Venice is a magical city, from its ancient beginnings to its Renaissance intrigues to its modern wonders. Often called a new Atlantis, many Europeans feared that one fine day it would sink into its clay bedding, but not even that not-quite-unfounded fear stopped the influx of visitors from exploring its streets and waterways and squares. However, it was mid-January and since the number of visitors did not swell until March, those who were enjoying the pleasures of this jewel were likely to find its streets and palaces less crowded and far more attentive.

Dalton was beginning to wonder how he was supposed to handle it. When Angelus wrote to request his presence in Italy, the scholar felt sure that it was to tutor his mistress in the Italian language and culture. True enough, but somehow he was also sure that language and culture did not mean an impromptu visit to Venice to attend operas at La Scala and drink the vineyards dry, both of which the young Slayer was doing at an alarming rate. However, with Angelus and William in Sicily on Clan business and Hiroshi still in London, Dalton was left to cater to the whims of a very persuasive and clever woman who was, he was loath to admit, stronger than he.

And there was only a little satisfaction in knowing the young English maid agreed with his assessment, he thought grimly. Little Felicity would not be overtly punished for obeying her mistress, but he knew very well that Angelus would not be pleased to find that Buffy was not tucked away in the Florentine villa upon his return.

A tinkling sound drew his attention and he turned to find the object of his musings lifting a new glass of Chianti to her wine-red mouth, her eyes contemplating the action on the stage. "Lovely," she whispered softly, her voice barely slurring.

A villa outside Florence, he corrected. Granted, he disliked this sudden adventure, but Dalton fully understood why she would want to leave. Florence had its attractions, yes, but Venice offered her more to do in a city where her husband owned no property ... at least, no usable property, he thought, remembering a crumbling convent. No, Buffy wanted to dance and play as she would if she were in London and Angelus was away on business, and that she could not do in Florence.

So here they were. He had to admit that she traveled in style, sparing no cost or luxury, but that could be put down to the rough whirlwind trip of the previous autumn. Still, she was spending quite a bit of money, not that there was a dearth; the Suite del Doge at the Hotel Danieli was one of the premiere suites at one of Venice's premiere hotels ... that was once the fourteenth century palace of the Doge Dandolo. The classical furnishings were Gothic in inspiration but still Venetian, while paintings shared the walls with silk drapes and hangings woven with silver and gold, and chandeliers of Murano glass illuminated the frescos that adorned the ceilings. Sumptuous was too poor a word for the place she had chosen to stay, and its elegance was clearly a statement of the love of luxury that she was developing and cultivating.

Angelus was clearly an excellent teacher.

The enthusiastic yet polite clapping alerted him that another classical masterpiece had concluded, and silk skirts rustled as Buffy found her feet in anticipation of another night's post-operatic dancing. Stifling protests that would fall on deaf ears, he escorted her through the crush of people and out onto the street, where large clusters of opera-goers were en route to the party. However, instead of joining the mob she pulled him aside.

"You go on," she told him. "I'm going to walk ... "

Dalton was understandably displeased. "I cannot allow ... "

Eyes that could have been stones from the jade she wore at her ears and throat shone luminously in the moonlight. Her face was a study in faint sadness and amusement, and he was once more struck with foreboding, a sensation of waiting for something unknown yet terribly awful. She shook her head and repeated, "I'm going to go for a walk ... I really don't feel much like dancing tonight."

"Then come back to the hotel," he pleaded.

"No," she whispered. "I need ... I don't know. But I'm not ready to go back just yet."

Something in her voice told him that she was referring to more than merely the exquisite hotel, and he acquiesced after a long deliberation. No doubt she could lose him even though she did not know the city streets, he reasoned, and if need be he could always alert the human constabulary should she fail to return by dawn. Better to let her go.

"Dawn," he stated.

Momentary surprise flashed in her eyes but she acknowledged his curfew with a wry smile and a nod. She lifted her hand to his face for the barest of seconds, then turned and slipped away into the night.

Even on a mid-January night in the city, there is no such thing as total silence. Walk down any residential street and you may hear music and laughter from a party or the shouts and cries of couple quarreling over anything from infidelity to the weather and, failing that, there were always a few people roaming the streets. On this night, however, Buffy heard nothing but the rustling of her skirts and the sound of the water in the canal as a slight breeze caused it to lap against the shore. The moon was vibrant and full, so luminous that the streetlights were hardly called for, and it reflected off the water of the canal like a mirror. The smattering of houses and shops were dark and quiet, too; it was as if the world somehow knew she needed the silence.

But Buffy had never been one to fully appreciate what she was gifted with in any given moment unless it involved a battle, a trait remarkably odd in a Slayer. The wine was also to blame, surely, and so it was that a bejeweled lady dressed in black velvet and jade silk solitarily made her way through the streets, humming along to the music in her head. Had there been anyone to see this sight they might have thought her mad to walk alone in a foreign city ... or wondered if she were looking for something she could not get at home.

And both would be correct, Angelus thought as he tracked the meandering figure. Although he had expected her to abandon the villa during their absence, he had not anticipated that she might remove herself to another city. Indeed, he had made arrangements in Florence on the off chance she grew tired of provincial life, but when his informants notified him that she had been located dancing in Venice he was none too pleased.

Oblivious to the angry vampire stalking her through the city, Buffy slowly made her way down the streets humming tunes from the opera she had just enjoyed. And enjoy it she had, even though it had been sung in Italian; Dalton had -- bless him -- acquired an English translation of all the operas scheduled to be performed. The stories had spoken to her on some inexplicable level and made her wonder, for what was surely the umpteenth time, why she had abandoned the villa.

Boredom was the most obvious reason, yet in itself was not the chief culprit. Oh, yes, there was something to be said for dancing and laughing and generally having fun, but the truth of the matter was that she would rather be with Angelus or Will. A sad truth, perhaps, but a truth nonetheless ... and one that spoke volumes about her feelings for her most intimate demons. Ever since Paris -- or Bath, to be completely honest -- Buffy had realized that she was no longer able to deny those demons and what they now represented to her, and that frightened her more than anything she had ever faced.

A fear only compounded by Alicia's dramatic New Year's Eve appearance. Although she had quit the area and was bound for Paris and Indara, courtesy of Buffy's three hundred pounds, she had had a startling impact. Never before had Buffy been truly forced to acknowledge how unlike herself she had become, how far removed from the witty, smart-mouthed Slayer she now was in both mind and deed. The old Buffy, the Sunnydale Buffy, would have taken on the world for Alicia all by herself, give or take a Scooby or two. The new Buffy -- Christabel de Winter, Viscountess Pierrepont and consort to the vampire Angelus -- sought to help Alicia by enlisting the aid of an ancient Slayer turned vampire. And that single step, along with all the issues connected to both the Slayers and the Ancient vampiress, was perhaps the greatest factor motivating her flight from Florence.

But all of this was reasoning that, if not quite subconscious, was not readily understood by Buffy, which is why she was thoroughly flustered and all too cooperative when her erstwhile lover confronted her by the water's edge.

"Hello, my love."

Buffy stopped, her heart pounding and her breathing coming short. A seemingly irrational anger warred with passion and desire as she stood in the street, her senses confirming what her ears had told her. Her beloved demon stood less than a foot behind her and was coming ever closer, closer, until his chest was molded to her back and his arms had reached round her waist to clasp her hands in his. Shock and indecision held her still and unable to pull away, but her choice was made when he lowered his mouth to her head and pressed kisses into her upswept hair. She shivered when his lips brushed the shell of her ear and slid down the smooth column of her neck, her breath catching in her throat as a silent scream fell from her lips when his fangs gently pierced the warm flesh.

Her blood was the most delicious nectar ever to flow from a living being, its sheer power only surpassed by the flavor of desire and love. All his righteous anger fled as she whimpered and arched her neck, her trembling body threatening to fall at any moment. He tightened his hold and deepened the piercing kiss, smiling against her sweet flesh as he felt her shatter from the pleasure of his bite.

Swirling torrents of liquid rapture raced through her blood, re-igniting a still burning fire as he forced her further and further into a spiraling ecstasy. The outside world ceased to exist and the entirety of her being was focused solely on his bite, the feel of his teeth as they pierced her skin ... it felt so unbelievably right, just as it did when he was firmly planted within her warm cavern. Everything she was and would be coalesced into a void of mindless, primal pleasure in those few moments, and she ached to complete their joining.

It was an ache her lover shared. Raising red-rimmed golden eyes he tracked a figure slowly creeping towards them, and he separated himself from his lover long enough to snap the neck of a very surprised and horrified gondolier. Buffy stared at him without truly seeing the death, knowing only that he had done what was necessary in order to ensure their pleasure, and so when he tossed her into the gondola she made no protest, raised no alarm, but simply reached for him once more.

This then, was the eerie and horrifically erotic tableau that confronted William shortly thereafter. He stood transfixed, mesmerized by the sight of his Sire and their shared mate writhing in pleasure in the boat, its dead captain still on the ground where Angelus had dropped him. Oddly enough, while the scene inspired lust it also urged a certain amount of distance, its primordial power commanding him to retrieve the pole and step onto the gondola and send the lovers down the river of Eros.

A low growl that morphed into a snarl split the silence, Angelus turning his head to address the interloper. He growled again as he scented a new arousal and as his golden eyes found those of his Childe the growls became smoother ... an indication of his appreciation when the younger man submissively dropped his eyes. William even went as far as to look away, using the pole to propel them through the waterways of the Venetian night.

When his Sire had once more returned to the blonde beneath him, William raised his eyes to devour the feast at his feet. Angelus hadn't bothered with their clothes and both were content to growl and scrape and cling to one another fully dressed, Buffy's skirts tossed up, her silk encased leg wrapped around her lover's waist. His Sire hadn't bothered to do more than unbutton his trousers, either, and William watched with a strangely detached passion as they clung to one another.

Their pleasure was so clearly evident, he mused. Her responses were so perfectly timed as Angelus nursed from her, his violent thrusts only firing her passion while her dark lash-framed jade-gray eyes were smoky and wild with need. The tension in the air was so palpable, even the most innocent or dense mortal would have grasped the situation at once, and William could feel his Sire's raging desire in his blood.

And that is what it comes to, he realized as the two began to reach the pinnacle of their violent ecstasy. He watched with reverence and respect as, in the grips of rapture, Buffy arched her neck to her lover even as she lunged forward, her small, blunt teeth ripping into the vein in Angelus' throat. The desire for the blood, the connection of blood was as real for her as it was for any of his Sire's Childer, enhanced, no doubt, by her status as the Slayer. As one predator to another they shared blood, each one needing to taste the other. It was an old need, one as old as time itself, and in the frenzy of this powerful, ancient mating the need was heightened.

Yet, there was something else underlying the need, he noticed as the two suddenly collapsed from exertion. Even as Buffy slipped into a deep sleep and his Sire purred, a dark, silky sound, William frowned. What was it?

I've come to the conclusion that nothing in my life will ever be simple. From my feelings to my circumstances, I'm resolving to be on guard as much as possible so that I'm not unduly shocked or overtaken by mischance.

And how weird does that sound -- especially coming from me?

I don't know, Angel ... it's just so damn hard to keep my emotions balanced these days. I guess the Alicia situation is partly to blame, but all the talk of Penn doesn't help either. Although I've never met him, he just crawls under my skin in a not-so-nice way; bad vibes, I guess. Maybe I'm a little jealous of the guy too, especially considering how eager Angelus is to find him and how closemouthed they both are when it comes to discussing him. It makes me wonder ... would he be this driven if I was the one missing? Would he care this much, or would he dawdle?

I think, maybe what scares me the most is that I *do* know the answers. After last night, I fear what will happen when he learns about how I helped Alicia, about my deal with Indara. And I fear my reactions.

Our mating -- and I can't call it anything but that -- was fast, furious, vicious and pure ecstasy. Adding to that were Will's eyes burning into us, his whole body giving off signals that clearly stated that he wanted to be a part of us, but his fear held him back. But I wanted him there, you know, I wanted to feel both of them inside of me and I wanted to feel the ecstasy that comes from our triumvirate.

And I wanted ... I want to feel the blood, taste them, drink them down and feel them coursing through my veins even as they draw from me. I want to nourish them, make them stronger ... and I don't care how or why it happens. But what scares me, Angel, what really scares me ... is that they're not the only ones.

I want Indara, too, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever could.

Even waiting 101 years to go home.

"Milady," Felicity hissed quietly. "Bella!"

Buffy mumbled in her sleep and turned over, burrowing deeper into the satin duvets as she clung to unconsciousness. Only in her dreams was she safe, usually, but the dreams were fading and the persistence of the young woman calling her name pulled her from the loving arms of Morpheus. Everything was hazy as she sat up, supported by Felicity, and Buffy found even the simplest of movements sluggish and difficult. The pattern on the satin covers seemed to dance before her eyes and the down mattress felt like a boat about to capsize and ...

Felicity winced in sympathy as she watched Buffy lurch out of the bed, her footsteps hurried thuds on the elegant carpet as she raced to the toilet room, grimacing at the retching that emanated through the open door. With a sigh, she followed in her mistress' wake, pulling a dressing gown from the wardrobe so that Buffy would have something to wrap up in to keep warm. Upon reaching the bath and toilet room she draped the gown over the settee and pulled towels from the shelf and placed them on the table by the copper tub, before turning to the basin of water she had filled earlier.

Buffy felt her head spin from blood loss, not the more usual overindulgence of alcohol as she leaned over the toilet. Her stomach was finally beginning to settle, and she blessed Felicity's foresight when the younger woman pressed a cool, wet cloth against her forehead and laid another across the back of her neck. The twin scents of chamomile and peppermint slowly drifted into her reverie, bringing her back to full consciousness as she shivered. Cold, she was so cold and so empty, and she wondered for a moment if warmth and completion had been left in a gondola in the wee hours of the morning.

"Bella," Felicity called, sinking down next to the still woman. "I've run you a hot bath, a plain one with nothing but the powdered sea salt. Do you think you can manage some to eat -- "

"Oh, God, yes," Buffy exhaled. "I mean, yes, bath good, food good."

The young maid tucked a stray strand of pale brown hair behind her ear as she started to rise, only to be stopped by a hand gripping her arm. She looked down at the figure crumpled on the floor and felt a flash of pity, anger and sympathy all at once.

Buffy licked her lips. "Felicity ... for the past few weeks I've had a hangover at least three times a week and every time you lectured while you helped. Why didn't you today?"

Felicity looked away for a moment then bit her lip as tears pricked her gray eyes. "Whatever you did last night ... usually you drift in and stumble to bed in a drunken haze. After what Mr. Dalton told me last night I expected no different, but right before dawn this morning your cousin, William, carried you in and ... his lordship, your husband, was standing in the door watching with this *look* on his face that I've never seen before. Your dress was wet and ripped and there were bruises all over your body, b-but you were so still and white that I was afraid you were dead."

Buffy opened her mouth to speak but Felicity shook her head. "I know you said you cannot truly die, but still ... I cut the dress off and went to get something to clean the cuts with and when I returned only your cousin remained. He told me that his lordship had rousted Dalton from his room and that Mr. Dalton had sought refuge in mine, and that we should be ready to leave tonight. After he left I cleaned the worst of the scrapes and that's when ... that is, I found ... "

"You found the bite marks," Buffy whispered.

"I was so scared," the young woman whispered. "I was terrified of what he had done to you, and I thought that maybe that was why you came here, to forget ... "

Buffy stood shakily and embraced her companion. "It's all right, Felicity. I'll explain everything later, okay?"

At the strange slang from Buffy, the young maid gave a small laugh and blinked away the tears that had welled up in her eyes. "I'll go order dinner," she said as she left the room.

Once Felicity was gone Buffy leaned against the closed door and contemplated her options and her immediate and long-term future. The drinking had not been the result of too much bloodplay, as Felicity believed, but somewhat the opposite -- she didn't have a lover to sate her cravings and so she tried to drown them in alcohol. A mistake that soon became appallingly clear, true, but by that point Buffy realized she had been unable to admit to her weakness, her need ... a need only fueled by fear and frustrated anticipation.

Pushing away from the door she swirled her hand in the bath water; finding it still hot, she reached for the glass Felicity left on the long counter for her and lifted it to her lips, the warm juice sliding down her throat and aiding her slowly recovering body. As she sipped, she perused her collection of toiletries until she found the oil Madame de Moreville had mixed for her at the salon in Paris, and she turned and emptied the tiny vial into the water and smiled as the splendid mix of herbals and sandalwood scented the room.

"Your personal blend," the grande dame had told her. "Not based on your olfactory preferences, but created from your answers to my questions and the way you answered those questions."

Buffy faced her reflection. "I understand what she meant now," she told the woman in the mirror. "Time to stop pretending and stop running, time to face up to my wants, my desires. It's okay to be a little scared, a little nervous, but when have I ever let that get the better of me? Hardly ever. And I will not start now. As of today, I am going to stop questioning myself and start dealing with my life here. It will not always be this way, but for now I'll deal."

And as the sun sank beneath the Venetian skyline, Buffy Summers, Misplaced and Immortal Slayer, the proverbial Stranger in a Strange Land, began to come to terms with what she had made of herself.

 

The End

Note: This particular story is more filler than anything else. There is a six-week gap between the diary entry and the final scene in "Alicia," so this story was written to not only give you a glimpse into Buffy's mind as she waits to hear from Indara, but to illustrate how Buffy has not dealt with events since arriving in this world. She's on an emotional and hormonal roller coaster most of the time, but (if you've seen the S5 finale "The Gift") think of the final scene in "Alicia" as Buffy's swan dive off the tower -- it's definitely not the end, but it is a turning point. And yes, there will be other turning points ... some of them even bigger. The Hotel Danieli, by the by, is real, and if you visit Venice today (and have a *large* amount of money to burn), you can stay in the Suite del Doge. Curious? Go here for a glimpse. http://dencity.com/le--sanctuaire/bibliotheque/hotel_danieli.htm