Dark Haven I : Hunter's Moon

by TaraKeezer

Part 1

Journal of Rupert Giles

October 24, 2004

I've been up for well over twenty-four hours, yet I'm too anxious to sleep. I don't know what my precise relationship to Jean-Claude and his "triumvirate" is, no matter that he's convinced I'm a human servant to the group. The limited information I've been able to find suggests that such a thing is impossible. A human servant is tied to a vampire, not to a vampire and his peers — or whatever it is that Anita and Richard are to him. Still, he may have access to other, lesser-known works. If he does, I'll read through them carefully. There's no sense in behaving as a human servant if I'm not one.

Della has gone to sleep in the guest room, and Mary is taking a shower. I'm not certain how long the two of them will be here, or if others will take their place as guards later today. When I asked, both smiled and said I shouldn't worry, as Jean-Claude has taken care of it.

On an unrelated note, Buffy has agreed to haunt Brian Moran's youth minister, and I hope she'll be able to help him see the error of his ways. I suppose I'm breaking the spirit of my promise to Dawn, but at this point, I don't really care. Brian hurt her because he was told by a trusted authority figure that doing evil in the service of good was right and proper. If Buffy can do something to stop that sort of thing from happening in the future, I'll happily ignore the hypocrisy of my actions in asking her to haunt the man.

Lord, but I'm tired. I want very much to sleep, but I don't think I'll do much more than toss and turn if I go to bed. I can hear Dawn and Buffy talking as they make breakfast — as Dawn makes breakfast — and it's a pleasant sound. It reminds me of Sunnydale in happier times.

~*~*~

October 24, 2004

It was half two before I roused myself from a spell-induced nap — one which hadn't been my idea. Dawn and Buffy both attempted to convince me go to bed after breakfast, but I'd caught my second wind by that time and was adamant that I didn't need to sleep. At that, Buffy shrugged, asking me to go to the living room with her. She tugged on my arm to get me to sit next to her on the couch, and then she started talking about all the gossip she heard as a ghost. I think that's when Dawn cast a sleeping spell on me.

It was rather clever of them to double-team me, but I wasn't happy about it. Dawn knows how I feel about that sort of thing. Still, sleeping did me a world of good. When I awoke, I felt far more able to face whatever the evening might bring me.

I wandered into the bathroom and found a note on the mirror. Dawn wrote that she, Della and Mary had gone to the mall. She said that Buffy was with them, so I should enjoy having the apartment to myself for the afternoon. It was clear she was trying to avoid me for long enough to prevent a suggestion that we go to Anita's home to work on her wards, but it was unnecessary. Before I'd left Danse Macabre that morning, Anita told me not to worry about going over there, as I would need to rest prior to meeting with Jean-Claude that evening.

I doubted the woman could have made that statement any more ominous if she'd been playing the shark theme from Jaws in the background.

By three in the afternoon, I had showered, shaved and donned a pair of blue jeans, and I was wandering through my home both barefoot and shirtless when the doorbell rang. I stopped in my room to get my denim shirt, and I was still buttoning it up as I opened the door. When I saw who it was, I closed the door without comment and headed back to the kitchen to make tea.

I wasn't surprised to hear the door open nor to find Anita sitting in my kitchen when I turned around some ten minutes later to put the fresh pot down on the table. I pulled out a mug for myself, and, unable to ignore my mother's lessons in courtesy, I pulled out a second one for her. I put the milk and sugar out, then sat down to pour for both of us.

"I didn't know you smoke," Anita said, grimacing at the taste of the tea.

As conversational openings went, this one threw me for a loop. I frowned slightly and said, "What?"

"The cigarettes," she said, pointing vaguely to something behind me. I turned and was greatly surprised to find the pack I'd bought that morning resting atop the refrigerator. I found it difficult to believe that neither Dawn nor Buffy had thrown them out whilst I slept.

I grunted, then realized a slightly more detailed answer was warranted. "I started again this morning," I said, mumbling slightly into my mug.

"He won't like it," she said in a neutral tone of voice. She kept her face neutral as well, though I thought I detected a hint of discomfort in her manner.

"Color me appalled," I said dryly. My mood was definitely on the sour end of the spectrum this afternoon.

Anita sighed and looked as if she'd rather be anywhere but drinking tea with me. She said, "I'm sorry about what happened. Jean-Claude played you, and he used me in the process."

"Played me how? I was able to confirm the prior claim," I said impatiently.

"He gambled you wouldn't come to me to ask for help — he knows how we feel about each other. And he didn't tell me about the claim until last night, because he knew if he said something sooner, I would have helped you find a different answer," she said, guilt written all over her face.

"My stubbornness is as much at fault as his opportunism," I said reluctantly. It would have been nice to lay the blame at someone else's feet, but self-honesty prohibited that course of action. "If you stopped by just to apologize, you needn't have bothered. I don't see you as a Judas goat."

"It's not just that," she said. She made a face when she took another sip of the tea I'd made and said, "Is there any chance you have coffee?" I stood and pulled the French press out of the cupboard after filling the kettle to heat more water. As I took the coffee out of the freezer, Anita continued, "I'm here to let you know what to expect tonight."

I remained at the counter, facing away from her to look out the window as I considered her words. I asked, "Does Jean-Claude know you planned to visit me?"

"Yeah. He wasn't too happy about it, but I didn't give him a choice," she said, answering my unspoken question as to whether the conversation had continued after I left that morning.

"Are you here to explain some arcane ritual necessary to seal my fate as a human servant?" I didn't want to have this conversation, but avoidance hadn't worked the last time, so I wasn't going to try that option again. I could, however, give myself the illusion of privacy if I didn't turn around to face her. I watched dark clouds gather in the sky and thought it might rain later. What a perfect metaphor.

"He wants to make love with you," she said, her words stark, a denial of my own attempts to believe I was misreading his signals. She tried to maintain an even tone, but I could hear an undercurrent of pain in her voice.

"Wanting and having are two different things," I answered, matching her inflection as closely as possible. At the same time, I tried not to think about her choice of phrasing. Surely, if anything, he wanted to fuck me, not make love with me.

"At this point, it doesn't really matter," she said, and at that, I finally turned to face her. I was about to speak, but the kettle started whistling. After I poured the water over the grounds, I brought a clean mug and the coffee press to the table and sat down again.

I didn't know her well enough to be able to comfort her — such a task would best be left up to her friends. I did, however, remember how painful it was to love someone who wanted to share their bed with another.

"It matters, Anita. Granted, he could force me, but he doesn't strike me as a rapist. I don't intend to have sex with him," I said, reaching across the table to pat her hand lightly. My gesture lacked finesse, but it was the best I was capable of at the moment.

She turned her hand to grasp mine, and I watched as she shook her head. "No, you don't get it. It's not about what he wants — it's about protecting you from the visiting delegates," she said.

I blinked a few times, pulled my hand out of her grasp to reach for my glasses before changing my mind about cleaning them, and finally stammered out, "Excuse me?"

She gave me a very direct look and said, "I think Jean-Claude's blowing sunshine up our ass when he says you're a human servant to our triumvirate."

"That makes two of us, but what's that to do with anything?" I reached for my tea and took a sip before realizing it had gone cold. I grimaced and put the mug down again.

"The point is I doubt he'll convince anyone at the reception Wednesday night that you're the triumvirate's human servant. You care about that, because it means the Council delegates will consider you fair game for sex or food unless one of the three of us has already claimed you as a lover," she said. I'd no doubt she wondered if I was about to fill with dark magic so as to destroy the city.

Actually, that almost sounded like a good idea. I hadn't been thrilled when Jean-Claude told me that I would be expected to attend a party in honor of the visiting Council members. When I asked if that would still be the case had he just claimed me, he ignored my question and told me in no uncertain terms that I was to be paraded before his guests that night, and I should get used to the idea sooner rather than later. It was a rare moment, as he actually displayed a bit of temper in front of me.

"Please tell me you're joking," I said, once I thought I could speak relatively stammer-free.

"I wish I were, but I'm not. The rules of vampire hospitality suck, and I don't mean that in a toe-curling way," she said in all seriousness.

I narrowed my eyes as I looked at her. She couldn't possibly mean — "Are you saying I've just been reduced to the level of a bowl of M & Ms?"

"You? No. You're more along the lines of really high-quality caviar," she said with a straight face. Though I wasn't convinced she was having me on, nor could I be convinced she was serious. There had to be a mistake or a misunderstanding, and I found myself quite angry that she didn't realize this.

"And what, precisely, leads you to think I'll believe this?" I couldn't remember the last time I'd been quite so scathing toward anyone, but I thought it was likely some dust-up with Buffy.

"I'm the first to admit this looks bad," she said, her palms upward in supplication. "But you have to believe me on this one. We damn near lost Asher last year because of that stupid rule, and I'm not going to be the one to tell Dawn we lost you because you wouldn't get up close and personal with one of us."

I cocked my head when I heard the unfamiliar name, and I said, "Who's Asher?"

"He's Jean-Claude's lieutenant. They have — history," she said, loading the word with every bit of emotional nuance she could. I inferred from her statement that trying to decipher Jean-Claude and Asher's relationship would be along the lines of trying to understand the full history of a plot line on a soap opera after it's been going for some time. As my year of watching Passions with Spike could attest, one only needed to tune in for a short while to get the gist of the thing — a complete understanding was rarely required.

Based on that experience, I chose not to question her further on the matter of their history, and instead I asked, "How did you nearly lose him?"

She looked down at her hands and said, "I was stupid enough to mouth off at the wrong time to the wrong person, and it came out that neither Jean-Claude nor I had slept with Asher. By the rules of hospitality, that made him fair game for Musette." I opened my mouth, then shut it again, reminding myself of the rules of watching a soap opera. Stay tuned for long enough, and eventually, the players would make themselves known. Still, she must have heard my intake of breath, because she added, "Musette is Belle Morte's lieutenant. She was in town last year."

"Is she here now?" It was a bit early to be asking about the vampires I would meet Wednesday night, but it seemed to be a good time to ask.

"No. She broke a few rules and isn't allowed in Jean-Claude's territory again. It doesn't matter, though. Belle is in town, and she's a hell of a lot worse than Musette could ever dream of being. She'll be looking to discredit Jean-Claude in any way she can, and the easiest way to do that will be through his biggest vulnerability," she said as she gave me a very direct look.

I sighed, both at the information and at Anita's look. Clearly, I was Jean-Claude's biggest vulnerability. Worse still, I would be used, most likely by both sides, as a means to an end.

Politics. I didn't care what sort they were, they made my teeth itch. One of the few blessings in coming here had been the sure and certain knowledge that I would never again have to deal with the labyrinthine plots of the Watchers' Council. I wasn't happy to discover that I'd just traded one Council for another. Still, I wondered if sleeping with a female vampire could be all that bad.

"If Belle Morte were to get me into her bed, how difficult —" I broke off speaking when I saw Anita go pale at my words. Given her normal pallor, I was hard-pressed not to call 9-1-1 immediately.

"Anita? Breathe, dear," I said, standing to go around to her.

She drew in a sharp breath and swatted me away before saying, "Don't ever suggest that sleeping with Belle Morte is a reasonable idea, and NEVER call me 'dear' again!"

Part 2

Journal of Rupert Giles

September 13, 2004

I've never been so grateful to see the back of anyone as I was when Ms. Blake finally left my home. The nerve of that woman — I saved her bloody life by bringing her inside, and she acted as though I committed a sin against god and nature by daring to carry her to a safe haven. And just how does she think she would have made it inside on her own? She wasn't even able to straighten up until long after I put her on the couch.

Please — whichever of the Powers may be listening — please let her take Nathaniel elsewhere for a job. I'm not convinced that either of us will survive if we find ourselves in regular contact with one another.

~*~*~

October 24, 2004

I was happy to hear Anita threaten me — it meant she'd recovered from the scare I'd given her. And I made a mental note to stay as far from Belle Morte as possible even as I considered other ways around this sex business. It wasn't that I was averse to sex — I enjoyed it quite a bit, actually — but I objected strenuously to having my freedom of choice removed. Call me old-fashioned, but I strongly believe in an individual's right to choose his or her own lovers. And my freedom of choice had been taken away before I even had a chance to adjust to the reason for that removal.

Anita's normal color had returned, and I felt comfortable continuing our conversation. I asked, "So my choice is sex with you, Jean-Claude or Richard — or I'm to be thrown to the lions?"

"Um — mostly," she said, looking anxious and unhappy when I returned to the subject of with whom I was to have sexual relations. I hoped she had every reason to look as uncomfortable as she did. I hated to think she had to share news of this sort on a regular basis.

"And you're here to throw yourself on my sword," I said with more than a hint of disbelief in my voice. The pun had emerged without any effort on my part, and I winced slightly as I replayed the words in my mind.

"I told him I would have sex with you," she blurted out. Anya used to speak the same way whenever she had something to say, but was uncertain how to say it. I missed her very much at that moment. And then I reluctantly considered the content of Anita's comment.

The statement was both out of the blue and completely out of character. If ever there were two people completely ill-suited to have sex with one another, they were Anita and I. She wasn't quite the monster I'd first thought her to be, but her attitudes and personality continued to grate on me. I'd sooner welcome Buffy to my bed than this woman. And I knew perfectly well that Anita felt the same way about me, which was why her statement threw me completely off balance. The only response I could manage was, "You what?"

"I offered to have sex with you," she said. "Jean-Claude nearly attacked me. He wants you in his bed, and he doesn't give a damn about anything else." Her voice was low and nearly unintelligible by the time she finished speaking, and for the moment, she didn't even try to hide her pain.

After a brief pause, she said in a stronger voice, "He knows I don't want him sleeping with anyone else, but he's willing to jeopardize our relationship to have you. I don't know how many times I've told him I don't share, but he's ready to give me up over you."

"It's just my power," I said uneasily, realizing that what she hadn't said was that she could no longer walk away from her relationship with him. "He wants to tie it more closely to his own. It doesn't mean he loves me, and it doesn't mean he loves you any less."

I very much did not want to intrude in an existing pairing. Nathaniel wasn't a gossip, but Dawn had managed to get him to share information about his life with Anita, and it was she who told me about Anita's complicated relationships. I had been forced to assume that she and Jean-Claude had set up certain rules of behavior with one another, and though I thought they were entirely lopsided in Anita's favor, he had apparently been willing to accept them.

Until now.

I could see frustration building in her, and she said, "No. It's not just power. It's obsession. He wanted you a long time before he knew how strong you are." A cold chill ran up my spine at her choice of words. Human obsession was bad enough, but a vampire was able to carry it to extremes most people could never imagine.

"How do you know that?" I asked the question even as certain memories started to return. Anita had been quite hostile the first time we'd met, and I eventually came to the conclusion that she'd been upset about Nathaniel wanting to work for me. But that didn't explain her telephone conversation with Jean-Claude the night of Abigail's attack. I remembered listening to her side of the conversation and getting the distinct impression that he'd known who I was for quite some time.

"He's been stalking you for the last four months — ever since he saw you at a Chamber of Commerce dinner," she said, her voice tight. "I didn't realize how bad he had it for you until a few days before I walked into your store."

"You're mistaken. I've seen his entourage, and I don't fit in — not by any stretch of the imagination. I'm old, and I look old. It's my power he wants. That's all," I said, desperate to ignore the persistent memories of his subtle and not-so-subtle flirtations with me. It wasn't working very well. Almost from the start, it had been obvious that Jean-Claude's interest in me was far from platonic; it didn't help that I found my response to him was something other than disinterested. The old arguments against taking a vampire as a lover simply didn't work very well in this world, and I knew it.

Anita had a sour expression on her face as she grudgingly said, "You're not that hard on the eyes. A little worn around the edges, maybe, but you're not ugly. And believe it or not, looks aren't everything for him."

Lord, but I wished she would shut up and let me spin my own little denials. Every word she spoke prevented me from pretending that this was all a huge misunderstanding. I returned to my first point, saying, "Then we're back to power again —"

She shouted, "No, we aren't!" She stood to lean on the table and put her face close to mine. "We're talking about passion, not power. And as much power as you have, Giles, it doesn't compare to the level of passion you have. You do everything you can to hide it, but Jean-Claude was all but drooling when he told me he saw through you that first night."

Oh.

"He's blind to everything but how soon he'll have you naked and in his arms. And if he weren't so obsessed, he would have known —" she broke off suddenly, and I frowned as she backed away to sit down again, her mouth closed tight.

"He would have known what, Anita?" She shook her head slightly, and I deepened my frown as I repeated my question.

She finally said, "He would have known why you didn't want to talk about what Angelus did." After a pause, she added, "He raped you that night, didn't he?"

I could feel my jaw clenching and unclenching as I glared at her. I knew she'd seen too much in my refusal to talk, but I hadn't realized just how clear her vision was. Denial was essentially out of the question, but perhaps she would be willing to drop the subject. "I don't talk about that night. Aside from myself and Angelus, the only others who have the details of my injuries are the medical staff who were on duty the morning I was taken to hospital," I said repressively.

She nodded her understanding and said, "I came here to give you a choice — him or me. Jean-Claude will be pissed, but I wasn't sure you'd be able to have sex with a man."

I surprised her with my shout of laughter. It really was quite amusing in a morbidly obscene way, and I could hear a fine edge of bitter hysteria adding a sharpness to my giggles. I'd been raped twice — once by a male vampire and once by a female human. In order to avoid being raped a third time, I would have to willingly engage in sexual congress with either Jean-Claude or Anita. Ethan would have called the irony delicious, even as he was cackling in unholy glee. Wiping tears from my eyes, I said, "You do recall that I was recently raped by a woman, don't you?"

She blinked a few times, then she saw the point I was making. "Well. Yeah. But she had you bespelled so you wouldn't remember."

Her words and hesitancy sobered me up considerably, and I said quietly, "I asked for help to retrieve the memories. It was the only way I could allow rape charges to be brought. You need to understand that in many ways, what Abigail did to me was far worse than what Angelus did. With her, it was personal. With him, it was just business." It was the first time I'd articulated my thoughts on the subject, and my mood felt considerably lighter than it had in quite some time. It was a relief, finally being able to make the necessary distinction between the two events, since it meant I could finally start moving forward again.

I took a deep breath and continued, "As to your primary concern, I'm not troubled by the idea of having sex with a man. There can be something immeasurably comforting in making love with someone of your own gender. They have an insider's knowledge of what does and doesn't work."

Her eyes narrowed, and she asked, "Is that the voice of experience or conjecture?"

"It's the voice of experience. Don't misunderstand me, Anita. I enjoy women very much. They're soft and warm and incredibly generous, even in the midst of orgasm. A woman will make the most delightful and joyful noises when she's excited, and the scent of her arousal — well, I doubt you want me to wax poetic on the subject, but suffice it to say that I enjoy a rather fuller range of sexuality than do many," I said, surprising myself with such a frank statement of my orientation. I doubt I would have been so forthcoming had I not spent a certain amount of time in her mind the night before. It's also possible I was punishing her a bit for the news she bore. For all the complexities of her personal life, she struck me as being sexually conservative. I wasn't above pushing a few of her buttons, and that knowledge didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have.

"Right. Got it," she said, looking a bit dazed by my candor. "No problem having sex with a man, so you can be with Jean-Claude."

She had missed the point, so I reminded her, "I said I had no trouble lying with a man."

My emphasis hit home, and Anita said, "But sex with a monster upsets you."

I shook my head and told her, "I've seen monsters, and Jean-Claude doesn't even come close by the standards I'm using. The problem is that he's a vampire. I prefer my lovers to be warm and to have a pulse."

I didn't have long to wonder why she looked more than a little conflicted by my statement. She said, "He'll be warm and have a pulse tonight."

"That's impossible," I said, my voice flat.

"In your world, maybe. In ours, when a vampire feeds, he gets pink, and he gets a pulse. And feeding is necessary for a male vampire to —" I was bewildered by the faint blush that covered her cheeks. She was in a sexual relationship with a vampire and had offered to bed me, yet still, she was too embarrassed to discuss the mechanics of vampiric sex with me.

Some might have thought it was cruel for me to say, "Achieve an erection?" However, finishing her sentence had the desired result.

She shot a nasty look at me as she regained her composure sufficiently to say, "Yeah. Get a hard-on. He has volunteers who feed him, so you don't have to worry about anyone dying over this."

I was perplexed by her sudden shifts. One moment, she seemed to be arguing that I should have sex with her, but the next, she seemed to think I should be with Jean-Claude. To say her state of mind was in chaos would be a massive understatement. Then again, I wasn't thinking very much more clearly than she.

I knew sleeping with Anita was out of the question. She was physically attractive enough, but for me, spirit had always been the primary factor in determining whether I was aroused by someone. Her personality lacked the element of mischievousness that had drawn me so strongly to Ethan and later to Jenny. Too, Anita had hidden her vulnerabilities beneath a hard shell, and there was no chance of me getting inside to see the real her without resorting to deep-level telepathy.

Jean-Claude, on the other hand, was charming, erudite and more beautiful than any person I'd ever seen. His sense of play came out when he flirted, and there was no question that I was sexually attracted to him. I felt a blush steal over my face as I recalled a particularly vivid dream I'd had a week earlier. The only problem was that he was a vampire. Had he been a man, I would have cheerfully shared his bed, but he wasn't. And I wasn't entirely comfortable with the knowledge that I was attracted to him despite the fact that he was dead. Nor was I happy to start remembering Xander's necrophilia jokes. It had been bad enough watching Buffy continue to see Angel after he returned, but Xander had made it worse with his incessant one-liners.

"What are you thinking about?" I looked over at her, vaguely surprised she was still in the room. I saw that she had poured the remainder of the coffee for herself, and every so often, her eyes would dart to the kettle before returning to meet my gaze. The longer I looked at her, the more nervous she became, which made very little sense. Unless —

"Thank you for your offer, Anita, but you and I both know it would be a disaster. Not quite as bad as the Titanic, I think, but I'm certain it would be on the order of the Hindenburg," I said, watching relief creep into her expression.

After a brief pause, I asked, "Given that you didn't mention Richard, I take it he isn't even a remote possibility?"

She gave a bitter little smile as she looked at me and said, "Richard is so straight, you could use him as a ruler."

My anxiety was alleviated by that bit of information. I hadn't particularly enjoyed meeting him through our link, and I doubted I could have responded to him in any way other than slapping his face and admonishing him to grow up. I nodded thoughtfully, I hoped, and tried to ignore the tightening in my gut as I said, "So my choices are Jean-Claude or one of the Council?"

"Pretty much, if I'm out of the picture," she said, giving me one last chance.

I felt as if I were on my way to the guillotine and being given one last chance to confess my sins and save myself. I couldn't do it, though. Her offer had been more than generous, all things considered, but there was no real spark between us, other than a mutual desire to irritate one another whenever possible. Adding sex to that mix would only make things worse between us. I said, "Jean-Claude it is, then."

For better or worse, choosing Jean-Claude was the course of action that would cause the fewest problems all the way around. She knew it, and I knew it. What I didn't know was if there was anything I could do to ease Anita's pain over my choice. Telling her it was for the best might work at some point in the future, but for now, she was a young woman who had just encouraged another man to sleep with her lover. Nothing but time and distance would help to heal the wound left by that unfortunate, but needful sacrifice.

Part 3

Journal of Rupert Giles, Watcher

October 31, 1997

Though Halloween is traditionally a quiet night, this year was quite different. A spell was cast to turn celebrants into whatever costume they were wearing. I was told of the problem by Willow Rosenberg, one of the Slayer's young friends. With her help, I was able to locate Ethan Rayne, a notorious chaos wizard. I determined how to reverse the spell and did so, thus returning the town to its normal state.

Miss Summers stopped in at the library before going home. She told me that the spell had been broken just in time, as Spike (a.k.a. "William the Bloody", sired within the line of Darla through Angelus) was very close to draining her. She reports that she remembers all of what happened this evening, and in her own words, it gave her the "complete wiggins." She has gone home to clean up and get some rest.

~*~*~

Private Journal of Rupert Giles

October 31, 1997

I can't think for the life of me why Ethan showed up in town. He knows how I feel about him, and I think the two cracked ribs I gave him earlier emphasized that point.

The bloody prat. I never know whether to beat him blind or shag him senseless when he reappears in my life. Except for tonight, that is. His actions very nearly killed Buffy, which made my choice quite easy. Lord. I can't remember the last time I was so completely and coldly furious. He would be well-advised not to return to my town.

My Slayer has added an entirely new dimension to my relationship with Ethan. Her presence makes me wonder if perhaps this evening's mischief was a cry for attention. He always did get jealous when anyone new became a part of my life. It would certainly explain his willingness to lay there whilst I made every effort to grind his ribs to dust.

~*~*~

October 24, 2004

It was a dark and stormy night. Or it would be soon, I thought. Dark clouds had been gathering throughout the late afternoon, and as I drove to Circus of the Damned, I could see that the wind was starting to pick up a bit. I didn't know if I would make it there before the rain started, and I wasn't entirely certain I cared. At the same time, I was pleased to note that I wasn't suffering the overwhelming anxiety which had upset my stomach so much the night before. Could it really have been less than twenty-four hours ago?

I was dressed in blue jeans, a cream-colored turtleneck and a brown leather blazer, much to Anita's dismay. She hadn't commented on the work boots, so I assumed she hadn't noticed them. It was strange to have her fluttering about and to watch her become upset over what I was wearing. She hadn't struck me as the sort of woman who was overly fashion conscious. Nor had she struck me as the kind of woman who would help a man get dressed for a date with her lover. Still, if she wanted to keep him as a part of her life, she would have to compromise, no matter how much it pained her. As with the claiming, allowing me to have sex with Jean-Claude was the best of a limited set of bad options.

I eventually put an end to her demented cluckings over my attire by pointing out that I had been dressed for a date the night before. If Jean-Claude was too dense to seize the moment, it was hardly my fault. Anita was still chuckling a bit as I ushered her out the door so we could both leave. Her laughter was nice, if a bit on the desperate side, and I wished I could hear it more often. It certainly made her seem more human.

Dawn hadn't returned before it was time to go, so I'd left a note reminding her I was expected at Circus, and I would likely be gone until morning. It was painful, going to meet Jean-Claude without having said goodnight to Dawn, but it was better than the alternative. Had she arrived home before I left, I'm not entirely convinced I could have forced myself out the door.

Two large raindrops splattered against my windshield as I pulled into the employee parking lot of Circus of the Damned as I'd been instructed. I pulled a compact umbrella from the glove compartment and opened it just a few seconds before a hard rain started to fall. I jogged to the back of the building and stood under the awning, wondering where Jason was. I'd expected him to be looking for me, but there was no sign of him. I rang the buzzer, then turned to watch the rain come down.

"Who rang that bell!?" Jason's impression of the doorman to the City of Oz was execrable. He had a saucy and knowing grin on his face, and I tried not to think how nice it would be to make him reconsider the smile he gave me. Disciplining him was Jean-Claude's problem, not mine, so I settled for glaring at him briefly as I stepped inside and waited for him to guide me through the maze under the building.

As I followed Jason down, only half-listening to him prattle on, it occurred to me that I was much calmer because I finally knew what was to happen. There was no longer any question of if I would succumb to Jean-Claude's seduction. The only question that remained was what time. I found it in extremely poor taste that I was actually starting to anticipate the evening ahead. Bloody libido.

It wasn't until I heard Jason say, "— your bath, and then —"

"Bath? I showered not three hours ago. Why are you talking about a bath?"

He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed as he said, "Jean-Claude has explicit instructions about what he wants to happen tonight. My ass will be served up on a silver platter Wednesday night if I don't deliver you to him in just the way he wants you."

"How explicit could he be? He didn't have more than an hour to think about it this morning," I snapped, my calm anticipation evaporating in an instant. Mood swings were irritating enough in others, but in myself, they were unacceptable. Unfortunately, I couldn't rule my emotions as easily as I could rule other aspects of my personality, so Jason caught the worst of it.

He looked even more uncomfortable, but I refused to move until he answered my question, so I waited for him. And glowered at him. He attempted to outstare me, but I was having none of it. And when he realized he was losing this minor dominance battle, he said, "Jean-Claude's been planning this since the night you stayed here."

My reaction wasn't quite strong enough to be called shocked, but I was certainly bewildered. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been, given what Anita had told me. I said, "That was over a month ago!"

Jason shrugged, happy to hear I was disturbed by Jean-Claude's behavior and not his. He said, "What can I say? He's got it bad for you. And you should feel flattered — you're the only one he's willing to break Anita's rule for. Not even Asher rates that high. Come on. We've gotta hurry if we're going to meet his deadline."

He all but tugged on my arm to get me to follow him, and I did so with a great deal more reluctance than I had before. Sex was one thing, but Anita hadn't spoken of sex. She'd spoken of making love — as though there were an emotional connection. I was conditionally willing to admit to low-grade — mid-grade — lust whenever I saw him, but I was most definitely not in love with him. Talk of month-long preparations made me uneasy, as it implied that Jean-Claude was far more vested in this than I was.

Nor was I comfortable with Jason's off-hand comment about the mysterious Asher. Anita said the two of them had history, and I had a fair idea of what that meant. If Jean-Claude was willing to break Anita's rules for me but not Asher, I could only assume that he would not be happy about my new status within the group. I bit back a sigh as I wondered just how many people and vampires would be screaming for my blood once Jean-Claude took me.

Gloomy thoughts continued to occupy my mind as I walked behind Jason. As before, I was completely turned around down there. I doubted I'd ever be able to find the exit without resorting to magic — and it was the remembrance of that option that quieted my concerns over getting lost. When we finally arrived at our destination, I barely noticed the corridor we were in — I was too focused on the night ahead to pay very much attention to my surroundings. After we entered the suite, Jason closed and locked the door behind us before disappearing behind another door. I heard water running and surmised it was the promised bath.

When he came back out again, I said, "Really, Jason, I don't need another bath. I promise I'm quite clean."

"I know you are," he answered, his eyes focused on my chin. It was the first time he behaved toward me as a beta behaved toward an alpha, and I found myself rather disappointed by the submissive gesture. I could and did complain about Jason's insouciance, but at the same time, I enjoyed it. His little rebellions made me feel better about his lot in life. Now, though —

"If you know I'm clean, then why do I have to go through this again?" Yes, I felt badly for Jason, but I didn't understand why I had to go through with this, and he was the only one who had answers.

"It's your soap and shampoo — it's too strong. Jean-Claude wants to be able to smell you, not the chemicals," he answered respectfully.

Personally, I was gobsmacked. Of all the answers I expected, that one hadn't even made the list. "So all I need do is shower, then, right?"

"Um, no," he said, a bit of confidence returning to his voice after hearing me stammer. "He has special shampoo and soap. When you use them, they'll strip the chemical odors your brands leave behind, and you'll smell like you."

Though I was utterly bemused by his comments, I was still able to say, "I was given to understand that all that was required to protect me from the big, bad vampires was a bit of sex. Is there some reason Jean-Claude can't just bend me over a chair and have at it? I could be out of here as soon as he comes."

Jason blushed.

From what I knew of him, I didn't think it was possible to embarrass him. Granted, I hadn't been quite that crude since my days as Ripper, but it couldn't have been much worse than what he was used to seeing and hearing on a daily basis. And yet —

Jason blushed.

He was still a fiery red when he answered, "He — um — I'm going to check your bath." Jason fled, leaving me alone. I wasn't entirely upset over Jean-Claude's plans and preparations — after all, one likes to be shown they're appreciated — but his efforts made me uneasy. Obsession wasn't love, but there were those who could equate it as such, most notably, Angelus and Abigail. I wondered if Jean-Claude would fall into that group as well.

The thought disquieted me further, so I went to some pains to clear my mind and relax again. I made a conscious effort to look closely at my surroundings, and after a moment or two, I found myself pleasantly surprised. The decor of the room reminded me of nothing so much as an English country manor. The bed was both enormous and high off the ground, and sturdy posts at all four corners provided anchorage for the curtain rods that rimmed the bed. The curtains were a rich brown velvet with a deeper brown fringe at the bottom. The tiebacks were a burnished gold satin.

The parquet floor was covered with yet another Aubusson rug, and the walls were covered with tapestries. I took a closer look at one of them, and I realized I was looking at a museum piece. It was a fairly typical medieval scene, complete with knights and ladies frolicking in a meadow, but along one edge was the forest deep, and it was there that the tapestry went from being interesting in an historical fashion to being interesting in a deeply disturbing fashion.

For the hidden beasts, the artisan had chosen threads that blended well into the surrounding darkness of the woods, but which nonetheless very clearly defined the lurking evil. I spotted at least three varieties of troll, four dragons and two hell hounds. And in addition to the beasts, lost souls were tormented by demons and other unsavory characters. It was clear that the weaver had been influenced by Dante's Inferno.

"Creepy, isn't it?" Jason had returned from the bathroom and was looking at the tapestry. Despite the carefree inflection of his voice, I could tell his comment expressed his true sentiments.

"It is, a bit. Have you any idea why Jean-Claude chose it for this room?"

I was surprised that Jason was willing to answer my question. I'd more or less resigned myself to being told he didn't know when he replied, "He thought you'd find it interesting."

His comment disquieted me — it was more evidence that Jean-Claude was devoting entirely too much time to thinking about me. Rather than continuing the discussion about the decor, I asked, "You're certain I have to bathe again?"

"Yeah. And you have to — um — be thorough," he said, cringing away from me slightly.

I just shook my head and went into the bathroom. I turned to lock the door behind me, but there wasn't a lock. Certainly, I could complain, but I sincerely doubted Jason would be able to send someone down to Lowe's just to get a lock for the bathroom door. I hesitated for all of half a second before I cast a minor locking spell on the door.

When I finished undressing, I made use of the bidet before I climbed into the tub. Jason had managed to get the bath to the perfect temperature, and I sank back with a sigh of pleasure — the tub was long enough for me to stretch out. I chose not to think about the fact that it was also large enough for two.

I'd been soaking for a few minutes when I heard a rattling coming from the door. When he realized he couldn't get in, Jason knocked and said, "Mr. Giles? I need to get in there."

He was in a state. It was the first time he'd ever called me Mr. Giles. I called out, "No you don't, Jason. There's absolutely no reason for you to be in here whilst I'm bathing."

There was a pause as he considered my words, and I fought down a small, but intense thrill of pleasure at forcing him to dance to my tune instead of Jean-Claude's. So much for thinking I'd moved beyond the need to participate in pissing contests. I relented with a moderately exasperated sigh and said, "What do you need in here?"

"The stuff you were wearing. It smells of your laundry soap, and —"

"And Jean-Claude wants to smell me, not chemicals. I understand," I said, grumbling a bit as I canceled the locking spell. "You can come in."

I placed a washcloth in a strategic location and waited for Jason to take my clothing and leave. He did so as quickly as possible, but not before depositing an expensive, one hundred percent Egyptian cotton, waffle-weave robe on the counter. It was the type of robe that was sold in high-end salons to women with more money than sense. And to desperate men who have no idea what else they should get for their seventeen-year-old daughter at Christmas. Dawn's squeal when she found hers under the tree last year came close to bursting my eardrums.

I had seen that Jason was still unnerved during his brief trip into the room, but I had a hard time believing I'd done that to him. Surely someone else had been at him before I arrived.

Or perhaps I really was the one twisting him around.

Our arrival in this world had forced me to unearth some of my more unpleasant personality traits in order to ensure our survival. Though Buffy was convinced she'd met Ripper the night of the band candy incident, the truth was that I'd been considerably crueler when I'd gone by that sobriquet. Part of my behavior was attributable to youth, and part was attributable to the constant ingestion of drugs and alcohol. But the remainder was purely me. I'm not sure when that hardness developed, but it was present well before I first met Ethan. All he'd done was hone it to a keen edge. When I eventually made my peace with Dad, the Council and my destiny, I worked hard to blunt and hide that aspect of my personality. The ultimate result of that effort was the prat Buffy met on her first day at Sunnydale High School.

I had no desire to be Ripper again, so I made myself to review all that I'd done since arriving at Circus of the Damned. Individually, the incidents weren't all that bad, but taken as a whole, they were painting an unpleasant picture. It was clear what I would need to do.

Once out of the tub, I just ran my fingers through my hair after toweling it to remove the excess moisture. It would dry soon enough on its own, and I had no desire to style it again. I donned the robe Jason left, and I understood at last why Dawn had such a blissful look on her face whenever she wore hers.

When I finally left the bathroom, I said, "Jason, I apologize. My behavior toward you this evening has been unforgivably rude."

He was surprised for just a moment or so before his face settled back into its traditional smirk. I almost regretted my apology, but I decided I liked this aspect of Jason far more than I liked the subservient version. I would just have to remind myself of that on a regular basis, or I was sure to throttle him.

"Your chair awaits," he said with a grin and a flourish. Apparently, I was to sit at the vanity table.

"I think not," I said, when I caught sight of the make-up.

His face dropped into a pout, but it was nowhere near as devastating as Dawn's, so I ignored it. "Come on — just a little. It's okay for men to wear make-up now," he said, resorting to cajolery.

"No. And if this is some kind of attempt to 'freshen' my face, forget it. You would need spackling compound and several hours of drying time to fill in all the creases on my face, and I refuse to sit still for it," I said, sounding considerably more like Rupert Giles than I had since I arrived.

Jason could obviously tell the difference, because he continued in his usual manner, saying, "We don't want to hide the wrinkles so much as we want to de-emphasize the wrinkles."

"Absolutely not," I said, digging my heels in harder.

He sighed slightly before going to the vanity and picking up a kohl pencil. He said, "How about the eyes? Jean-Claude said he wants them to stand out."

"With that?! Use kohl on me, and I'll look like Frank-N-Furter. I refuse. The evening is entirely too theatrical already," I said, scowling for added emphasis.

"But you — wait — you've seen Rocky Horror?" His eyes were wide, and I thought I saw a hint of dawning respect in them.

"Several times, complete with props. And no, I won't use kohl." I stalked over to him and looked at the array on the table. Shaking my head, I added, "A touch of mascara will do the trick. Anything heavier, and I'll look like a trollop."

Jason looked a bit awed by the time I was finished speaking, and he said, "How do you know that?"

"Two words: glam rock," I said as I picked up the mascara. I took off my glasses and grimaced a bit as I put a light coat on my lashes. It had been over twenty-five years since the last time I tarted myself up, and I wasn't happy to be doing so now. But I felt I owed Jason something more than an apology for my behavior, and this was the best I could manage under the circumstances.

When I was finished, I put my glasses back on and said, "Is this all I'm wearing, or does Jean-Claude have a different costume for me?" I had finally resigned myself to the fact that I was expected to play a certain role tonight, whether I willed it or no. Jean-Claude's sense of theater was too strong for me to brush aside, and from what Jason said, I surmised a script had been written well before I arrived that night. My pragmatism cried out against all the frills, but my sensuality was starting to wake up and take a bit of notice.

He gestured to the bed, and I saw a deep gold silk shirt with laces up the front and a pair of brown leather trousers — also with laces up the front. Matching knee-high boots rested on the floor, and there was only one problem. "I don't see undershorts."

"No need to fret. There's lining on the inside," he said, holding up the trousers for me to inspect.

The lining didn't go all the way to the end of the legs, but it would, at least, protect my genitals from being rubbed raw. I'd only once made the mistake of wearing leather pants without undershorts, and I had vowed never to do so again. The boots were similarly lined, so I assumed that socks were also out of the question.

"I thought Jean-Claude wanted to smell only me," I said, catching the fragrance of the leather.

"He does, but the scent of leather won't linger on the skin."

I decided I didn't want to ask how he knew that. Instead, I shooed him out the door so I could dress in peace. He wasn't happy, but I didn't care. Ten minutes earlier, Jean-Claude had awakened. He was all but bursting with excitement over my presence in his lair, and I would soon have more significant issues than Jason's minor upset with which to deal.

Part 4

Journal of Rupert Giles

March 20, 2003

I met the most amazing woman at this morning's Chamber breakfast. Her name is Michelle Tanaka, and she owns a shop that deals in rare and antique manuscripts. She's beautiful inside and out, and I managed to ask her to dinner without sounding a complete fool. She accepted my invitation for Friday night, which means I have four days in which to tie myself in knots.

She's so graceful and kind. Her dignity in the face of Sanderson's boorish behavior made him look an absolute idiot. I suspect he knew that, which is why he acted so badly when she agreed to a date with me. Jenna told me after that he had asked her out numerous times, all to no avail. It just proves that Michelle has superb instincts.

Good lord — I have nothing to wear for our date. Dawn and I will have to go shopping tonight. I'm sure she'll find the perfect outfit for me.

~*~*~

October 24, 2004

I was just lacing up the shirt when I heard a knock at the door — it was Jason again. When I told him to enter, he did so cautiously, no doubt wondering if I was ready to kill the first person I saw. I wasn't. The clothing, while most definitely not my usual style, was unexpectedly comfortable, for all that the boots and pants were fairly close-fitting. I still felt like a right prat, though. Clothing like this was meant for the young, not the old. Jason didn't need to rub my nose in that fact by offering a wolf-whistle when he realized my mood was relatively mild.

After sending him a threatening glance, I asked, "When will you take me to Jean-Claude?"

He was putting away the make-up at the vanity table when he said, "I won't. He'll come here as soon as he's done getting ready."

Oh, lovely. Given Jean-Claude's definition of what acceptable attire was in this situation, I wondered if I would see him before morning. His presence in my mind was a continual buzz, and he freely shared his emotional state with me. His excitement and anticipation were starting to affect my own mood, so I did what I could to block him from my mind. It was hard enough to sort through my own emotions, let alone having to fend off another's.

With nothing else to do, I sat in one of the armchairs placed before the fireplace and watched as Jason brought out a number of candles from a wardrobe next to the vanity. They were large, white and, I assumed, made of beeswax. Jason set at least forty around the room before he was satisfied with the groupings, and then he started lighting each one. So much theater for such a small thing. Well — not all that small, but I was trying not to think about the night ahead.

When Jason was finished, he returned the few extra candles to the wardrobe, then pulled a tray from it. He placed a bottle and a glass on the tray before setting it on the table next to me. After he poured a finger of Ardbeg for me, he asked in a no-nonsense tone, "Do you really need those glasses?"

"Only if I want to see further than ten feet from me," I said, dreading what he was about to say.

"Good. You don't." He held out his hand for them, and I took them off, feeling rather aggrieved by the reduction of my visual acuity. On the other hand, perhaps I was better off seeing things in soft focus.

"He does understand, doesn't he, that I'm fifty years old, and that my eyesight is accordingly bad?"

Jason took my glasses before I could change my mind about handing them to him, and he said, "You're not fifty until next month, and yes, he understands. But he wants everything perfect tonight, so that means no glasses, because he couldn't arrange to get you fitted with contact lenses on such short notice. I'll put them in the stand on the left side of the bed, okay?"

"I'm beginning to have far more sympathy for a Christmas goose than I care to," I grumbled, even as I picked up the glass of scotch. "And if Jean-Claude wants me so very badly, why the devil is he trying to remake me?"

"He's not," Jason said, sounding surprised by my question. "He just wants you to look the way he sees you."

"In leather and silk?" Jason gave a small, apologetic shrug and went about his business.

I wanted to give up trying to make any sense of the course of the evening, but I kept picking at it the way one picks at a scab. Seduction was most definitely the intent behind all of the preparations, and part of me wanted to lose myself in Jean-Claude's scenario without having to think about anything at all. It was impossible, of course, especially considering that I was sitting in a room that was apparently decorated with me in mind. I only wished he'd carried the room's theme to my clothing. Tweed was a much better choice in a country manor, and it didn't make me feel as if I were on the auction block.

With those thoughts tumbling through my head, I took my first sip of the scotch. And waited. It was a smooth single malt, but what made it exceptional was the after-taste of peat smoke. One sip was all it took for me to imagine I was sitting near a campfire in the Highlands of Scotland. I barely noticed the soft music which started to play in the background, and I had no idea at all when Jason left me to my own devices.

When I finished my drink, I returned the glass to the tray and settled back into the chair. It was quite comfortable, and it seemed to have been designed for a taller frame. I closed my eyes for what I thought would be just a moment, but I must have fallen into a light doze. It was hardly surprising, considering how little sleep I'd gotten in the last twenty-four hours. I returned to consciousness slowly, vaguely aware of a hand insistently caressing my cheek. I opened my eyes to see Jean-Claude crouched next to my chair and staring up at me.

"Did you enjoy your nap, mon cher?" His expression was one of bemused wonder, and I thought perhaps he hadn't been sure I would be waiting for him. For all that I'd been boxed neatly into a corner by circumstances, Jean-Claude and my own bloody-mindedness, he hadn't been certain I would be there. It made me feel somewhat better, to know that he wasn't as omniscient as he would have everyone believe.

As I considered Jean-Claude, I tried to control my breathing, lost cause though it seemed to be at the moment. His touch was far more gentle and curious than I'd expected, and it was affecting me more deeply than I cared to admit. My reaction was hardly out of bounds — the last time I'd made love had been with Michelle, back in February. Since then, I'd been the recipient of countless hugs from Dawn, a whack on the head by gargoyles and a molestation by Abigail St. Clair. I reviewed that list one more time and decided it was good enough to serve as a rationalization for my hypersensitivity to his touch. Still, I tried not to lean into his caress.

My voice was a bit rough when I asked, "How long have I been asleep?"

"Perhaps three quarters of an hour. Jason thought your bath wasn't quite as soothing as it should have been," he answered in a low, rich voice.

My breath caught at the look in his eyes, and I felt my cock twitch slightly. Well. More than slightly, if I'm being honest. It was evident that I most certainly would not have any trouble responding to him this evening, and I hoped I didn't sound too much like a breathless starlet when I said, "It's been an eventful weekend."

"Indeed it has," he said, lightly dragging his fingers over my lips. In a languid tone, he asked, "Why did you not tell me that Angelus raped you?"

I was losing myself in a sensual stupor, and I almost missed the question. When I realized what he asked, I immediately tensed, then mentally cursed Anita. He heard the same thing I told her earlier, "I don't speak of that evening."

"Do not be upset over Anita's concern. She was right to tell me. If she hadn't, I might have hurt you quite unintentionally," he said in the same soft, tender voice he'd been using.

"What —" I swallowed, caught between anger and desire, then made myself continue. "What Angelus did was just business."

"Business?" He tugged gently at my lower lip with his thumb before moving his hand slowly down to my jawline.

He was wandering through each of my defenses as if they were no more substantial than smoke. It took a few moments for me to recall that I needed to answer Jean-Claude and then a few more before I remembered the question. I said, "He wanted information. I refused to give it."

"And he thought rape would make you tell him?" He traced the shape of my ear, and I leaned into his hand without thinking.

"It —" Another swallow, and I continued, "It was number seven on his list of methods for obtaining cooperation." Angelus had quite an imagination when it came to torturing people, and he spared nothing when it came to me. I could have ended the torture at any time just by telling him what he wanted to know, but the consequences of that choice were too horrendous even to contemplate. So I remained silent as he tried each of the tricks up his sleeve.

"Ah." The look on his face bespoke far more compassion than I had expected from anyone, let alone a vampire. His evident concern and continual caresses quite deflated what remained of my anger. It didn't take long for me to admit that he was right — he should have been told. And since I was clearly unwilling to tell him, Anita had done the only thing she could to make the situation at least livable.

To me, however, the only thing that would make this situation more palatable was to remove the urgent need to act before Wednesday night. The rush to bed added an element of coercion, and I found that to be considerably more discomfiting than anything Jean-Claude might wish to do with or to me. I didn't say anything about it, though, as there was little to be done other than reordering the laws of time and space to postpone the reception. Or better still, to go back one month and make an effort to talk to Anita. As neither of those options were a possibility, I focused on Jean-Claude's face and concentrated on relaxing.

Jean-Claude must have seen something in my posture, because he trailed his hand down my face to my right shoulder, and from there, along my arm. On its downward path, one of his knuckles just barely grazed my nipple, and I started slightly at the sensation. I swallowed when I realized I wanted very much for his hand to return and tease me through the fabric. But, as usual, my right hand proved irresistable to him. I watched as he took it in both his hands and lifted it to his mouth.

He said, "I know what it is to be ill-used by those more powerful. I would rather that you had never suffered such an attack, but I am unable to turn back the clock, Rupert. And Angelus, like Abigail, is far beyond my reach. The only thing I have to offer is that tonight, you will control what happens between us."

His gift — and it was most definitely a gift — was entirely unexpected. I had been bracing myself for most of the afternoon to accept his penetration, wondering if I would be able to manage it. Though Angelus hadn't done permanent physical damage, the memory of pain had been sufficient to prevent me from enjoying rectal penetration to the degree I once had. Michelle had helped immensely in that regard, but our relationship ended before I was fully comfortable again. As for this evening, I never once considered the possibility that he would allow me to be top.

I would have mulled over the matter further, but coherent thought fled for a period of time when he put the tip of my index finger to his lips, then sucked it into his mouth. His eyes closed, he held it for a moment, his tongue swirling around, then he pushed it out slightly before drawing it back in. Each time he did so, I grew that much harder. It was all I could do not to shove my finger back into his mouth when he finally opened his eyes again and released it.

Sweet Jesus — I was beginning to have serious doubts that I would survive the next five minutes, let alone all the hours to sunrise. I stared at him, uncertain what my next move should be. My cock was all for taking him right then, but it had been too long since it had that much of a say in my decisions, so I ignored it for the time being in favor of looking at Jean-Claude.

He remained crouched on the floor with his right hand tracing idle patterns on my knee. I considered him for a long moment, but really, there were no more reasons to hesitate. I'd had a few lingering doubts when I awoke, but they disappeared the moment he told me I would be in control. I lifted his hand from my knee before standing and pulling him up as well. But for the fact that he was looking me in the eye, he would have been the perfect submissive. I was glad for the reminder that he wasn't. Jean-Claude didn't know me well enough to understand the lengths to which I could go when provided sufficient encouragement.

I traced his face with both of my hands, learning its curves and angles through touch, even as I memorized its appearance. I think I could have fallen in love with him at that moment, if he had been alive. I cupped one hand at the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss. I could detect a faint metallic taste in his mouth, and I firmly reminded myself that this evening's activities wouldn't work nearly so well if he hadn't fed first.

My self-admonition worked well enough for me to become quite involved in the kiss. Unfortunately, when I lost myself in the texture and taste of his mouth, I also lost sight of Anita's only warning before we parted company earlier in the evening. In my defense, it was the first open-mouth kiss I'd shared with a vampire in this world, so really, it was plain to see how I could have forgotten that his fangs were always present and always razor sharp. They were so sharp, in fact, that I didn't even realize I'd cut myself until Jean-Claude suddenly pulled away from me.

His self-control was impressive — he didn't lick at the blood staining his lips. Instead, he waited to see what my reaction would be. I lifted a hand to my mouth and wiped at the slow-bleeding cut. Without pausing, I offered my blood to him as was a way to thank him for giving me control. He licked his lips clean before slowly licking clean my finger. And when he was done, I drew him in for another, more cautious kiss.

I kept the pace slow and deliberate not out of shyness, but rather because I couldn't quite decide where I wanted to start. I moved my hand slowly down his back, enjoying the play of his muscles under the silk shirt he wore. When I reached the small of his back, I nudged my fingertips under the waistband of his pants — leather, of course — and pulled his hips to mine. His arousal was as evident as mine, and I was both vain enough and insecure enough to be gratified by it.

I tried to grind against him, but leather just doesn't slide that easily against leather. Jean-Claude sensed my frustration, and as he brought his hand to the lacings on my trousers, he said, "Please? May I?"

My hips bucked forward against him, trapping his hand for the moment, and I answered, "I think you must," before trailing a series of small licks and kisses against his jawline. I allowed enough space between us to give him room to use both hands to unlace me. And whilst he was busy with that, I was busy catching the scent of him. I nuzzled the hollow just behind his ear before continuing down his neck. And when my cock was free and his hand was around it, I couldn't help myself — I bit down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

His response was immediate and vocal and very much in the French of his youth. There were a few words I'd never heard before, and the researcher in me made a note to ask him for the meanings later on. Happily, the researcher in me was very quickly knocked unconscious by the sensualist in me, and I was left to enjoy the taste and texture of Jean-Claude's skin against my tongue. He continued a soft and steady stream of archaic profanity as I continued to lick and bite at him. I came close to adding a stream of Greek profanity to the general mantra when he started playing with my foreskin.

American women were generally unaccustomed to that bit of extra flesh, and they tended to hesitate when confronted with it. Not so with Jean-Claude. He knew just how to manipulate it to best effect, and, as if from a distance, I heard myself whimpering from the pleasure of it. When I released him from my mouth, he dropped gracefully and unexpectedly to his knees.

He drew me into his mouth, taking care with his fangs. They didn't cut, but he used them to add just that extra bit of danger to the situation. I buried one hand in his hair and used it to keep him where he was. I heard myself murmuring encouragement, and I wasn't especially picky about which language I used. I urged him on in French, Greek, Sumerian and English, drawing on each language's vocabulary of sex.

It was all I could do not to try to force him back to his knees when he released me and stood again. I muttered something about the inconstancy of vampires, and he said, "I think, mon chêne, that we would be more comfortable elsewhere."

"I'm hardly an oak," I answered, trying once again to catch my breath.

His hand still curled around my cock, he murmured, "But you have such a strong and sturdy branch. My confusion is understandable, no?" I could feel a whisper of power moving between us, and I wondered if that was the reason I was harder than I could ever recall. If it was, we would have to have a chat about ground rules. Abigail had used magic to rape me — I really didn't need Jean-Claude using the same tactics when I'd already agreed to have sex with him.

Part 5

Journal of Rupert Giles

December 4, 2002

Dawn will soon drive me mad if she doesn't cease and desist in her persistent attempts to find a romantic interest for me. As near as I can tell, she's canvassing each of her schoolmates in an attempt to find a single mother who might be acceptable — by her standards, of course. God forbid she should ask me what I think.

December 13, 2002

Earlier today, I thought I might have put an end to Dawn's matchmaking. When she came home from school with yet another photograph and biography of yet another single mother, I rather casually asked why she was limiting her efforts to one gender. Silence reigned at last — for all of one hour. And then I heard her calling someone named Marissa, whose father is apparently gay and is quite interested.

We meet for drinks next Friday.

Will I never learn?

~*~*~

October 24, 2004

Jean-Claude made as if to move us toward the bed, but I needed a question answered before I could go any further. I gripped his wrist and said, "Why are you using your magic on me?"

He went still and had what seemed to be a genuinely perplexed expression on his face. "I do not understand, mon chêne. I am not using magic."

"The power, Jean-Claude. I can feel it. Is this why I'm responding to you so readily?" I tightened my hold on his wrist and waited for him to answer.

In response, he squeezed my cock — a friendly reminder that he still had hold of me — and said, "Not all magic equals power, mon chêne. The poets would have us understand that magic can be found in a glance, a whisper, a touch."

"I know the difference," I snapped, even as my hips thrust forward in response to his touch. It had been decades since the last time I'd been with Ethan, and I'd forgotten how difficult it was for me to maintain a decent level of anger when someone was wanking me. It had been his preferred method for ending arguments between us, and given my age and obsession with sex at the time, he generally succeeded. Still, though remaining angry was difficult just then, it wasn't impossible. "Damn you —"

"Hush. What you feel is your own power. It is responding to me. That is all," he murmured. "Take a moment and concentrate. You will see for yourself."

Concentrate? I didn't know it was possible for vampires to make jokes that didn't involve pain and blood. Still, I made an effort — and found that he was right. The power was indeed mine, "But why didn't I recognize it?"

Jean-Claude looked mildly exasperated as he said, "You are an extremely intelligent man, mon chêne, a quality which I admire to no end and one of which I will make full use in due time. Now, however, is not the time to solve the puzzle of your magic. We have other mysteries to explore this evening, do we not?"

Oh. Right.

He leaned in close enough to nuzzle my ear before saying, "Would you not be more comfortable on the bed?" As beautiful as he was, his voice was what caught one's attention. It promised to fulfill dark dreams and darker fantasies. Under the right circumstances, I think I could have listened to him read the phone book and been aroused. Still, he had a point.

I moved slowly toward the bed, pulling him along by the waistband of his trousers. When we reached it, I leaned against the side with Jean-Claude standing in front of me. I watched his eyes as I started to undo the lacings on his shirt, taking my own sweet time in the process. I never liked tearing the wrapping off my gifts, and he was just starting to understand that. He didn't allow his impatience to show on his face or in his posture, but it was clear enough to me through my link to him.

When the lacings were undone, I opened his shirt just a bit so I could get a better look at the scar on his chest. I traced it with my thumb, noting his reaction, before asking, "Why hasn't this healed?"

"Holy fire burned me," he answered, shifting slightly in response to my touch.

I said nothing in reply, choosing instead to learn the texture of the smooth, pale flesh and the scar it surrounded. He most likely could have stood for as long as I required him to do so, but my impatience was spurred on by his. I need to see more of him, and I pulled his shirt free of his pants so I could remove it completely. He had to release me at that point, but the look of pleasure on his face told me it wasn't a complete hardship on his part. Jean-Claude was, at heart, an exhibitionist. Everything he was, from his carefully cultivated appearance to the sensual timbre of his voice, was designed to catch an audience's attention. He achieved his goal in my case.

When he was free of his shirt, Jean-Claude reached for me again, but I gently pushed his hands away and said, "Not now." With his arms at his side, I traced the cross-shaped scar with my thumb once more before leaning in to trace it with my tongue. The texture was similar to any such scar tissue, and though a small part of me mourned the marring of such perfect skin, the greater part of me rejoiced in the flaw. Too much perfection was, in a word, boring.

My hands were just as busy as my tongue. A poet might suggest I memorized Jean-Claude's body through feather-light touches, but the truth was, I felt him up. His arse was firm, the musculature well-defined. In front, his cock remained trapped in his trousers, and his hips shot forward when I teased him through the leather. I used just enough pressure to let him know my touch was deliberate, but not nearly enough pressure to satisfy. I was hoping to make him start swearing again, and he soon obliged. I was a bit disappointed that he was using modern French but thought perhaps if I bit him again, I would hear the older language instead.

He was still standing upright, if a bit more rigidly than before, and I would have been impressed had he been human. As it was, I found I wanted to push him just a little bit more. It wasn't a cruel impulse on my part. Though Jean-Claude was ultimately the puppet master of tonight's festivities, I needed to see if I could make him lose control even more than I had done earlier. If I could, it might just level the playing field.

I watched his face as I murmured, "Jean-Claude?"

"Oui —" I was happy to hear that his voice wasn't quite as smooth as it had been a few minutes earlier. It was most likely because I had just undone the top laces of his pants, allowing only the tip of his cock to come out. I hadn't looked at it yet, but I was running my thumb around the head, teasing at the slit.

"Tell me about yourself," I said casually. I loosened the next row of laces so I could get my fingers all the way around his cock without having to bend it too much. When my finger reached the area between his stomach and cock, I paused, waiting for his answer.

"Rupert!?" Ah, yes. The dawning horror. I remembered it well from my early days with Ethan. It wasn't that I was a complete tease, but I did enjoy drawing things out to the limit, and perhaps a bit further. It took Ethan several months to realize that yes, I was like that all of the time and that any effort on his part to speed things up would invariably slow things down. I thought Jean-Claude might be quicker on the uptake. I also suspected he was beginning to rethink his decision to give control of our activities over to me this evening.

"I'm curious. After all, we haven't really gotten to know one another all that well, and here I am with my cock out and my hand down your pants. You have to admit that perhaps a bit of sharing might be in order," I said, much in the same way I might have gotten to know a customer in order to better serve their needs. My lips twitched slightly at the look on his face — he'd expected us to be naked and on the bed by this point, not playing twenty questions. Perhaps I was a complete tease after all.

"But — now?" His hips were starting to move in an unconscious rhythm in response to my fondling, and I gave his cock an approving squeeze. One of his hands moved forward slightly, but Jean-Claude dropped it at his side again without prompting. He had earned a minor reward, so I undid the next course of laces, freeing his cock just that much more.

"Do you follow sports? I find that I'm starting to enjoy baseball. It will never replace rugby in my affections, but listening to a game on the radio is a rather soothing way to pass a summer evening," I said, increasing the pressure on his cock just a bit. The power I'd felt earlier was starting to swirl around a bit, and I tried to understand just what it was that was happening. My magic was most definitely enhancing and strengthening my arousal, though I wasn't sure how or if it affected Jean-Claude. All I knew was that my erection hadn't subsided, even though I should have softened somewhat when I started chatting.

He made a bit of a strangled noise, and I supposed that was my fault. I had wet the thumb on my free hand and ran it over the tip of his cock just as he started to say something.

"Better still, explain why my power is behaving the way it is. What is it that I'm responding to?" I finished unlacing his trousers, freeing his cock completely, and I drew him to me.

He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the bed on either side of me, and dropped his forehead on my shoulder and said, "It is the ardeur, I believe."

His answer sounded real enough, so pushed my hips forward and grasped both our cocks together before starting a slow, steady hand job. My mouth was against his neck when I asked, "What, precisely, is the ardeur?"

Jean-Claude's hips moved in a rhythm slightly faster than I was using, so I slowed down even more. He muttered something in that beautiful, archaic French and slowed his movements to match mine. I was happy to find that he was brighter than Ethan had been. "It —" He paused to collect himself, then continued, "It is a way for me to feed that does not require blood."

"Lust?" He was answering well, so I speeded up the rhythm a bit. I was gratified by his moan.

"Oui — Mon chêne, please — may we discuss this later?" It was the element of sincere begging that finally convinced me to move forward. It was possible that he was just that good a liar, but I didn't think so. His defenses were down at that point, and I took shameless advantage of that fact to determine his true emotional state through our link.

I gave him a gentle nip on his neck before saying, "Finish undressing yourself. I would like very much to see you." In five or ten years, my memory of the moment will have me saying those words in a very calm and collected manner. The truth, however, was that once I touched Jean-Claude's emotions through our link, my own passion started to ignite beyond the point he'd taken me with his all-too-brief blow job. Really, it's a wonder I was able to get the words out at all.

He gently disengaged my hands — yes, I'd forgotten to let go when I asked him to disrobe — and moved to my side. He leaned against the bed to remove his boots, then waited until he was certain he had my undivided attention — about half a second, no more than that. He shimmied out of his trousers, then kicked them to the side and stood there, beautiful, his cock full and darkened with borrowed life.

"Oh, dear lord," I whispered. I'd had an idea that he would be lovely, but really, one has an idea that Michaelangelo's statue of David will be an interesting sight until faced with the breath-taking reality of it. He smiled slightly in response, then moved forward.

"One of us, mon chêne, has entirely too many clothes on," he said, sounding a bit more in control of himself as he reached for the loose knot I'd tied at the top of my shirt. "Would you mind terribly if I solved that particular problem?"

I made some sort of noise which Jean-Claude interpreted as agreement on my part. He found it a bit difficult to remove my shirt, because I was running my hands along every square inch of his skin that I could reach. Eventually, though, I was left standing in just the pants and boots he'd given me to wear. And as entranced as I was with his skin, it was scarcely anything compared to his fascination with my chest hair.

I was still leaning against the bed, so that even with his face just inches from my torso, I was still able to kick off my boots with only moderate difficulty. Removing my pants was somewhat easier, and I found myself rather disconcerted that he hadn't even seemed to notice I was fully naked.

"Jean-Claude?" He made an almost inaudible grunt, but otherwise said nothing. "Jean-Claude — what are you looking at? Surely you've seen chest hair before now," I said, sounding mildly aggravated.

He looked up at that and said, "But it is gray!"

I opened my mouth a few times to respond, but all that finally made it out was a chuckle, which ultimately turned into a fit of the giggles. He looked a bit put out by my response, but really, his shock was quite amusing. When my laughter had slowed down enough to allow limited speech, I said, "Of course it is! You didn't honestly believe only the hair on my head would go gray, did you?"

From the look on his face, it was clear that he had. He dropped immediately to his knees and began the same thorough examination of my pubic hair. He held my cock away from my body, and my hips moved in response. "Didn't —" Christ, that felt good. "Didn't you notice this earlier? Or when I was here last month?"

His voice was muffled because his lips were less than an inch from my balls, but I heard him say, "Of course not. It would have been rude for me to look when you were a guest last month, and I had other things on my mind a short while ago. Mon Dieu! You do have gray hair everywhere."

"Told you I was old," I muttered, no longer quite so happy with our little game.

He stood immediately and said, "Do not misunderstand me, mon chêne. It is simply that I have not been with a human of any significant age in centuries. If once I had known this, I have forgotten it. Do not feel badly because of my ill-thought words."

He nuzzled my cheek, and I responded, turning my head to catch his mouth in a kiss. Though I had intended just a quick and simple kiss to accept his apology, it soon became far more serious than I expected. His skin was warm against mine, and I had a hard time remembering at that moment that he was a vampire, technically one of the enemy, though I was no longer as certain of that as I'd once been. We ground our hips together, and it took a few tries before we fell into a mutually acceptable rhythm. I could feel my climax approaching, but I wasn't ready to let go just yet — I very much wanted to be inside Jean-Claude when that happened.

I pulled out of the kiss and said, "Condoms?"

"In the drawer," he muttered, even as he tried to recapture my lips. I was grateful he hadn't tried to suggest we didn't need them. I had no way of knowing if vampires were carriers for venereal disease, and given the number of partners Anita seemed to have, I didn't care to take any chances.

I pushed him away and told him to get on the bed, even as I made my way to the nightstand. I fumbled for a moment — I was a bit graceless from passion and impatience — before I pulled out two packets and a tube of lubricant. When I turned back to the bed, Jean-Claude was on his hands and knees, waiting for me.

"I think not," I said. "On your back, if you please."

"Rupert?" I couldn't see his face as well as I wanted, with my glasses gone, but I could tell he was surprised.

"I prefer to watch my partner's face — especially our first time together. Please, Jean-Claude. I want to see you."

He stared at me for the longest moment before rolling onto his back and shifting his legs to make room for me. I couldn't understand why he stared for so long, but when I asked, all he said was, "Now, please, mon chêne. Enter me now."

~*~*~

An endless time later, condoms disposed of, we finally managed to get under the covers. I was on my back, and Jean-Claude was curled up against me, tucked within my embrace. I was just starting to drift off when he murmured something in French. I was tired enough that I convinced myself I misheard him. He couldn't possibly have just told me he loved me.

Part 6

Journal of Rupert Giles

October 2, 2004

For the first time, I'm beginning to miss the simplicity of Angelus and Spike. At heart, all they wanted to do was spread death and destruction in their wake, with the occasional foray into trying to destroy the world. Their motivations were simple, if illogical at times, and one could deal with them on that level.

The vampires here, however, are more complicated than a Rube Goldberg device. From the hints Jason and Nathaniel have dropped, Jean-Claude has plots within plots within plots. Each is intertwined with the next in such a way so as to ensure that they continue unabated, even if he's unable to oversee them himself.

I have no idea where I fit into Jean-Claude's plans. He's sent two tokens of his esteem in the past few days, and I've returned both without comment. Jason told me today that Jean-Claude was hurt by my refusals, but I can't quite bring myself to believe that. For one thing, the boy is a horrid tease. For another, Jean-Claude would have to have feelings for me to be hurt by my declinations of his gifts.

~*~*~

October 27, 2004

The week had been moderately trying since my return home on Monday morning. When I arrived, Dawn and her sister were fighting over my new relationship. Evidently, Buffy had popped in at the Circus to check on my safety, and for her trouble, she'd received a fairly abrupt and comprehensive introduction to my sexuality. I was still waiting for her to apologize for barging in without announcing herself, but I doubted that would happen any time before the start of the next millennium. I just hoped she would learn to avoid me whenever she realized I was in a bedroom.

At any rate, the two of them paused their fight long enough for me to learn that after Buffy saw Jean-Claude and me together, she'd gone scampering off to tattle to Dawn. Actually, tattling isn't the right word. She'd run to Dawn to mount up an expedition to rescue me from the big, bad vampire. Dawn explained later that she told her it was no one's business but my own, but Buffy was firmly entrenched in her belief that I was insane. The two of them had been at each other's throats over the issue ever since. I'm not sure which upset Buffy more — the fact that I'd had sex with a vampire or the fact that the vampire in question was most decidedly male. It was equally possible that she was upset over the fact that I had sex — never mind who or what my partner was.

As for me, I tried very hard to stay out of their little spat. Buffy and Dawn were adults, which meant I wasn't required to become involved. I had enough on my plate as it was, including the fact that I was very much not looking forward to being displayed like a brand new, shiny toy at Jean-Claude's gathering. Too, it was the night before the full moon, and Nathaniel's were-energy was starting to grate on me a bit. I was pathetically grateful to leave the shop to go to the optometrist's office, even though I didn't like contact lenses. As my choices were limited to being half-blind for the night or being able to see, I chose to see.

By the time I returned from my appointment and picking up my tuxedo and shirt from the dry cleaners, it was close to four in the afternoon. Nathaniel would also be at the reception that night, so I told him to leave early on the assumption that he would need time to get ready. The expression on his face was a bit odd when he saw my suit, but I didn't really think too much about it. I just sent him on his way and started sorting through the day's receipts. Dawn arrived shortly thereafter to close up the shop so I could finish dressing and arrive at Circus of the Damned by half five.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I offered a quick prayer to whichever of the gods might be listening that this would be the last social function of Jean-Claude's that I would have to attend for quite a while. I could do with considerably less excitement in my life — and what a thought that was. In Sunnydale, the events of the last few weeks would scarcely have raised an eyebrow. It was a measure of how quickly I'd become acclimated to the lack of violence in my life that I now approached this evening's party with a sense of unease.

Jason was waiting for me outside the employee entrance, and after I greeted him, he said, "Nice monkey suit. What's the occasion?"

That was my first hint that my discomfort over the night to come wasn't entirely uncalled for. Though, as I thought about it later, I realized that Nathaniel's peculiar reaction to my tuxedo earlier in the afternoon was most likely the first clue.

I looked at him, puzzled, and said, "I'm dressed for this evening's reception. It's still on, isn't it?"

"Um, yeah. It's still on, but didn't anyone tell you?" Jason looked genuinely embarrassed, which was never a good sign.

"Tell me what?"

"Why don't you come in? Someone else —"

I stepped directly in front of him and scowled. It wasn't the worst scowl I could manage, but it was bad enough. It was the one I'd used to good effect on Principal Snyder on any number of occasions. "Why don't you tell me, Jason?" The scowl was bad enough, but I followed it up with a rather predatory smile.

It had the desired effect. Jason swallowed once before saying, "It's a costume ball — because of Halloween."

"Ah. In that case, I'm dressed as James Bond, and my tuxedo is perfectly suitable, yes?" Judging from the look on his face, I'd missed the mark entirely, but I wasn't going to give up that easily. For a month, Jason had teased me unmercifully about Jean-Claude's attraction to me. As I had the upper hand, I wasn't about to let the opportunity for further payback slip through my fingers.

"Not really," he replied, looking a bit more miserable than he had. I waited. Jason squirmed — metaphorically, that is. Eventually, "There's a theme. Gods and goddesses."

"Then I shall be the god of formal wear."

"No — that's not what you're going as," he said.

"Then I'm not going as anything, because I have no appropriate costume." I turned to leave, wondering if I might actually get away with my escape. Unfortunately, Anita was right behind me.

"Going somewhere?" It was the first time I'd seen her since Sunday, and though I wanted to talk to her to see how she was doing, it was neither the time nor the place.

Instead, I told her, "Jason has just informed me that tonight's reception is a costumed affair. As I have nothing appropriate to wear, I'm going home."

She drawled, "And you think Jean-Claude doesn't already have a costume picked out for you?"

Blast. "I've seen Jean-Claude's taste in clothing —"

Jason interrupted, "You ain't seen nothing yet."

I spared a moment to glare back at him before turning to Anita again and saying, "I'm certain that whatever he's chosen is entirely inappropriate for me."

At that, she stepped well within my personal space. Glowering up at me, and poking my chest for emphasis, she bit out, "I've been his girlfriend for a hell of a lot longer than you've been his boyfriend. And if I have to look like a porn star for these stupid parties, what makes you think you get to dress like a normal person?"

Despite the fact that she'd twice pointed a gun at me with the intent to shoot, I felt more threatened by her at that moment than I ever had before. Her reputation was well-earned. Still, I wasn't quite ready to give in.

"You are considerably younger than I, and you have the — er — attributes to carry off such a look. I, on the other hand, will look a complete fool," I said, forcing myself to stay exactly where I was. If I took a step back, I would lose this little pissing match. I probably would in any event, but I hoped I would acquit myself well in the meantime.

"I've seen your 'attributes'. They aren't too shabby for an old guy," Jason said, nearly losing his life in the process. If I hadn't been standing toe-to-toe with Anita, I would have found a way to kill him, even without a silvered weapon in hand.

Anita and I growled, "Jason," at the same time without breaking eye contact with one another. She continued, "You'll wear whatever the hell Jean-Claude has had made for you, and you'll do it with a smile. I didn't let you into his bed just for you to blow it tonight. Jason? Open the door. Giles and I have a party to get ready for."

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again almost immediately. Anita wasn't in the mood for a spat, and I wasn't entirely convinced I could survive an encounter with her after sunset, which would be coming fairly soon. Without another word, I walked through the door and waited for Jason to lead the way. He stepped in front of me, and Anita took up the rear. Clearly, she didn't trust me not to bolt at the first opportunity. Perhaps her mistrust was the result of the longing look I gave the door just before it shut behind her.

Jason attempted to start a conversation as we headed down to the rooms underneath the Circus, but neither Anita nor I were in the mood to chat. I'm not sure what Anita was doing, but I was settling in for a nice, long brood. I may have had to wear whatever I was told to wear, but I most definitely would not be wearing a smile along with it.

We reached the same room Jean-Claude and I had occupied several nights earlier, and I managed to enter without blushing — I hoped. My face felt a bit warmer, but since there was only candle light in the room, it's possible that any flush I might have would go unremarked.

Jason paused next to the bed and held his arm out to indicate what was on it. At first, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing, and when I did — "He can't be serious! What am I to do? Glue the solid bits on and hope they don't fall off?"

"No — it's not like that at all," he said as he held the assemblage of fabric up. "See? It's a body stocking."

I know he meant that in a comforting way, but, "It's sheer, Jason. How am I supposed to wear under shorts?"

Anita hadn't said anything, but that was because she was at a loss for words. I don't think she looked as shocked when I turned her gun into a dove as she did while staring at the costume I was to wear.

Determined to ignore our dismay, Jason said, "You don't need them. See? There's a built-in pouch in front, and this vine thing runs up the back like a thong. Everything will be covered."

When Anita found her voice at last, it was to say, "Holy shit."

"You have to talk to him — make him understand that I can't possibly go out in public wearing that — that bit of fluff," I said, pleading with her even as she was shaking her head no.

"I feel for you, Giles. I really do. If it were me, I'd be kicking up just as big a fuss. But in the end, I'd put it on and play the game." Her sympathy was genuine, but I couldn't understand why it was so bloody important for me to wear that costume.

"What reason could he have to humiliate me so thoroughly?" I wasn't anywhere near tears, but my frustration was mounting. Had I been twenty-five, I would have donned the thing for a lark and spent the evening strutting about. At nearly fifty, I was no longer the exhibitionist I'd once been. My body was trim for my age — near-daily runs, weight training and workouts with Dawn had eliminated the small belly I'd been growing in my last year in Sunnydale — but I wasn't what anyone could describe as "buff".

"Jason — out," she said, looking at me. Once he left, she said, "I know you didn't want any of this. I know that if you had a choice, you and Dawn would be sitting at home right now and drinking tea or whatever the hell it is that the two of you do for fun. The problem is you don't have a choice anymore, and the sooner you recognize that, the better off you'll be."

"I know that — believe me, I do. I'm trying my very hardest to adapt to my new lot in life, but this —" I picked up the outfit from the bed and held it out to her. "This is the most obscene thing I've ever been obliged to wear. You can see that it doesn't suit me, can't you?"

I would have gone off on a full rant if it hadn't been for the utter compassion I saw in her eyes. She knew what this was costing me at the moment — and I didn't doubt that she knew far better than I the ultimate price that I would pay.

"I can see that you believe that, but I can also see why Jean-Claude thinks it's so perfectly suited for you." I would have asked what she meant by that, but before I could, she said, "Do you know what your costume is?"

She had walked over to the vanity as I answered, "One of the fertility gods, I suppose, given all the greenery."

"Good guess," she said, holding up a mask.

It wasn't a full mask — it would leave my mouth and chin visible while covering the rest of my face. The oak leaves sprouting from the cheeks and hairline told me which role I was to play, but I wasn't happy about it. "The Green Man? Was there some reason he couldn't have chosen a more fully clothed version of him?"

"He wants to show you off," she answered quietly. "He wants everyone to see the new love in his life."

"I'm not — no, Anita. You've misunderstood something he said. I'm not the new love in his life. It was just sex — that's all," I said, backing away until I hit the door.

"You haven't seen him since you left. You don't know what he's been like." Christ, she looked sad. I hated that quite unintentionally, I had caused some of her sorrow.

"At most, it's a crush. Nothing more. I'm different, something new. He'll tire of me soon enough, if he hasn't already." I'll admit I was getting a bit desperate. I'd all but wiped my memory clean of Jean-Claude's final words to me before I drifted off that morning, but even so, I was still determined to believe I'd misheard him.

"Nice try, but it won't work," she said, her voice sounding stronger than it had before. "You can twist in the wind as much as you want on this, but he loves you, and he's not letting go anytime soon."

"How can you calmly stand there and talk about your lover that way?" Yes, even after all that had happened, I was appalled by her attitude. Had our positions been reversed, I would have been fighting tooth and nail to hold on.

She looked at me for a long moment before seeming to come to a decision. She said, "If, by calm, you mean I'm not actively trying to kill you, the answer is simple — either I accept this, or we all die." When she saw that she had my complete, if disbelieving, attention, she added, "We have to put our differences aside and present a united front tonight. We can't let any of them think we're bickering or having problems. If they do, we're dead."

I was shaking my head in denial as she spoke. When she finished, I said, "Oh, please. Don't dramatize the situation. It's bad enough as it is."

"You're not in Sunnydale anymore," she said in a very tight, controlled voice. "The vamps here make the Medici family look like amateurs when it comes to politics. From what you said, Angelus was the bad-ass in your town — if he were here, the Vampire Council would eat him alive. And that is why you're going to wear that costume and make it look like it was all your idea in the first place. Trust me, Giles, you don't want to give them an excuse to try and get rid of Jean-Claude. If they think he can't control his group, they'll destroy us."

I stared at her for the longest time, my mouth hanging open slightly. It was the first time I'd heard a hint of fear in her voice, and that, more than anything she'd said, impressed upon me the gravity of the situation. If I wasn't entirely clear on the details, I was now clear on the level of danger I was in. And if I was in danger, so too was Dawn. I had to keep that thought firmly in mind, or I would never survive the evening. As it was, I wasn't entirely convinced I wouldn't be left with a permanent blush. Eventually, I told her, "Leave. I have to get dressed. Or undressed, as the case may be."


Part 7

Journal of Rupert Giles

November 1, 1999

I'm trying to understand what it is about the Hellmouth that makes Halloween such a trial in Sunnydale. By all rights, the town should be quiet and peaceful, yet still, each year brings new difficulties.

I suppose I should try to determine how the fraternity managed to end up with a book of demon summoning, but I can't seem to work up the enthusiasm. Part of me thinks they got what they deserved and perhaps they will be more careful the next time. Another part of me wonders to whom I would report my findings, given that I'm rather seriously underemployed at the moment.

The only nice thing to come out of all this was the chance to have the children around last night.

~*~*~

October 27, 2004

It wasn't until I started examining my so-called costume that I discovered just exactly what Jean-Claude planned to put on display that evening. But for a three-inch strap of mesh that ran from left to right just above my shoulder blades, the back was bare. The thought of my scars being plainly visible to anyone who cared to look was slightly nauseating and nearly enough to make me take my chances on finding a way out of the Circus. Only the memory of Anita's fear kept me there.

Though I loathed the idea of prancing about in public wearing the thing, I had to admit that it was rather cunningly designed. The snap closures at the shoulder were hidden by pieces designed to appear as leaves and branches. The groin was little better than a thong, but it would cover the important bits — assuming I moved carefully. There was a kind of trap-door assembly which allowed the wearer to empty his bladder — I quite firmly ignored other possible reasons someone might need to open up, as it were. This area, too, was covered with pieces designed to look like leaves.

Another piece of fabric twined around my right leg, stretching up along the right side of my torso. It was designed to look like a vine with leaves seeming to sprout from it. My left side, however, was distressingly barren of such modesty panels. And because the mottled pale brown and tan mesh of the body stocking was quite fine, I knew I would look as if I were half-naked, even if only from a slight distance.

There was a quick knock at the door just before Jason entered. He was carrying a pair of half-boots, which answered the question of whether or not I would be going barefoot for the evening. The boots were a deep green and made of soft leather. They were clearly designed for indoor-use only, but happily, they were lined with fleece, which meant that at least two of my body parts would be warm during the party.

After the cheeky brat issued a few wolf-whistles and hubba-hubbas, he said, "Ready for part two of your transformation?"

"Part two?" I dreaded hearing the answer, but I wasn't able to stop the question before it emerged.

"Hair and make-up," he said, pointing to the vanity chair with a flourish.

"I have a mask — why do I need make-up?" Lord but I hated that sullen tone in my voice. It reminded me of when I was a boy demanding to know why I had to study the reproductive habits of suvolte demons when there was a great deal more fun to be had in the village with my mates.

"That thing is heavy," he said, unconcerned by my pique. "You won't want to wear it for longer than you have to. Once Jean-Claude introduces you to everyone, you'll be able to take it off."

Muttering under my breath about what an idiot I felt like, I took a seat at the bench in front of the vanity and waited. It wasn't until I realized Jason hadn't moved that I looked at him in the mirror. "What's wrong?"

He stretched out a hand to my back and said, "I'd forgotten how bad these are. No wonder Jean-Claude wanted you so bad."

I frowned at that and asked, "What do you mean?"

"He's got a thing for survivors." There was little I could say to that, so I held my tongue as he began his work.

It took an hour before he was satisfied with my appearance, and even I was forced to acknowledge that I looked — striking. My hair had been swirled into wet-looking spikes using a hair gel impregnated with flakes of glitter. The color of my eyes had been emphasized with a combination of various green eye shadows and brown liner. Jason put browns on my cheeks and lips, then finished my face off with glitter on my eyelids and cheekbones. He used a combination of brown and tan powders to create a subtle illusion of tree bark on my neck. The effect was astonishing — despite the glitter, I looked as if I'd been sprouted, not born.

After Jason left, I was still gazing at my reflection in faint amazement and considerable embarrassment when Jean-Claude came into the suite. He, of course, was moderately well covered. He was wearing the inevitable black leather trousers, and his shirt was made from a dark green raw silk. I couldn't determine which god he was, but that was hardly a surprise. The pantheon of human deities was incredibly large.

He paused just inside the doorway, and the look he directed at me could only be described as smoldering. It was an absurd, melodramatic description, yes, but it was also accurate. And for the first time in my life, I understood intimately the phrase, "He undressed me with his eyes."

He approached me slowly, and when he stopped less than an arm's length away, he said, "You look magnificent, mon chêne. You are a feast for the senses."

In that moment, I believed him wholeheartedly. It went completely against the grain to think of myself as such, but he had such conviction in his voice that I couldn't help but go along with him. And then reality righted itself again, and I recalled both my age and my position in life.

I spluttered, "Jean-Claude, I look — and even if — and my back!"

"Hush, mon chêne," he said, even as he ran his hand down my left arm. "Your scars are a badge of honor. You should display them with pride — they are a symbol of your strength."

"And if one of your guests should choose to test that strength? What then?"

An element of mischief entered his expression, and while the smile he gave wasn't quite a smirk, it was close enough to count. "They will wish very much to test your strength and resolve, but they cannot. You are mine, after all, and I do not share willingly," he said.

Understanding dawned hard and bright, and there may have been a hint of disgust in my voice when I said, "That's why you're parading me around tonight — to thumb your nose at them."

If anything, his smile grew wider at my accusation. "Precisely. And mon chêne? A look of superior disgust looks much better on you than does sheer terror."

He would have to remind me. Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because the next thing I knew, he'd turned me around to face the mirror. He was standing behind me and to my left, speaking in a low, seductive tone.

"Look at yourself with the eyes of a lover," he said, drawing his hand down the left side of my chest. "You bear honorable marks of battle, and your physical strength can be seen by anyone with eyes. You have the most beautifully expressive face, and your marks of age do nothing but enhance your appearance."

He caressed my right buttock with his other hand and murmured, "Your body is firm and a delight to touch and to taste. When we make our entrance this evening, there will not be a single vampire who won't envy me my good fortune."

I think he would have gone on, but thankfully, Anita entered the suite before I became too aroused to be seen in public. I turned rather quickly to face her — she hadn't seen my back, as far as I knew, and I didn't care to let her see it until I had to. My shyness was forgotten, however, when I was rendered speechless by her appearance. I'd always thought she was moderately attractive, but at the moment, she looked stunning.

She wore a floor-length halter-style dress made of a sheer black fabric that hugged her figure. Instead of leaves, though, her modesty was preserved by black — raven? crow? — feathers which ran from her chest to the floor, leaving her sides visible through the fabric. The result made her look more naked than if she'd actually been unclothed.

Anita said, "What? Haven't you ever seen scars before?"

"I beg your pardon?" I was confused by her question until I looked at her arms. Then I said, "Oh. Those. I hadn't noticed. Your costume is quite —"

"Yeah. 'Quite'," she said absently as she gave my outfit the same thorough consideration I'd given hers. "You look good, Giles. Mesh suits you."

At that point, Jean-Claude spoke up again and said, "You see? Even ma petite recognizes your beauty, and she is a very difficult person to please."

I stared at him in disbelief before I said, "Oh, please, Jean-Claude. I don't know that you need to lay it on quite that thick."

He gave me a quick, impish grin and said, "But perhaps I do. Given your — assets — I would expect you to be considerably more confident than you are. Perhaps self-confidence will be your second lesson, no?"

I would have answered but for the two who entered the room just then. The dark-haired man had a familiar feel to me. As I'd never seen him before, I thought perhaps he might be the mysterious and oh-so-cranky Richard. I had no idea who the blonde was, and I doubted I would recognize him even if I could see his face full on. Neither seemed happy.

Jean-Claude said, "Asher, Richard — please come and meet Rupert Giles."

Richard said nothing, choosing instead to glare at me before turning away. Asher, on the other hand, made a show of it. He walked up to me before pushing his hair back so that I could see all of his face. Based on what Jean-Claude told me about the burn on his chest, I assumed someone had been at him with holy water or possibly blessed oil at some point. I couldn't think of anything else that would cause a vampire's skin to melt in such a fashion.

So involved was I in my speculation about his injury that I quite forgot my manners. When I recalled them, I said, "Please do forgive me, Monsieur Asher — I tend to get lost in my own thoughts at times," before holding out my hand.

Asher stared at me for a long moment before saying, "Will you not comment on my injuries?"

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by his attitude, but I was, just a bit. I knew vampires were vain, but most of the creatures I'd met had shown off what scarring they had with pride in the battle survived. Asher, on the other hand, was quite self-conscious about his face. He had reason to be — his scars were moderately unpleasant in appearance — but by Sunnydale standards, he would barely merit a second glance.

If I told him that, however, I thought there was a good chance I would insult him. I retreated behind the cliches of my nationality and became tweedier-than-thou before saying, "One doesn't discuss such things on first acquaintance."

As I was looking directly at his scars, when I spoke, he wouldn't be able to accuse me of avoiding the subject. He did look a bit confused, though, which pleased me to no end. I very much hated it when I became too predictable.

After a rather awkward pause, Jean-Claude said, "Rupert, the fellow standing at the door is Richard Zeeman, whom you met Saturday night."

Anita was the only one in the room who caught the jibe when I said, "Good evening, Mr. Zeeman." She choked a bit, clearly recalling my comments about the insult of formality after wandering through someone's thoughts, but she managed to recover nicely.

The third member of Jean-Claude's triumvirate was oblivious to the subtext, but that was hardly a surprise. In many ways, his thought processes had reminded me of Riley Finn, who had never been comfortable thinking in shades of gray, and who saw moral conundrums only in terms of black and white. My brief contact with Mr. Zeeman's psyche had shown me a man deeply torn between those two extremes and who was all but blind to the gray in between. If he didn't let go of his outdated notions soon, it was quite likely he would fly apart at the seams.

He looked at me for the first time since entering the room, and after a long moment, he nodded warily. I wasn't sure what he expected me to do, but when I failed to live up — or down, as the case may be — to his expectations, I concluded that I must have passed some kind of test — or perhaps he just felt sorry for me because of what I had to wear to the party. In any event, the end result was a noticeable decrease in his hostility toward me. I didn't particularly care how it came to be; I just hoped he would continue to be reasonable for the remainder of the evening.

After a thankfully brief period of stilted conversation, Jean-Claude suggested we go to greet our guests. I thought about pointing out that they were his guests, not mine, but in the end, I decided it wasn't a battle worth fighting. Jean-Claude was still convinced that I was the triumvirate's human servant — if I were, then technically, the delegates could be considered my guests as well. If I weren't, I'd no doubt have bigger battles to fight at a later date.

When we reached the ballroom, I found I was hugely grateful for the mask I wore. It was a relief to be able to hide my face so completely, and despite the discomfort of its weight, there was every chance I would choose to keep it on all night. The sudden desire to hide developed when everyone in the ballroom stopped whatever they were doing to look at us as we stood in the entrance. Jean-Claude, of course, was in his element, while Anita and Richard just seemed resigned to the attention. Asher was a mystery, though he seemed to be considerably more confident with a mask on. I simply tried to remain unnoticed behind the others as we moved forward in a group to greet various vampires and human servants.

I was absentmindedly scanning the room when I saw her at the opposite end — almost at the same moment she saw me. As she started making her way toward us, I erected every type of mental shielding I knew without pausing to consider my actions. I was frustrated when I realized that my link to Jean-Claude, Anita and Mr. Zeeman left me vulnerable, so I did the only think I could think of — I changed my shielding so that it would encompass them, as well. It earned me a few startled looks from the triumvirate, but I had no intention of apologizing when a predator was bearing down on me.

With her black hair and honey-brown eyes, she was incredibly beautiful. Every movement she made was designed to entice and to seduce. If I hadn't had prior experience with Jean-Claude or if Anita hadn't warned me, I might very well have fallen willingly into her embrace. As it was, it was all I could do not to flee into the night.

Drawing me forward to stand at his side, Jean-Claude said to her, "May I present Rupert Giles? He is the newest addition to my little family. Rupert, this is —"

"Madre de la Muerte," I stammered in a hushed voice, unnerved by having the subject of a 500-year-old painting standing before me.

She laughed, then, and said, "How charming, Jean-Claude. You have a pet with an appreciation for art. It is unfortunate that he cannot speak. Is it his age, do you think? Perhaps if you shake him, his voice might work properly again."

"Rupert is not broken, Belle. He has, in fact, surpassed my wildest expectations." I felt nothing from Jean-Claude as he spoke, but Anita and, surprisingly, Mr. Zeeman were enraged by her words. For myself, I only barely registered her insults. I was far more concerned about what might happen if she attempted to breech my shields — I wasn't at all convinced I would survive if she did.

More to the point, however, was that I had finally met someone who terrified me more deeply than did Angelus. And it wasn't her reputation that frightened me as much as the fact that the painting of her that I'd seen had been hanging in the Sunnydale Museum.

Part 8

Journal of Rupert Giles, Watcher

July 14, 1997

As requested by the Council, I've been to the Sunnydale Museum to examine "Madre de la Muerte" by Valenz. My findings —

~*~*~

Private Journal of Rupert Giles

July 18, 1997

I've been trying to write an official entry about Valenz's work for four days now, yet I keep stumbling over myself. The Council wants me to give a general opinion as to whether the subject of "Madre de la Muerte" is likely to be Death's Maiden, who was allegedly killed by the Master of Aurelius during the vampire wars of 1685. It's not that I'm incapable of giving such an opinion; rather, it's that I already know the truth of the matter.

Angel stopped by a few hours after I'd seen the painting, and following a rather idiotic decision to ask what he knew of her, I received a rather comprehensive lesson in vampiric history. "Madre de la Muerte" was, in fact, Death's Maiden, and she was indeed sent to her just end by the same Master of Aurelius dispatched so ably by my Slayer not two months ago. According to Angel, destroying Death's Maiden was the most useful thing the Master had ever done in his existence and quite possibly earned some level of reprieve for him when he entered hell.

But if I report all of that, then I'll also have to report my Slayer's association with Angel. Ensouled or not, the Council will take a dim view of the two of us consorting with such an infamous vampire. Sooner or later, I'll have to mention it to them. I just hope I'll be able to do it in such a way as to make it seem perfectly natural.

~*~*~

October 27, 2004

I'm not sure how long I stood there, frozen in shock, staring in disbelief. I do know that I kept worrying at the sight of Belle Morte, at my memories of the painting in question and at the memory of my conversation with Angel about her exploits. I lost track of the party as I delved deeper for half-forgotten details about her. So preoccupied in thought was I that Anita eventually had to shout through our link to get my attention.

"Snap out of it, will you? So you recognized her. Big deal. Vampires get vain every so often and make an artist paint them. Then they get bored and eat the poor son-of-a-bitch. Or turn him, if he's any good," she said, even as she maintained a neutral stance, her eyes constantly scanning the room.

I did my best to school my emotions into a similar neutrality, but I in no way succeeded. It was all I could do to maintain my mental shielding while staving off gibbering panic. "You don't understand," I said. "It isn't that I've seen her in a painting — it's that I've seen her in a painting that was on display in Sunnydale."

There was a brief pause as she considered what I told her, then she said, "So what? She has a twin in your world. Get over it. Now."

"You are still missing the point," I said in as scathing a tone as I could manage. "If she has a doppelganger in my world, who's to say Angelus doesn't have a doppelganger in your world?"

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that I felt her creeping horror through our link. She said, "Fuck."

"Precisely. Now you see why I'm so concerned about Angelus and —"

She broke in with an irritated, "Screw Angelus. What if there's another you in the world? One of you is bad enough."

I blinked.

It took a few seconds to process her words the several times I required to actually believe she'd said what she just said, and then I blinked again.

I turned to face her, an expression of disbelief forming behind my mask, when I saw her lips quirk upward and her eyes widen ever so slightly. It gave her such a look of impish conspiracy that I could hardly believe she was the same woman who'd twice threatened to shoot me. There was really only one possible response to her at that point, so I laughed. Or perhaps it was closer to a chortle. But the point was, I had finally been diverted from the tightening inward spiral of sheer terror I'd been in thrall to since I saw and identified the vampire currently chatting with Jean-Claude.

As for my fears about Angelus, I hoped very much that they were groundless. Neither Jean-Claude nor Anita had recognized the name when I spoke it, and there was every chance that if the young man in question had been turned in this world, he hadn't survived to the twenty-first century. I would have followed that train of thought, but I was brought back to the situation at hand when I realized that Belle Morte hadn't appreciated the interruption my laughter occasioned. She turned her attention to me and said gently, "Did I say something amusing?"

"Er — no. Not you," I said. I was having a difficult time not grinning at her, because I was still a bit giddy from Anita's rather inspired rescue of me from my own mind — even if her horror at the thought of a second me had been quite real. I really would have to find something suitable as a thank-you for her. Perhaps I could get a gift certificate for her from her favorite gun shop. I thought it might well be time to replace that which I altered.

"Then who, pray tell, made you laugh at such an — interesting — point in my conversation with your master?" I suppose I should have gotten as angry over her rather rude reference to my status as Anita and Mr. Zeeman did, but I couldn't find it in myself to take her all that seriously at the moment.

"I guess that would be me, Belle," said Anita. "Got a problem with that?"

Belle's eyes narrowed just a touch as she contemplated Jean-Claude's human servant. It was relatively plain to see that there was no love lost between the two when she said, "I have a problem when any human presumes too much."

"Wow. I feel the exact same way about vampires. And here Jean-Claude thought you and I wouldn't have anything in common," she replied. To the casual observer, they looked as if they were about to destroy one another. To the trained observer, however, the situation was considerably worse. There was no doubt in my mind that bystanders, both innocent and otherwise, would be caught in the crossfire. I briefly considered distancing myself from them, just to be certain I was out of harm's way, but that didn't seem to be the appropriate thing to do. Anita had stepped into the line of fire for me, in a manner of speaking, and to leave her there alone and without back-up, was wrong.

"Jean-Claude allows you far too much freedom," Belle said — rather, purred. It was a disturbing tone of voice, to say the least, as it implied that were she in charge of Anita, things would be considerably different for the human. "But then, he was always too sentimental for his own good. This bredouilleur, for instance, would have been far better off had he been left to his own devices. Instead, he has been brought into a situation for which he is totally unsuited."

I wasn't inclined to argue the point. Nor was I inclined to offer a translation to either Anita or Mr. Zeeman, neither of whom recognized the word. They would only get more upset, and I didn't think that was a particularly helpful response just then. Instead, I maintained what I hoped was a pleasant attitude and waited.

"Concern for a human, Belle? Isn't that kind of out of character for you?" I wasn't sure what Anita was getting at, but it was clear that she was trying to back the vampire into a corner of some sort or another.

"Look at him — he's old and useless. Why on earth is he even here?" Whatever Jean-Claude felt or thought, he kept to himself, but again, there was a surge of anger from Anita and Mr. Zeeman over Belle's snide commentary. Happily, I was at an age where the insults of a stranger meant little to me, though their willingness to defend my honor was moderately gratifying.

Still, I didn't wish them to create any kind of a scene. Through our link, I told them both, "It's no different than what I said of myself not two hours ago. If you're going to be upset with anyone on my behalf, direct your irritation toward Jason. He has a glass of scotch on his serving tray, and he still hasn't brought it over to me."

Mr. Zeeman, who reminded me more and more of Riley with each passing moment, was startled by and mildly dismayed over my concern with seemingly irrelevant issues. Anita, at least, saw the humor in my comment, but she too thought Jason's failure was trivial. It was a shame, because I truly hoped one or the other of them would convince him to approach with the scotch.

Her temper once again banked, Anita asked Belle, "If he's so useless, why did you have your people scurrying around looking for him last week?"

The only sign that Anita's question hit home was the barest flicker of an eye. Otherwise, Belle continued to project an appearance of genteel good humor when she said, "I had been told he was somewhat adept in the use of magic. I thought I would see if he could be persuaded to join me when I returned home."

If not for the fact that Jean-Claude had claimed me in more ways than one, I would have most likely turned into a babbling idiot from the fear her words induced. A quick read between the lines told me that if she'd found me before Anita had, she would have claimed me for her own and had me out of the country before anyone knew what happened. And once I was under her control, there was no chance I would have ever been able to escape. I decided to buy Anita a second gun for her actions the previous Saturday — she really did deserve it.

"It is unfortunate that Rupert has other obligations here," Jean-Claude said, sounding genuinely regretful. With all my heart, I hoped he was just following the forms of polite conversation.

"Perhaps you might be willing to release him from those obligations for tonight. I would certainly be glad of his company," she said, sending yet another wave of apprehension through me.

Mr. Zeeman spoke up at that point and said, "But he's old and useless — surely someone such as you deserves better companionship for the night." It was a perfect response to her conversational feint — and that concerned me. Though I didn't know him all that well, Mr. Zeeman hadn't struck me as one who was easily able to pick his way through a conversational minefield such as this was turning out to be. It was almost as if he'd been led to it.

And perhaps he had been. I'd been confused by Belle's apparent conversational misstep — I hadn't expected her to walk into a trap she built herself. As I thought about it, I considered the possibility that she was playing a deeper game than was readily apparent. She confirmed my suspicions when she said, "My comment was cruel and ungracious. I would very much like to do whatever I can to assure Monsieur Giles that he has my complete and undying respect."

Crap. She was angling for a way to have me with her for the night and doing so in such a manner that Jean-Claude couldn't refuse her without appearing to be a discourteous host. Lord, but I hated politics.

"Your gracious and entirely unnecessary self-castigation was far more than I deserved or required to convince me of your good will," I stammered out, offering a small bow in her direction. I wasn't sure who was more shocked — Jean-Claude because he didn't realize I could play this particular role so well or Anita, because she hadn't expected me to abase myself in such a fashion. I ignored their surprise in favor of keeping an eye on my adversary. That I was able to treat Belle Morte as such without hesitation was a tribute to my father. He had been an excellent teacher of the politics of social interactions, and my adept handling of this type of situation was due solely to his excellent tutelage. It was unfortunate that although I played it quite well, I despised the game.

Belle looked a bit miffed when she realized I'd rather neatly blocked that particular move, but she also looked more intrigued by me than she had before. I'd known that was a possibility when I decided to step in and see to my own defense, but I felt it was a chance worth taking. If nothing else, it would let her know that being a bredouilleur — a stutterer — didn't mean my brain functioned at subnormal levels. Normally, I preferred others to underestimate me, but given the situation, that would cause more problems than it would solve. I hoped a display of native intelligence would make her hesitate before making any additional moves against me.

It was a rather foolish hope, and I didn't even miss it after it died with scarcely a whimper.

"Your chivalry is entirely unexpected, Monsieur Giles. My host normally avoids anyone who has even the barest understanding of how to behave in polite society. To find someone such as you in the hinterlands of the new world is quite unexpected," she said with a predatory gleam in her eye. "I must insist that Jean-Claude allow you to spend the night with me. It truly is the only way I can be certain that I have atoned for my earlier behavior."

It wasn't that she sounded desperate or even behaved as such, but I was under the distinct impression that if I didn't spend the night with her, a great many of her plans would go awry — which generated not one iota of pity in my heart. I felt an echo of that sentiment from Jean-Claude and Anita. Mr. Zeeman, sad to say, was two steps behind the rest of us and just starting to understand that Belle's persistent pursuit of me was out of character, even for a vampire. It wasn't that the man lacked intelligence. Rather, it was that he lacked some essential capacity to be a raging paranoiac. That he had managed to get by this long in such company spoke more to his will to survive than anything else.

"Your warmhearted acceptance of Rupert is a shining example to us all, Belle, but I'm afraid he will not be available to you tonight or any night," Jean-Claude said, clearly relishing something, though I wasn't sure what, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. "He shares my bed and no other."

Her shock and anger were palpable, and her voice and eyes were flat when she said, "It is impossible. All the world knows you defer to that little bitch. She herself has said that she will not share you with any woman, let alone a man."

Anita's smile was frightening. It wasn't quite as frightening as the thought of being forced to endure Belle Morte's attentions, but it generated the same level of anxiety I'd had when Principal Snyder told me I was to oversee the school's talent show. "You said it yourself, Belle — he's a chivalrous man — charming, too. Who can blame Jean-Claude for falling in love with him? Rupert completes him in a way I can't and never will. I would be a monster to get in the way of that, which is why they have my blessing," she said, her smile becoming even more dangerous.

"Mon Dieu — you are telling the truth," Belle said, disconcerted by Anita's little speech. For myself, I was impressed that she could lie so well as to fool a vampire. I'd thought all of them were able to discern fact from fiction.

"Of course she is. She is a terrible liar, our little Anita," Jean-Claude said, thereby causing my stomach to clench. If I didn't have an ulcer within a month, I would be very surprised. I tried very hard to convince myself that this was all an elaborate ruse to convince Belle Morte to leave me alone, but I was unsuccessful. Anita had told me Jean-Claude was in love with me, but I didn't want to believe her. Now with Jean-Claude failing entirely to dispute her claims and Belle Morte accepting them as fact, I was being forced to accept the reality of her words.

No matter what the outcome of tonight's reception, I would have to rethink the basis of my relationship with Jean-Claude. Sex was one thing — and he was an enjoyable, if not terribly inspired partner beyond the physical trappings of seduction — but emotional involvement was something else entirely. If he was in love with me — a claim which had become all but impossible to ignore — it changed everything. I doubted very much that he would be willing to settle for anything less than a full commitment from me, and I wasn't entirely certain I would be able to give him even a promise to try to return his feelings.

Life was considerably less complicated on the Hellmouth.

Part 9

Journal of Rupert Giles

October 25, 2004

The shouting match between Buffy and Dawn is reaching epic proportions. I believe even Mr. and Mrs. Herron have left off their nightly fight to have a listen.

I'm not sure what, if anything, I should do or say to them about the situation. Though I'm happy not to have to tell Dawn that I'm in a physical relationship with Jean-Claude, I'm not particularly thrilled with her complete acceptance of him as my lover. I'm tempted to blame Spike for that, if only because of the close relationship the two shared in Sunnydale. Were it not for his Byronic tendencies toward romance, she would have been more upset about Jean-Claude, and rightfully so.

Buffy, on the other hand, is bordering on stark, raving mad over the situation. She's acting as though I've behaved in a morally criminal fashion, and a small, mean part of me wonders why she couldn't have taken this stance when she found out that Angel was a vampire.

~*~*~

October 27, 2004

I'd found a quiet section of wall and was leaning against it to watch the various players make their moves. It was also a good way to hide my back from further scrutiny. As predicted, any number of vampires and human servants were intrigued by my scars, and each implied in subtle and overt ways that he or she wouldn't mind adding to the pattern Angelus had left. On more than one occasion, one or the other of the triumvirate had to talk me down through our link before I did something foolish — such as kill every vampire at the party with a blast of magic. Tempting though the idea was, the thought of a power vacuum in the vampire community was enough to give me waking nightmares. The Council served as a check against the depredations and passions of younger, more foolish vampires, which in turn allowed for a reasonable, if distasteful, relationship between them and their food source.

Jean-Claude had introduced me to all of the vampires, but I hadn't had much time to learn who was who before I was released on my own recognizance. Though my handling of Belle had earned me the right to watch out for myself, my threats of violence meant that someone would keep an eye on me, even if from a distance. It would have been galling if I hadn't seen for myself what his so-called guests were like — and what I was like when provoked by them. I couldn't recall the last time my temper had been so close to the surface for so long.

When Jason finally sidled up to me, I took what I most dearly hoped was a glass of Ardbeg from his tray and said as mildly as I could manage, "I could have used this an hour ago."

He looked genuinely contrite when he said, "Sorry about that. Jean-Claude told me to avoid Belle Morte."

"I can't possibly imagine why. She's the absolute soul of charity," I said in my driest tone of voice.

"Times like that make me glad I'm a beta," he said. And then he surprised the hell out of me by quoting in a sing-song, "'Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard.'"

I wanted very much to slap him on the back of his head, but I doubted Mr. Zeeman would approve. Instead, Jason received a scowl and a rebuke. In a wretched display of intellectual snobbery, I said, "What on earth are you doing with Jean-Claude when you can quote 'Brave New World' off the top of your head?"

He batted his eyelashes at me and said in a pervertedly coy voice, "You mean I'm not just a pretty face to you after all?"

"Twit," I muttered before taking a sip of the scotch. I allowed the single-malt to work its magic on me only briefly before I bit out, "You have a brain, Jason, when you choose to use it. I'm serious — why are you here? You could be living a relatively normal life, but instead, you're tarted up and prancing about like a trained dog at this — this freak show."

He looked as shocked as I felt over my outburst. Until that moment, I hadn't realized just how resentful I'd become behind my stiff upper lip. Worse, I was beginning to feel just a tad martyrish as I went around tolerating each new indignity with as much grace as I could muster. Granted, I had no desire to fight every single battle Jean-Claude presented, but it was time to choose at least one and win it. Otherwise, I would soon lose whatever self-determination I still had. It was a bloody awful time for an epiphany, but these things never seem to occur whilst one is sitting quietly by the fire, sipping a cup of tea.

Though I continued to stare at Jason, my eyes soon lost focus as I considered my actions in the harsh light that had just gone on over my head. Ignoring Jean-Claude's first warning — the one he'd given me the night I'd been rescued by Abigail — had been my most serious mistake. As soon as he mentioned a claim, I should have started researching it with Dawn's help. Rather than doing that, however, I had slipped into denial as easily as I slipped into a pair of well-worn slippers. All that had happened since then stemmed from my stubborn inaction.

Until I snapped at Jason, I'd only had a half-hearted acceptance of my responsibility for ending up at the reception. And as I held a true mirror up to my recent history, I saw that I had paid only lip service to acknowledging my role in my own downfall. It was that lip service which was leading to martyr syndrome, and if I didn't take steps to remedy the situation immediately, I would become unbearable. I didn't particularly care what Jean-Claude or the others in his cadre thought of me, but I cared very much what I thought of myself. And I certainly didn't want Dawn or Buffy to grow to resent me. Nor, as I thought about it, did I wish to disappoint Nathaniel's view of me.

I was mildly comforted by the realization that though some of my decisions had been phenomenally stupid, I had at least done a few things right. Accepting Jean-Claude's claim had been one of those, even though I suspected I could have avoided the situation had I done the research. Since I hadn't, Jean-Claude's avarice for power was a very lucky break for me. Sleeping with him had also been a good decision, and that opinion had been completely substantiated once I'd traded words with Belle Morte. Too, even without the Council breathing down our neck, I would have most likely ended up in his bed at some point — he's a very attractive and persistent suitor, despite his disturbing tendency toward obsession. My only problem with the situation had been the need to act so quickly and without having a chance to think through the consequences.

And those consequences were only just starting to make themselves felt. Anita had the right of it when she'd told me earlier in the evening to accept that Jean-Claude had feelings — I swore at myself for still trying to avoid the phrase — had fallen in love with me. No matter how ludicrous I thought it was, neither Jean-Claude nor Anita shared my view of his emotional state. Both were convinced that he was in love with me, and even though I disagreed with their assessment, it was imperative to behave as though he did, in fact, love me. To do anything else would lead to an even more impossible situation.

As for my own feelings, I knew I didn't love Jean-Claude. Sex aside, we were barely acquainted, and I didn't particularly care to have him in my life any more than necessary to ensure Dawn's safety. I'd gone to his bed under the erroneous assumption that it would be in the nature of a trade, not the start of a relationship. And perhaps that was where I needed to make my stand. If —

"God, Giles! What the hell are you wearing? Excuse me — not wearing!?" I didn't bother hiding my sigh as I looked down to see a moderately translucent Buffy. I wasn't sure I'd ever known her to be quite so shocked, but then again, I still didn't know at which point she popped in and saw me with Jean-Claude. It's possible she was in an even worse state then.

"This —" I said, sweeping my arm down the front of me, "— is a costume. Would you care to guess what I am?" I'm not certain if I earned her glare with my words or with the chipper tone of voice I used. In the event, I maintained a pleasant expression and wished desperately that I hadn't given up my mask earlier. It would have come in quite handy just then, but I had to settle for hiding behind the make-up Jason had so carefully applied.

Speaking of Jason — "Giles? Who are you talking to?"

I gestured toward her and said, "Buffy. She apparently decided to — what's the expression? — ah, yes. She decided to 'crash' the party."

I think I might have been more polite if she hadn't sounded as though I were breaking several local, state and federal laws as well as violating one or two international treaties by wearing the damned body stocking. It was bad enough to feel self-conscious when everyone was looking at you as though you were on the dessert cart. It was even worse when someone took the trouble to point out just how inappropriate your attire was.

Jason peered in the direction I'd pointed and said, "I think I can just make out a shimmer of something. Hey! Cool! I just saw my first ghost!"

"You've seen her before," I said a bit sullenly before taking another sip of scotch. It was starting to disappear more quickly, now that Buffy had joined the festivities. I knew I had a great deal for which to atone and to make amends, but I was quite certain I'd done nothing whatsoever to deserve the costume, the party, Belle Morte and my Slayer all in the same general location.

"Yeah, but she was solid then. Right now, she's like a real ghost," he said, a happy expression on his face.

"I am a real ghost." When he didn't respond, Buffy turned to me and said, "Tell him."

None too pleased with her attitude, I looked down at her and replied, "No. What I will do is ask why you're here."

"Someone has to keep an eye on you," she said, sounding as defensive as she usually did when she refused to admit to having made a bad decision.

"Because, of course, I'm completely incapable of taking care of myself," I answered.

"You slept with a vampire! A male vampire!!"

"Oh — right. And that's something you could never do —"

"Don't you dare throw that in my face," she said with a quiet intensity that didn't quite mask her rage.

"I hadn't planned to until you brought it up," I said as I stepped away from the wall. All in all, I believe I matched her inflection rather well. It was at that point that I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Jason was slowly backing away from us. His instincts were sound, and I approved of his retreat.

She chose to ignore the point I made and said, "He's using you."

"And I'm using him. It's a fair trade," I said. I was trying to keep my voice low, but with a room full of vampires, there was no way to tell who might be eavesdropping.

"Not quite, mon chêne. It will be a fair trade when you love me as I love you," Jean-Claude said as he ran his hand down my back. It was a measure of how angry I was with Buffy that I hadn't even sensed his approach. He dropped a kiss on my shoulder before looking at Buffy and saying, "Welcome to my home, Mademoiselle Summers. I would offer you refreshment, but I am uncertain what would please you."

"You want to please me? Get your hands off my Watcher."

Of all the bloody times for her to get possessive — "Buffy!" I hadn't used that particular tone with her very often over the years, but when I did, it usually got her attention. Thankfully, it still did the trick. She looked at me, her eyes wide and her lower lip quivering slightly.

"This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion. We will talk about it when I get home." I turned to glare at Jean-Claude and said through our link, "As for you, is there some reason you're groping me in public? I should have thought that at your age, you would have better sense than to antagonize those who would be your allies. You're upsetting both Anita and I, and if Buffy gets angry enough, she'll no doubt do something that will create even more problems."

He went perfectly still as he absorbed my words, then dropped his hand from my back. He said aloud, "My apologies, Rupert. I have made you and your companion uncomfortable, and this I had no desire to do. In truth, I came over to meet the lovely Mademoiselle Summers. It is not often that one has the opportunity to meet a true heroine. Rupert was most passionate in his description of your deeds."

I'm reasonably certain that both Buffy and I had the exact same expression of disbelief on our face when we looked at him. Granted, I'd been exposed to his hyperbole a bit longer than Buffy had, yet he still managed to surprise me with that last line. I hadn't been passionate at all when talking about Buffy and Sunnydale. If anything, I had been quite dispassionate. I was certain of it.

Buffy spoke for both of us when she said, "Are you for real?"

Completely misreading her question and tone of voice, he responded with a charming smile and, "I assure you — I am quite real."

As a ghost, Buffy triggered none of Jean-Claude's normal vampiric senses, so he was unable to tell what she was really thinking. I could, but then, I'd been her Watcher for five years. Looking at her face, I almost pitied Jean-Claude.

Almost.

"So tell me — does that line of bullshit actually work on anyone, or do you have to do some vampire mojo with your eyes to get people to adore you?" Yes, she was in fine form this evening. She wasn't comfortable taking her ire out on me, but Jean-Claude was a perfectly acceptable target. It was a pity for Buffy's sake that I'd witnessed Anita tearing into him with far greater gusto. I doubted he'd blink an eye at her tirade, and I was right.

"I find that I have no need of — mojo? — to attract partners. I am quite sufficiently intriguing on my own," he said, clearly enjoying the verbal thrust and parry with Buffy.

I closed my eyes and prayed that I hadn't just thought that particular phrase, but it was too late. It was seared into my memory, and my glass of scotch was distressingly empty. I spotted Jason near the bar and started edging away from Jean-Claude and Buffy. My conscience didn't trouble me a bit over leaving them to each other.

"So tell me, Johnny, do you ever get the slightest bit tired hauling that ego around? I mean, yeah, vampire strength and all, but it's gotta get just a little bit tiring, doesn't it?" I backed further away, satisfied that Buffy was enjoying herself enough that she wouldn't come looking for me any time soon. I was still quite unhappy with her, but having one of our little tiffs at a diplomatic function — bizarre though it was — just wouldn't do. Given a small breather, I would be able to face her again without wanting to have a screaming match.

I was halfway to the bar and fully convinced that I'd made a clean escape when Anita halted my forward progress with a rather curious question. "So do you understand what you need to do?"

"About what?" I said, my mind on other matters.

"About the marks," she said impatiently.

Confused, I looked down at myself and said, "What marks?"

She huffed out her breath and said, "The triumvirate's marks. Jean-Claude told you what to do, right?"

She received her answer in the form of the blank look I gave her and said, "He was supposed to tell you about marrying the marks — and you don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

"No, I don't. But I suspect I'm about to get a — clue and become very unhappy in the process," I said, casting one last, regretful glance at the bar.

Part 10

Journal of Rupert Giles

January 26, 2003

My efforts to understand what a human servant is have yielded precisely nothing. Those who know of such things apparently don't like to discuss them — or if they do talk about it, they don't do so with those who are likely to put their words to paper.

I'd hoped I could reassure both Dawn and me as to Ms. Blake's position within the vampire community, but without information, I can't. Either she's a pawn of the master of the city, or she maintains her identity, complete with free will. Based on the rumors I've heard, I'm inclined to believe the latter is the case. I don't think she would be able to function in the manner she does if she didn't have the ability to think and act for herself.

Still, I'd very much like to understand the nature of their relationship. It might help in understanding some of the choices Buffy made.

~*~*~

October 27, 2004

I followed Anita out of the large cavern, happy for the chance to have a reprieve from the atmosphere of the reception. If the vampires weren't maneuvering around Belle Morte and Jean-Claude, they were watching me with greedy eyes. It didn't take much imagination to guess what they were after.

"Where are we going, Anita?" We'd walked quite a distance, and I didn't recognize the corridor we were in. Hardly a surprise, given that this was only my third visit to the caves below the Circus, but I'd seen enough to recognize that we weren't on our way back to Jean-Claude's living quarters or even to the guest area.

"One of the older sections," she said, sounding rather grumpy. "It's as far away from the party as we can get without actually leaving."

"And leaving is a problem, because —?" Personally, I thought it sounded like a splendid idea. Getting away from there entirely would vastly improve the quality of my night.

"Cute." She paused at the end of the corridor and batted her way through some drapery. I followed, albeit with a bit more grace, as I held the drapes aside instead of attempting to fight them.

"You still haven't answered my question," I said, looking at the torches with mild interest. Either Jean-Claude hadn't gotten around to electrifying his entire compound, or he preferred true torchlight. I could feel a faint stir of air, so I was confident the area was sufficiently ventilated, but still, torches went out of style for a reason.

"When you ask a question worth listening to, I'll answer it. Here we are," she said, pausing at the last opening in the corridor. She pulled a torch from its holder and went through. Perforce, I followed.

"Is it really so unreasonable to consider leaving at this point? After all, I've made my bows to Jean-Claude's cohorts. Isn't my part of the night finished?" We went through yet another opening and started down another passageway. This one entirely lacked illumination, and I hoped very much that the torch Anita carried had sufficient fuel to see us back to the better populated caves.

"Remember me talking about marrying the marks?" She didn't look back at me as she spoke. She was too intent on making sure we weren't going to trip over anything. Or, presumably, anyone. God only knew how long the tunnels had been down here.

"Yes, and when I tried to get more information, you chose instead to lead me on a tour of Jean-Claude's lesser-used cave systems," I said somewhat acerbically.

"That's because I'm trying to get far enough away so that we don't have vampires listening in on our conversation," she said.

"Which leads me to my original point — we could simply leave and have this discussion well away from the premises."

"We could, but then we'd be too far away if anything happened and Jean-Claude needed us," she said, stopping when we came to the end of the passage. "Finally. I was beginning to think we'd never get here."

She opened a heavy, oaken door and pushed the torch in ahead of her. Whatever she saw met with her approval, because she walked in, leaving me to follow. When I entered, she put the torch in a wall sconce and said, "Close the door and have a seat."

The door was heavier than it looked, but it closed easily enough. The hinges looked relatively clean and well oiled. There were several heavy wooden chairs placed in a circle, and these too were moderately well tended. I had a sudden vision of Anita bringing me down here to do away with the threat I posed, both to the triumvirate and to her relationship with Jean-Claude. A room such as this, far from the normal traffic under the Circus, would be perfect for hiding an inconvenient body. Only the fact of the room's moderate cleanliness kept me from running. I doubted the area received even a weekly cleaning, but it seemed likely that someone came down once every month or two to eliminate the worst of the dust.

I spotted a pile of lap rugs on top of a chest and took one before sitting opposite Anita. My costume didn't lend itself to maintaining body heat, and the lap rug would, I hoped, keep me from dropping into a state of hypothermia. The walk had kept me warm, but I was starting to feel the chill emanating from the walls and floor of the cave. I noticed with no small amount of bitterness that the cool air didn't seem to affect Anita the way it affected me.

"Enough stalling, Anita. What's this all about?" When in doubt, attack. It wouldn't put her on edge, but it allowed me to feel that I had a touch more control than was actually the case.

"No one believes you're the triumvirate's human servant," she said.

I clapped my hands to my cheeks and said, "Oh! Such a surprise!"

"Yeah, yeah. Jean-Claude was the only one who didn't expect the skepticism, which pisses me off, because I told him he was being an idiot about it," she said with a sour expression on her face. I couldn't really blame her. He was ignoring her in favor of his own version of reality, and in that reality, he and Anita and I seemed to live happily ever after with the Council's blessings.

"So what's that to do with — what did you say? — marrying the marks?" I could feel a headache forming behind my eyes, and more than anything else, I wanted a cup of tea to soothe it away. The night was proving to be more troublesome than I'd anticipated, and I very much disliked misjudging a situation. At least she didn't seem ready to kill me, as my overactive imagination had suggested.

"The only way they're going to believe you're who he says you are is if we can marry the marks," she said, acting for all the world as if I should know what that meant. We were starting to have a circular conversation, and I wanted to throttle her.

"And what, precisely, does it mean to marry the marks?" Judging by the look on her face, the evasion was deliberate. She no more wanted to tell me what it meant than she wanted to accept me in Jean-Claude's life. My temper was already frayed, and I simply didn't need any further provocation. I thought of pointing this out to her, but instead, I sat and watched, maintaining the same expression I used to use on Buffy when she tried to avoid answering a question. It was a trick taught to me when I was training to become a Watcher, and I was pleased to find that it worked just as well on Anita as it had on Buffy.

She all but spit out, "It means tying you to us so that the link can't be severed. You'll be able to shield against us, but when we need you, the mark will open so you can join your power to ours."

I was very still as I considered her words. To be anything but quiet at that moment was to invite rage to the get-together. Though the idea of having a full-on temper tantrum was appealing, it wouldn't be useful at all. When I thought I could control my voice well enough, I said, "Are you implying that my link to the three of you can be severed right now without consequence?"

"Trust me — there will be major consequences," she said. "If you sever your link to us, Belle Morte will take her chances and grab you. Lovers — human lovers — can be replaced, especially if the human did something to break the vampire's claim. Human servants can't be replaced. At the moment, your link to Jean-Claude and us is all that's keeping you in St. Louis."

"What happens if we fail to marry the marks? Will she try to take me then?" There's nothing worse than breaking into a cold sweat when your skin is already clammy.

"It depends on how much she wants you, and I'm guessing she wants you pretty bad. That display you put on when Dawn got snatched caught a lot of people by surprise. It isn't often that a sorcerer with that much power goes undetected for so long," she said, reminding me yet again of the virtues of maintaining one's temper. I didn't bother pointing out that until three and a half years ago, I hadn't even been in this world.

I was frustrated. Since Saturday night, I had done everything I was told to do — let Jean-Claude claim you, and you'll be safe; have sex with Jean-Claude, and you'll be safe; go to the party, and you'll be safe. Every time I did one more thing to maintain my safety and Dawn's, something else seemed to crop up as a new danger.

It was time to get a straight answer, but I didn't know if I could. I gave her a very direct look and said, "Jean-Claude has claimed me with blood and has me as a lover. According to everything you've told me so far, I'm safe as houses. Given that Jean-Claude seems to own me, what can she possibly do?"

"She can challenge him for ownership," she said, looking deeply offended by the notion. On that, at least, we were in complete agreement — I was just as deeply offended at being reduced to the status of an object.

"You told me the claim and the sex would keep me safe —"

"They will. To an extent. The problem is that she's being a hell of a lot more persistent than we thought she'd be. She was the one who suggested that we marry the marks tonight. Jean-Claude was supposed to talk to you about it," she said with a note of accusation in her voice.

"Yes, well. He got distracted when he met Buffy," I said absently. My evening's priority had shifted from worrying over what to do about Jean-Claude's professed love for me to remaining of sound mind and body and in St. Louis. I considered breaking my ties with him and the others and taking my chances with magic, but that would leave me in worse shape in the long run. Instead, I comforted myself with various ways and means of torturing Jean-Claude for his failure to keep me informed.

"Buffy's here?" The look on Anita's face seemed to brighten a bit, which was odd, considering how much the two of them disliked one another.

"Yes. She seemed to feel that I couldn't take care of myself," I answered, not bothering to hide my irritation.

"You can't," she said bluntly. "If you'd let loose the way you —"

"I understand, Anita. And it's unfortunate that my temper got the better of me this evening, but to stand there and listen to them discuss what type of leather would be best used when whipping me — it was untenable," I said, feeling my rage start to rise as quickly as it had earlier in the evening.

She surprised the hell out of me by rising and moving around to my chair, then kneeling before me and taking my hands in hers. I think it was the first time she'd touched me voluntarily. "I know what they're like, and I know how they see humans. Some of the stories Jean-Claude has told — and the ones he hasn't — are enough to turn your hair grey." With a rare burst of humor, she added, "Well. My hair, anyway. Yours is already there."

It was enough to startle a bit of laughter from me, which in turn settled my rage into a dull, throbbing anger. "It's alright. I'll muddle through the rest of the evening without turning anyone into a toadstool," I said with a gentle squeeze of her hands. At the moment, I was feeling charitable enough to include Jean-Claude in my promise not to transmogrify anyone.

"Glad to hear it. And, surprise, surprise, I'm glad to hear Lassie's in the building." At my glare, she corrected herself and said, "Buffy. Got it. She can keep a leash on you when you're deep in your magic, right?"

Good lord — I'd completely forgotten about that. "Just how much power are we talking about generating?"

It was never a good sign when the scariest person you knew blushed at a simple question, then refused to look you in the eye as she mumbled, "A lot. Maybe."

"Anita."

If anything, her blush deepened. She said, "When Richard, Jean-Claude and I married our marks, it was pretty major."

"How major?" It was like pulling a healthy tooth when the patient hadn't been given Novocaine and was fighting like hell to get out of the chair.

She sighed and asked, "Have you heard of Narcissus in Chains?"

"Narcissus, yes. In chains? No."

"It's a sex club on the Illinois side of the river. Nathaniel ran into some trouble there about a year and a half ago," she said, reluctance in every syllable she uttered. I wasn't terribly shocked at the information that Nathaniel had found himself in a predicament at a sex club, though I hoped he knew better by now.

"I'd been avoiding the boys for a few months, but I needed help to get Nathaniel back, so I called Jean-Claude. He and Richard both showed up." She was adrift in her memories for some time before I cleared my throat to recall her to our conversation. "Anyway, without going into the whys of it, I needed the full strength of the triumvirate to rescue Nathaniel, and to do that, we needed to marry the marks. The energy we raised was more than enough to get everyone's attention, partly because there was so much of it, and partly because — it was so sexually charged."

Judging by how red her face was, I had an idea that she was making an understatement. I felt my stomach drop, but before I could say anything, Anita continued, "It was enough of a show that Narcissus, the owner, canceled the night's stage performance."

"And you think that when we — oh dear lord," I said, not knowing what else to say. I wasn't averse to putting on a show — when I was stoned witless by drugs, alcohol and magic. To go through something that significant without the aid of anything to lower my inhibitions would be impossible.

"I don't honestly know. With the three of us, sex was always the driving factor. With you, it's something else. Either way, if this works, you're going to be the focus of our power, and if your magic does what it did the last time, having Buffy around may help."

Actually, it wasn't my magic that had reacted badly — it was Jean-Claude's power that went a bit haywire. Still, it was irrelevant. None of the other three had any significant experience at taming chaotic magic, so it would be left up to me to deal with any problems that might arise.

"I certainly don't want Dawn here. I don't even want Buffy in the room when it comes down to it, but at least she's already been exposed. I just don't know if she's up to the task," I said, thinking through different scenarios of what more could possibly go wrong with my life that evening.

"Exposed? What do you mean?" She frowned at my rather odd statement, and I realized I hadn't mentioned Buffy's indiscretion to anyone.

"She came looking for me Sunday night," I answered, allowing Anita to fill in the blanks, which she did rather quickly.

Her only response was a very delicate, "Oh."

"Yes. Quite." I had no desire to dwell on the subject, so I changed it to something rather more urgent. "Do you recall me telling you that without Dawn, I would be just another dark sorcerer out to take over the world?"

I watched as she inferred my meaning, and she said, "You weren't lying, were you?"

"No. The power I control is, at its worst, quite addictive. It's the reason I keep Dawn near me for significant magic and why I force myself to go through so many rituals when I have the luxury of planning ahead."

"Would it help if we did the rituals before trying to marry the marks?" It was a good question, and it made me feel a little better about the night's activities. Anita, at least, was listening — really listening — to what I was saying. She wasn't attempting to brush off my concerns.

"Possibly. But I'll need to speak with Buffy as well, to make sure she knows what's expected of her," I said. And then another thought occurred to me. "We won't be doing this in front of everyone, will we?"

Anita's moue of distaste at the notion wasn't enough to give me reason for hope. Actually, nothing was enough to give me reason for hope anymore. Too much kept going wrong or being mishandled for me to believe that anything would go right.

"That's what Belle wanted, but Jean-Claude talked her into doing it in his quarters with her and two others as witnesses," she said, sounding unhappy with the arrangement.

It wasn't ideal, but at least I wouldn't be part of a floorshow. I muttered, "Bloody vampires."

"You and I have a lot more in common than I thought we did," she said, standing at last. "What will you need?"

"A bowl that can tolerate flame, sea salt, sage and a few other herbs," I said, standing as well and folding the lap rug before placing on the chair. "And I'll need an Athame."

"I think we can manage everything but the Athame. Will a blessed knife work?" She walked over to the wall and took the torch in hand again before opening the door.

"I'll need to look at it first. If all else fails, I can bless a knife myself, as long as it hasn't been used to draw blood," I said, pulling the door closed behind me before I followed her back through the maze of tunnels.

As distasteful as the notion was of becoming even more tied to Jean-Claude, Anita and Richard, the idea of Belle Morte getting control over me if we failed to marry the marks was even worse. She would have no compunction over forcing me to use my magic in whatever fashion she deemed appropriate, and I didn't doubt she would do whatever was necessary to maintain control over me. It was unlikely that she would make me a human servant, but there was every possibility she would make me a vampire to secure her power base.

I never thought I would yearn for the Hellmouth, but at that moment, I did, with all my heart. At least there, all the demons wanted to do was either kill one or take over the world.

Part 11

Journal of Rupert Giles

August 19, 2001

Dawn's lessons in the use of magic are coming along nicely, despite the fact that she still resists the notion that it's necessary for her to learn. At least the magic works well for her, and she doesn't have to fight it at every turn as I do. I'm not sure if the reason is because she never used magic in our reality or if it's due to her original form.

I find I'm a bit jealous about that. The magic in this world seems to rebel whenever I tap into it — a statement which is quite absurd on the face of it. To say the magic resists me is akin to saying that electricity is self-willed. Energy, no matter what its form (with the exception of Dawn), is neither sentient nor self-deterministic. It's a tool to be used by those with the knowledge and strength to do so.

And perhaps if I explain that enough times, the magic here will finally listen to me.

~*~*~

October 27 - 28, 2004

It was an hour and a quarter before midnight by the time Anita and I had gathered everything that would be needed for the ritual. Almost everything, that is. I'd sent Jason off to find more suitable clothing for me to wear during the ceremony. If I had to, I could complete it wearing what I had on, but there were two overriding considerations. The first was that I needed all the help I could get, and wearing artificial fabric or animal byproducts such as silk and leather could potentially destabilize both the initial ritual and the marriage of the marks. The second was that the costume Jean-Claude arranged for me was bloody uncomfortable. The mesh was starting to scratch, and once we got started, I really didn't think that I would be able to put everything on hold just to placate an itch.

Of the two reasons for changing clothes, Jean-Claude heard only the first. I thought it was a bit of poppycock myself, but there were any number of Wiccans who would have recommended without hesitation that I perform the ritual skyclad. Had it just been me and the other three, I would have most likely done just that, if only for the added insurance. But with witnesses in attendance, I had no intention of baring myself any further than necessary. I could make due with jeans to cover the essential bits during the event. Happily, a basic cleansing prior to any ritual was also recommended, which meant I could scrub my face and wash my hair without the slightest hint of a guilty conscience over destroying Jason's artistic efforts.

Anita offered me a large sum of cash to tell Jean-Claude that the three of them would also need to undergo a cleansing and to dress in cotton. The amount she mentioned was quite generous, and I was tempted to say yes just to see if she would actually pay up. However, my conscience wouldn't allow me to accept her bribe, as I'd already planned to tell Jean-Claude that he would have to forego silk and leather for the duration. When I explained this to her, she almost hugged me out of gratitude. Fortunately, she came to her senses just in time and went off to prepare.

I'd been returned to the room I'd used earlier — the same room Jean-Claude told me was mine from now on — to start getting ready. Anita had grudgingly given me a few more details about the marriage of the triumvirate's marks, and based on what she'd said, it was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn't destroyed one another in the process. Whether or not ritual would help matters was open for debate, but given the chance, I would always choose taking the time to channel the power.

I started running the bath before peeling my costume off. I must have stood naked for a full five minutes whilst I scratched at every square inch of skin that had been covered by the mesh. He may have excellent visual taste, but Jean-Claude has poor taste in fabrics. Oil in the bathwater helped soothe my skin, and I luxuriated in the tub for as long as I dared before starting serious cleaning efforts. By quarter past eleven, I had finished scrubbing my hair and skin clean of Jason's work and was out of the tub. I'd just finished drying off when there was a knock at the door.

Assuming it was Jason, I called out, "Just leave the denims on the bed. I'll be out in a moment."

Instead, the door opened to reveal Jean-Claude. I'd never seen him in any but the most theatrical outfits, so it was a shock to see him standing there barefoot, wearing a white cotton button-up shirt with faded blue jeans. If I'd thought a change of fabric would lessen his appeal, I was very much mistaken. He wore the clothing as though he'd been born to it, and I felt gauche and awkward in his presence. It didn't help that I was naked, having hung my towel on a rack to dry just before the door opened.

The look he directed at me had gone well beyond smoldering, and I caught my breath, a bit puzzled by something I thought I heard. I returned his look, but before I could determine whether or not he'd actually growled at me, I was in his arms — or he was in mine. Just as I'd felt him up several nights earlier, he was returning the favor, with interest. I tried to say something — even "hello" would have been better than nothing — but as soon as I opened my mouth, his tongue was in it. And try though I did to maintain some semblance of rationality, all thought fled in the face of such immediate and overwhelming desire.

It wasn't until I ejaculated whilst shouting out his name that my sensibility started to return, albeit slowly. I had no memory of sitting on the edge of the tub nor of him dropping to his knees between my legs and taking me into his mouth. What's more, I couldn't recall the last time I'd been brought so quickly, and to be honest, I wasn't sure I ever had been. I could count on one hand the number of times a blow job culminated in my climax, though to be fair, Jean-Claude had certain advantages in strength and control that many humans simply couldn't match. These and other disjointed thoughts distracted me as I tried to remember my name.

I'd recovered my first name and was still working on recalling my middle name when Jean-Claude leaned forward to kiss me again. This time, it was a gentle exploration, one designed to soothe, not excite. But I could taste myself on his tongue, and that negated any expectation I had that the kiss would remain chaste. Before my cock could get interested in the proceedings once again, I pulled away and put my hands on his chest to keep him at a distance. It didn't work quite as well as I hoped — the feel of his skin under my fingers was a sensuous delight in and of itself — but it might have gone better if he hadn't started caressing my chest and arms and legs.

"Jean-Claude —"

"Do you have any idea what it was like for me tonight to watch but not touch you? Just thinking of what we are together — I very nearly took you in front of everyone," he murmured, his hands continuing their restless exploration, pausing every so often to tease one or the other of my nipples.

"Jean-Claude —" I was too damned old to be getting hard again so soon, but my libido disagreed. The blasted thing was becoming far too attuned to the sound of Jean-Claude's voice, and I was starting to feel a bit like one of Pavlov's dogs.

"You have no idea, mon chêne, what it is that you do to me. I think of you and I start to burn," he said, neatly ignoring my attempts to interrupt him.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and I very much needed him to stop what he was doing. I reached around to the back of his head to grab a handful of hair before slightly jerking my fist. It had the desired effect — he stopped speaking, and he stopped his continual stroking. I avoided his eyes after a brief glance, because a new hunger had arisen in them when I took control of his head. With everything yet to be done, we really didn't have time to explore that particular desire at the moment.

"Jean-Claude, in less than half an hour, we're supposed to marry the marks. Do you honestly think that exhausting me beforehand is a good idea?" Would that my voice had been smooth and calm, but it wasn't. It was uneven and broken, and it was all I could do to force the words out of my mouth. Taking him to bed, after all, was a much more pleasant proposition than having to deal with chaotic magic.

He relaxed in my grip and said, "You make me forget everything, mon chêne, and I do not know if I should reward you for that or chide you."

His accusation was a bit unfair. After all, he was the one who launched himself at me and — and I had no idea where I was going with that particular train of thought. The dratted vampire had managed, once again, to drag me along into one of his fantasies, and I hadn't even noticed.

I hoped I'd managed a reasonably severe expression when I said, "Jean-Claude, you cannot make me believe that as master of St. Louis, you are incapable of controlling your baser desires." I doubted I succeeded, though. It's difficult to be stern when you're bare-arsed and the other person is fully-clothed.

Still, I must have hit the right note somewhere along the line, because amusement crept into Jean-Claude's expression. With a slight smile, he said, "You are right, of course, but I have a certain reputation to maintain. And you, mon chêne, need to be told how desirable you are on a regular basis."

"What do you mean by that?" I wasn't quite sure why, but his words were mildly offensive. Perhaps it was the patronizing cant of his statement.

"I mean that you are too quick to believe you lack appeal," he said rather seriously. "Modesty is charming in young girls, but it is impossible in an adult."

His words went against everything I'd been taught and everything I'd learned on my own. "What would you prefer — raging arrogance?"

"Non. I would prefer the confidence that is your right," he said before leaning in to give me a reassuring, lingering kiss. "Get dressed, mon chêne. You must still talk with your little executioner before Belle Morte arrives."

~*~*~

Belle Morte and her two hand-picked witnesses chose to arrive a full twenty minutes late. If they'd hoped to upset us, they failed spectacularly. The extra time allowed me to recover from Jean-Claude's unexpected attentions and to give Buffy a few practical lessons in what she needed to watch for. Anita took care of letting Jean-Claude and Richard know what to expect and what they might have to do. Given that we'd had so little time to prepare for this particular ceremony, I was pleased that we'd managed to accomplish as much as we had.

When Jean-Claude's guests arrived, Belle took one look at the way we were dressed and let out a burst of musical laughter. If it weren't for the aura of evil that clung to her, I would have found her to be quite compelling. As it was, I just barely managed to keep myself from spitting on her.

"Tell me, Jean-Claude. Have you been in the new world so long that you have forgotten how to dress for events of great importance? Or perhaps this is your way of indicating to the Council that your elderly mage is just an ordinary human slave after all," she said, looking like a dark-haired angel.

He must have seen something in her face or heard something in her words, because Jean-Claude started laughing before he answered her. "Poor Belle. Are you really so desperate for Rupert to join you?"

"And why should I want him? Look at him — truly look at him. His face is creased with wrinkles, and his hair is gray. What possible use could I have for him?" She sounded pettish, but I thought I was starting to see what Jean-Claude saw — frustration that I might slip through her fingers.

He directed a sideways glance at me that said everything about what he saw in me before telling Belle, "Trust me. I have looked at him quite thoroughly."

I blushed — thinking about just how thorough he'd been had reminded me of just how impatient I'd gotten with him. It had been one of the highlights of my time with him Sunday night.

I took a deep breath to calm my libido so I could focus on the proceedings. It wasn't until I felt Anita and Richard's frustration at not understanding the conversation that I realized the pair of vampires had been speaking in French. The American school system was a disgrace, with its lack of emphasis on learning foreign languages, but rather than go off on a mental rant, I gave them a rough translation of the conversation through our link. I didn't begin to worry that I'd done the wrong thing until I saw a predatory smile cross Anita's face.

Belle didn't notice. She had turned to me and said, in English, "Well? Have you any last words before attempting this foolishness?"

I knew it was wrong even before I did it, but I couldn't help myself. I bowed deeply, and when I stood upright again, I said in a bland and pleasant tone, "Madam, until I met you, I was not immune to a lovely face."

It took her a few seconds to process what I said, but I doubted she would have picked up on it if Buffy and Anita hadn't started snickering. Belle was very much the type to hear what she expected to hear and little else. When the full import of my meaning hit, her mouth twisted, giving one the impression that her face had turned into a mask of murderous rage. I guessed her eyes were worse, but I had no intention of looking directly at them. I remembered quite well how compelling they were in Valenz's portrait of her doppelganger.

She would have attacked me if Jean-Claude hadn't stepped in her way and said, "Enough. It is time to begin. Belle, Xavier, Ibrahim, please — make yourselves comfortable."

Ibrahim, a short, dour vampire, said, "What of the ghost?"

"She is Rupert's focus, nothing more," Jean-Claude said in an off-handed manner.

This was the difficult moment. If they objected, Buffy would have to leave, and we would have to rely on my strength of will alone. I could probably manage it, but I didn't want to be forced to it. Xavier and Ibrahim nodded their acceptance before Belle could object, but it was clear that she wanted to. Without their support, though, she wouldn't be able to come up with a good reason for denying Buffy's presence.

Though the worst hurdles were behind us, it was with a deep sense of foreboding that I moved to begin the ritual. Belle Morte's snide commentary aside, I couldn't help but feel that I was standing on the precipice of — something. The feeling was strong enough that I suddenly wanted to put off marrying the marks. I'd learned to rely on my intuition in Sunnydale, and I knew going forward was going to set something that no one expected in motion. Yet, it was impossible to remain where we were.

I kept my unhappy silence as I walked to where the bowl rested on the floor, and I drew a partial circle with the sea salt. When Jean-Claude, Anita and Richard moved to surround me, I closed the circle so that we were all within the salt's protection. Buffy was also protected by the salt, but she was outside the circle created by the three. The various herbs and other ingredients had all been blended beforehand, and all that was left was to toss them into the bowl and light them on fire. As the smoke started to rise, I stood, signalling the triumvirate to close ranks around me.

Hand to hand, heart to heart, mind to mind, they opened their marks to one another and allowed their power to flow through their marks. As one, they stepped forward, closing the distance between us. As each pair of clasped hands touched one of my arms or my back, I felt the power flare up between us. And as the magic rose, so too did my cock in a display of vigor I'd never felt — not even earlier with Jean-Claude. I could feel his ardeur clinging to him even as it stretched out to touch me, which was more or less what I expected. What I hadn't expected was the same cloying, sticky energy rising from both Anita and Belle Morte.

Bloody woman. If I hadn't been so thoroughly occupied by the need to control and direct the power we'd raised, I would have taken the time to wring her neck for not warning me that she and Belle shared the same hunger as Jean-Claude. Buffy, sensing my anger, but not the cause, soothed it down. Her intervention helped, but the best I could manage was to take charge of all three variants of the ardeur and hold them tight whilst I worked on marrying the marks.

Soon, though, I had bigger concerns than either the ardeur or binding myself to the triumvirate. The power kept growing, and in my imagination, so too did my cock. Priapism is no laughing matter, particularly when mystical forces are involved. I fought my rising lust, but I soon realized I was on the losing end of that particular battle. Something else had entered the equation, and it threw me off balance.

It — she? — only just barely touched my consciousness with hers, but it was enough to let me know that whatever control I thought I had, it was gone — she was calling the shots, and she really did control our energies. A part of me wanted very much to lose myself in gibbering madness, but the greater part refused to give up. Of the two options, insanity was probably my best option, but it was closed off to me before I had a chance to try for it.

Though I was the one who had caught her attention, she was curious about the others in the room as well. The ardeur in particular seemed to fascinate and horrify her alternately. She shared just a brief thought with me, but I knew in that moment that the ardeur was more than the simple evil Jean-Claude had described. It was a perversion of nature, and Nature wasn't happy about it.

As I watched, she touched each form of the ardeur I held at bay and changed it slightly. It wasn't very much at the moment, but the alteration would perpetuate, ultimately converting the ardeur into something more acceptable. Neither Jean-Claude, Anita nor Belle Morte would notice that anything been done at first, but eventually, within a year or two, they would realize that what once had been would be no longer.

I might have speculated further, but when she turned her attention back to me, I was trapped by her thoughts. I was made to understand that my use of magic in this world was all very fine and well, given that I hadn't abused it, but there was a price to be paid. If I paid it willingly, I would have her protection. If not, she would expel me at that very moment. I sensed no rancor from her, nor evil. Instead, there was an implacable sense of determination and will. I swallowed convulsively and agreed to her terms without bothering to find out what they were. It was clear that she could destroy me with scarcely a thought, so bargaining was essentially out of the question.

When I acquiesced, I basked in the warmth of her approval and love. And for the first time, I felt as if I truly belonged in this world. I had been fully accepted and so too had Dawn and Buffy. The world loved us and wanted us and would keep us safe. She wouldn't, however, break my agreement with Jean-Claude and the others.

As for the others, it was plain to see that no one else in the room had a hint that she was even there. Any being which could hide itself so thoroughly was not one to be toyed with, and hard on the heels of that thought was the memory of a commercial I'd seen on TVLand. The tagline, "It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature," was quite appropriate if her identity was as I suspected.

She departed without further adieu, and I opened my eyes when the power settled down. My erection was still quite insistent, but Jean-Claude would no doubt help with that, if the look on his face was anything to judge by. I checked my links to each of the three and found that they were quite firmly in place.

I could feel what Anita called Richard's beast pacing endlessly just below the surface. Too, I could feel the pain that the duality of his nature caused him. The lycanthropy had broken the bedrock upon which his moral rectitude was built, yet rather than rebuild around the crack, Richard continually tried to fill the gap. The result was that everything was starting to fall down around him. A deep sympathy arose, and I shared it with him, not knowing what else I could or should do. His only response was a bit-off sob.

From Anita, I gained an understanding of her sense of the dead. They called to her, and she called to them. She had a tremendous amount of power, but driving that power was a rock-hard core of faith in the Christian god. That faith strengthened her even as it challenged her in the face of all she had seen and done. She, too, was experiencing a crisis of morality, but it was to do with her relationship with Jean-Claude, more than anything else. She was worried about her soul, and rightfully so, yet at the same time, she recognized that Jean-Claude held a goodly portion of it in his hands. It was that realization that had led her to allow me into his bed, and for that, I was deeply sorry. She flinched from my compassion at first, but ultimately, she accepted it.

Jean-Claude, the first and foremost of my new masters, stood quietly as I touched Anita and Richard in a fashion far more intimate than lovers could ever hope to achieve. From him, I sensed the passage of centuries and the longing for family. Anita had been the first to come close to fulfilling that basic need after Asher had laid the blame for — Julianna? — yes, Julianna's death. Richard had been an unexpected addition, but Jean-Claude welcomed him in the hope that the three of them might find together what he'd found with Asher and Julianna. They hadn't, but then I'd come along. Jean-Claude's thoughts and emotions became too complex for me to follow with any ease, but I tried — and failed miserably. He gave me a look of commiseration and promise just before breaking the link and freeing me from the intensity of the group.

I took a deep breath as I broke the circle, and whilst I did that, Belle said, "Very well, Jean-Claude. Your triumvirate has a human servant. I do hope you can keep him safe." With that vague warning, she swept out of the room. Neither Xavier nor Ibrahim did, though, and it wasn't until I followed their gaze that I understood the reason.

"Buffy!" I didn't have a shirt, so I was forced to shield her with my body. Jean-Claude, seeing the reason for my outcry, took his off as quickly as possible and handed it to her.

"Giles? What the hell happened to my clothes?" She had, as expected, become solid in the presence of my magic, but unlike the previous times, her modesty wasn't preserved by the illusion of clothing. Everyone, including myself unfortunately, had become very well acquainted with Buffy's curves.

Still, as problems went, my Slayer's unexpected nudity was the least of them. Belle had been fought back, and for the first time, I felt truly safe. Despite the fact that I had made an agreement with one whom I suspected was Gaia for an unknown service, I actually felt quite good about how the evening had gone, unlikely though it was that Buffy would agree with me.

Epilogue

Journal of Rupert Giles

November 1, 2004

The Council delegates have left town — finally. Belle Morte was the last to leave. I think she hoped there was still a way for her to take me, but the Council killed her last chance when they held a formal vote to acknowledge my status with regard to Jean-Claude, Anita and Richard. I'm not much safer in the long run, particularly if Belle follows through on her plans to take over the Council, but for now, I needn't worry about having a sudden change of address.

With things settling down to normal — or what passes for normal these days — I've been able to spend more time researching Buffy's condition. We're all quite certain that my magic is somehow responsible, though it's different from the other times she became solid. I have my suspicions as to the why of it, but I haven't told anyone about the visitation during the marriage of the marks.

The truly lovely thing about Buffy's current condition is that she looks almost alive. There's still a touch of graveyard pallor about her eyes and mouth, but unless one examines her closely, she looks only as if she needs more sleep. She isn't happy about her appearance, but I suspect her frustration runs deeper than that. She enjoyed being incorporeal, and I think she finds being solid to be a limitation — a prison of sorts. Her mood has been accordingly sour, but she does make an effort to snap out of it.

One of the biggest problems we face at the moment is that she can't be apart from me for longer than two or three hours. It's turning out to be a two-way street — I can't bear to be without Buffy within touching distance either. Anita believes it's because I'm animating her much the same way a master vampire animates those he's created and those who are beholden to him. She suggested we perform a blood ritual, but neither of us is willing just yet. We're getting by without it for the time being, though I still haven't gotten used to sharing a bed with Buffy. She steals the covers, and her toes are colder than ice cubes. Would that there were a third option.

I hope this intense need to touch her lessens over time, but there are no guarantees. Jean-Claude is unhappy for a variety of reasons, but the main one is that I won't see him until this situation with Buffy is straightened out. He said that she could join us in bed, but I told him in no uncertain terms that Buffy would most certainly not become an active participant in my sex life. When he persisted, I threatened to tell Anita. He hasn't raised the subject since.

November 6, 2004

Anita called today to tell me that a friend of hers from Tennessee would be coming to St. Louis on Tuesday for a longish visit. The woman — Marianne-something — is a strong witch, and Anita believes she may be able to determine Buffy's status. It would be lovely if she can offer a suggestion that will get Buffy out of my bed without requiring me to open a vein for her.

If she's as good as Anita claims, I may talk to her about the entity I encountered. During the daylight hours, I manage to convince myself that it was all in my imagination. When I'm asleep, though, I have dreams about plants and animals that are at once wholly familiar and wholly strange. I inevitably wake up feeling unsettled and ill-at-ease, though to be honest, I'm not sure if that's due to the dreams or due to Buffy's presence in my bed.

Speaking of bed, it's time to turn in. Maybe I'll have normal dreams tonight.

Right.

And maybe Belle Morte will become a nun.

~Fin~