and prodding and analyzing. Next thing you know, he's sent it to Timbuktu and the Big Bad's knockin' on our door!"

"So we get him to keep it here, and—"

"So he can lock it up somewhere?" objected Willow. "Then when we need it, it's disapproval a-and debates and lectures."

Xander chewed on this, but he obviously remained unconvinced, so Willow pressed further.

"Besides, you know how he's been lately. All Mr. Grumpy Unfeeling Guy. Are you really sure Giles is the best person to have something like this right now?"

"Well no offense Will – and believe me, I say this with nothing but love – but I'm not sure I think you're the best person to have it either."

Willow hung her head a little at that observation and Xander was quick to provide encouragement.

"You're better now," he reassured, "and I know things aren't like they used to be. I don't wanna sound like I don't trust you, but ..." He lifted her chin so he could see her face. "This is huge. And with the lying and the hiding ..."

"It's okay," said Willow with a melancholy twist to her lips. "I agree with you."

It was an admission Xander hadn't exactly expected to hear.

"I've only had it a little while now and already it's ..." Willow's voice was tinged with sadness. "There's so much wrong with the world, you know? I just keep thinking, 'If only this were a little bit better', and 'If only that weren't so hard.'" She gave a tiny smirk. "Sorta the thinking that got me into so much trouble in the first place."

Turning around, she sat cross-legged on the bed so she was completely facing Xander.

"I know I've gotta trust in me," she confided. "I'm workin' on that part. But until then ..."

Carefully, she placed the book in Xander's lap. "I'll trust you."

Xander was immobilized for a brief second. He didn't move to touch the book, instead gingerly leaning backward, as though it were a snake that might strike without provocation at any given moment.

"I can't take this."

"You said it yourself," coaxed Willow. "I'm not the best person to have it."

Swiftly, Xander moved into absolute renunciation. "So that means I am? What about Tara, or Buffy, or—"

Willow immediately dismissed the recommendations. "Xander, it's gotta be you. Buffy would be all suspicious, and Tara ..." She shook her head sadly. "Tara wouldn't want anything to do with it. She'd want it sent away, o-or destroyed. She wouldn't understand. But you do." She smiled. "I know you do."

Her eyes searched Xander's face. She watched as he replayed all the moments of the past nine years and then, slowly, he nodded.

At Xander's acknowledgment, Willow broke into a grateful smile. She waved her fingers over the book and the pages returned to normal. Gingerly, Xander closed the cover.

"I'm hiding it," he informed crisply. "Don't go looking."

"I won't."

"I'm under semi-protest."

"I know."

"I start getting weird googly vibes about all this – more weird googly vibes – I'm telling the others," he warned. "Swear be damned."

Willow nodded dutifully. "Okay."

Soberly, Xander regarded the book and sighed. "I'm not sure this is the right thing."

"Does it feel wrong?" asked Willow.

"A little."

"But not completely?"

"No," Xander was forced to confess. "Not completely."

"Guess that's the best we get these days," Willow told him as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Yeah," mused Xander thoughtfully. "Guess so."

Faith's room was something of a disaster area, but it had a certain homey feel to it – a sort of 'it's always a mess' kind of mess that was comfortable and familiar. Standing before a bookcase against the wall, Faith scanned the titles but couldn't seem to find anything that appealed. She burrowed deeper, unearthing novels crammed into the shelves every which way. She finally extracted a paperback called The Lovely Bones. It didn't appear to ring any bells, but looked as though it might be interesting. Flipping it over, she scanned the brief synopsis printed on the cover. With a shrug, she carried it to her unmade bed and flopped onto the rumpled comforter.

As she opened the paperback, a snapshot slipped out, having been utilized some time in the past as a book mark. Given Faith's puzzled frown, it obviously didn't recall when. The images captured by the camera, however, were not so easily forgotten.

It was a picture of herself with Kennedy – and Hazel and Judith. Given the air of friendly rivalry the snapshot displayed, it had apparently been taken early in their relationship and there could be no mistaking the sense of camaraderie between the four of them. Faith's eyes narrowed as she stared at the faces frozen in a happier time, particularly those of Hazel and Judith. Sitting at the feet of herself and Kennedy respectively, they had their arms slung around each others' shoulders as they grinned into the lens. Both had exhibited the victory sign just as the shutter closed.

With a sudden exclamation of anger, Faith crushed the picture in her hand and without looking, pitched it across the room. It sailed past the aquarium, where Nemo darted through the portholes of his plastic sunken shipwreck, to land neatly and cleanly in the trashcan.

Tossing the book to the floor, Faith got to her feet and headed for the door. Her actions lacked purpose and she moved aimlessly, almost as though she had no idea where she was going or where she wanted to be. One thing was plain, however – Faith obviously had no desire to remain in her room.

As she neared the Sanctum, Tara stepped into the hallway. Noting Faith's approach, she appeared to be a little embarrassed.

"Hi Faith," she greeted quietly.

Faith's only response was to simply incline her chin. She regarded the closed door of the Sanctum and then looked to Tara.

"You an' Red need some alone time?"

Initially, Tara wasn't on the same wavelength but then it clicked. A blush crept into her cheeks and she became even more self-conscious.

"No, no, nothing like that," she said with a shake of her head. Then, she shrugged. "I come here sometimes. Willow did a really good job balancing the energies in there. It's good place to, you know, meditate? Do some thinking or whatever."

"Yeah?" queried Faith, arching an eyebrow. "Have to try that."

"Sure," encouraged Tara with all sincerity. "You're welcome to whenever you want."

While Faith seemed to be putting Tara's suggestion to good use already, Tara watched and waited in respectful silence for a moment.

"I was about to go home," she finally said, "but it's a lot later than I thought. I know it's probably a huge inconvenience, but I was wondering ..." She glanced in Faith's direction. "If you weren't doing anything super important, could you maybe walk me home?"

The smile on Tara's face was hopeful and unassuming.

"Yeah, 'course," replied Faith without a second thought.

Tara's smile transformed into one of gratitude as the pair set off along the corridor, going back the way Faith had arrived. Neither spoke as they exited Slayer Central, but it was a relatively comfortable hush. Tara appeared content for the ball to be in Faith's court as to whether or not they engaged in conversation.

"So meditating, huh?" Faith finally asked. "Stuff on your mind?"

"Pretty much always," admitted Tara wryly. "It's one of my better traits."

Faith raised an eyebrow. "I always thought it was your aggressive, domineering side."

"That's one of my second best," said Tara with a snicker. "But yeah. Lots to think about. You know. The past, the future, the whole 'dead' thing."

"We got a spot for that," Faith told her, jerking a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the area where the sapling had been planted. "Supposed to be all mystical an' everything."

Tara glanced behind. "Yeah ... I dunno. I don't feel right going there. Like, it was sort of made for me, and Joyce, and everyone? I think it'd be like ... like visiting your own grave."

"If I could," said Faith with unbridled enthusiasm, "I'd totally do that."

"You would?"

"Every day," confirmed Faith. "Keep movin' crap around, write 'Faith was here' in big letters ... Just really screw with everyone." She tossed Tara a wicked grin. "Maybe make it on one of those ghost shows they play on Halloween."

That brought a chuckle to Tara's lips and the atmosphere between them grew even more cordial, even though Faith ceaselessly scanned the shadows for any hint of danger. After another moment lapsed into silence, it was Tara who spoke first.

"How about you?"

"How about me what?" queried Faith curiously.

"There's a lot on your mind too."

Faith shrugged. "Don't think anyone'd ever say thinkin' a lot was one of my best traits."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," chastised Tara gently.

Faith's lips twitched with amusement. "There's a switch."

But Tara refused to push and it was a tactic that met with success.

"The past, the future," Faith dismissed with a nonchalant wave. "Wonderin', if you make a mess of one, that mean the other's automatically in the toilet."

A tiny frown creased Tara's forehead. "I don't think that's true. The past influences the future, absolutely, but I don't think it writes it. Not without our permission."

"I dunno," sniffed Faith. "Maybe. Feels like a done deal sometimes."

Tara threw her a sideways glance. "If you really think that, then you're right."

Faith pulled out her cigarettes and then changed her mind. She returned the pack to her jacket pocket. "Just all seems to keep comin' back to the same place. Me the murderer. Don't matter what I do, in the end it's always someone else dead."

"And how many alive? Faith ..." Tara began, coming to an abrupt stop. Faith also slowed to a halt. "I'm not saying that it's okay that you ... that you killed people. It's not. But it's also not all you are. Not unless you let it be."

Faith leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. "Big believer in redemption, huh?"

"I've got faith," reminded Tara with a subtle twinkle.

Faith gave a little snort. "Cuz I never heard that one before."

"Okay, so original wit isn't one of my best traits," admitted Tara with a tiny smile, but then her tone became more serious. "You're not a murderer, Faith."

With some regret, Faith looked Tara in the eye. "Yeah, I am. That just doesn't—"

Her sentence, however, was fated to remain unfinished. Emerging stealthily from the dark shadows, a figure had decided to capitalize on Faith's distraction. His shock of white hair was like newly-fallen snow beneath the street lights as he roughly seized her arm. Taken totally by surprise, Faith was unprepared for the attack. Fighting to maintain her balance, she was spun around to find a long-bladed knife being driven directly toward her heart.