Chapter Forty: Flight

By: Wynn

The day dawned over the horizon, melting the inky darkness into shades of lush indigo, rosy pink, and warm orange. Dawn peered through the tiny round window of the airplane. Outlines of hills and countryside were visible in the light of day, a change from the shimmering ocean water highlighted by the moon and starlight that she had seen for the past five hours. She didn’t know much about flight trajectories or the alignment of stars, but from the length of the flight, which traveled over vast expanses of country dotted with brilliantly lit cities and across the moonlit sea, Dawn figured Quentin Travers was taking her and Connor to England.

“So who is this Travers?”

Turning from the window, Dawn focused on Connor. Shortly after her chilling interlude with Travers, Connor had been brought into the main cabin and placed in the seat opposite her. His arms and legs were bound in steel shackles, magically reinforced to counter Connor’s superior strength; he had tried prying the shackles apart, but his efforts resulted in electric shocks traveling through his body. Although the shackles hadn’t really been necessary as Connor was still woozy from whatever drug they injected into him in order to knock him out and kidnap him.

“He’s the head of the Watcher’s Council,” Dawn said, her blue eyes darting to the closed cabin door before resting on Connor’s face. “He’s like Buffy’s boss, except she doesn’t follow Council orders.”

He nodded, gaze flickering around the airplane, cautious and alert. “What does he want?”

Restraining her eye roll, Dawn said, “He wants Buffy dead. Big shocker there. That’s what the snatch and grab job was for. To get Buffy to follow us so he can kill her. All it’s really going to do is piss her off, which isn’t a smart thing to do.”

Connor nodded again. Leaning his head back against the seat, he looked out the airplane window, his dark features awash in the bright rays of the early morning sunshine. Blinking at the light, he turned his chocolate brown eyes on Dawn and said, “I understand why he took you, to get to your sister. But why does he want me?”

“Because you’re unique.”

Standing in the open cabin doorway was Lilah. Immaculate in a navy pinstriped suit, she moved through the door, closed it behind her, and walked over to Dawn and Connor, sitting in the seat next to Dawn. Flashing Connor a knowing smirk, she continued, “The child of two vampires. That’s not something that happens everyday. Many people are interested in you, Connor, including the Watcher’s Council. The opportunity arose to take you along with Dawn, and Travers seized it.”

“So you work for the Council now?” Dawn asked, arching one brow as she stared at Lilah.
“Hell no. I wouldn’t work for those old stodgy bastards for all the money in the world.”

“But you’d work for Wolfram and Hart.”

“Yes. There are certain… advantages to working at Wolfram and Hart, advantages only they can offer.”

“Advantages? Like your own personal copy of Evil for Dummies?”

Lilah laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that echoed around the cabin. “Something like that,” she said as her laughter faded into a ruby red smirk. Eyes sparkling with amusement, she silently gazed at Dawn, who returned her stare, unblinking, refusing to show any fear. Aside from Tyler and his right hook (she was still blood soaked and pissed off from that unfortunate incident) Dawn hadn’t been harmed in any way. She knew she was bait to lure Buffy into Travers’ trap and needed to be kept alive in order to do so. Lilah couldn’t do anything to her, except annoy her to death with her superior attitude and irritating smirks.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Lilah said after a few moments.

“Not really. After facing off with a hellgod, a stuck up lawyer doesn’t exactly cause the shakes and shivers.”

“I guess not.” Silence stretched through the tiny cabin as Lilah gazed at Dawn, who began to squirm under Lilah’s penetrating stare, much to Dawn’s chagrin. Dark eyes flickered to Connor before refocusing on Dawn. “You know you’re unique, too,” Lilah said, breaking the taut silence, her voice subdued, a husky whisper drifting through the confines of the plane. “An ancient mystical key stuffed into the body and blood of a fifteen-”

“Sixteen.”

“-sixteen year old girl to open the lock between the dimensions. Did you ever wonder whether all that energy vanished after Glory’s defeat?” Lilah paused and arched an eyebrow as her dark eyes bored into Dawn’s. After a moment of silence, she continued, “There are other types of mystical locks in the universe that could require opening. It’s almost a shame for all that energy to vanish after one failed apocalypse.”

A bright smile appeared on Lilah’s face. She shifted in her seat and gazed out the airplane window. “Almost there. Ten minutes at the most. I know I’m ready to get off this airplane. The company has been… aggravating, to say the least.” Smirking, she said to Dawn, “Men with their big plans. Just compensation for other not-so-big parts of their anatomy. Continuous talk about smashing and killing in a desperate attempt to cover their remarkable lack of balls.” Standing, Lilah moved towards the cabin door and rested her palm on the handle. Glancing over her shoulder at Dawn and Connor, she said, “You two should get ready. I suspect things are about to get very interesting.”
 

* * *

“So do all Elves have their own private jets, or is Emilia just special?” Anya looked around the plush cabin of Emilia’s plane, decorated in vibrant greens and gold. As the dot on Willow’s locator spell designating Dawn and Connor had traveled over the Atlantic, questions had been asked as to how the Scoobies were going to follow. Many suggestions on how to mass teleport twelve people over the ocean had been made before Emilia mentioned her plane, which had been readily and thankfully accepted as the mode of travel since the other option had involved a spell that would leave the users covered in thick, black slime. Anya didn’t fancy being drowned in dark goo. The stains would be ridiculously expensive to clean.
“Maybe it’s one of the options in Elfish powers,” Anya continued as she peered out the airplane window, nose pressed against the thick plexiglass. “Instead of telepathy or soul reading, you get a private jet with your own mini bar and entertainment system.”

“Anya, I severely doubt every single Elf in existence has his or her own airplane,” Giles said irritably from his seat beside her. He stared straight ahead, arms crossed across his chest, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Emilia’s family is very wealthy.”

“You’re probably right,” she said as she flashed him a bright smile. “Seeing as how you know so much about Elves.” He had been moody ever since Wesley and Charles’ revelation about Emilia’s involvement in their schemes, borderline sulking during the past few hours on the plane. His attitude was beginning to severely grate on Anya’s nerves. Something had to be done, and she was just the woman to do it. “Or maybe you don’t know as much as you think,” she finished, gazing down at her nails, watching Giles’ reaction from the corners of her eyes.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Anya said slowly, “you just seem surprised at Emilia’s actions. Any idiot knows of the deep familial bonds Elves have with their kin, so it’s not at all surprising she worked with Wesley and Charles to bring down Travers. He had her sister murdered. It’s natural she would want revenge. I don’t understand why you’re so angry with her.” She continued before he had the chance to open his mouth in protest. “Maybe you’re not really angry with her though. Maybe you’re just taking your anger over being swindled by Travers out on Emilia.”

“I was not swindled by Quentin Travers.”

“So you knew he wanted to kill us all, and you let it happen? Thank you very much. A warning would have been nice. I might have rethought that whole giving up immortality and demon invulnerability. Humans are remarkably fragile.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Giles said, “I didn’t know Travers wanted us dead-”

“So you were swindled. And you’re angry at yourself because you were swindled and because you think you should have seen through the little man’s manipulations and you didn’t. And you’re taking it out on Emilia because you can’t get your hands on Travers and you can’t fight with the rest of us because we were swindled too.” Anya leaned back in her seat with a triumphant smile as Giles gaped at her open mouthed. Humans always made simple emotions as complicated as possible, covering them in denials and rationalizations. It was one of the aspects of humanity Anya loathed, preferring blunt honesty to subtle lies.

“Is this a free session, Dr. Freud, or do you require monetary compensation for your keen observations into my psyche?”

“I require no monetary compensation,” Anya said primly. “Just your heartfelt gratitude at my selfless act of analyzing. I am always here to help you comprehend your thoughts and feelings.”

Giles arched a brow at her statements. Shifting in his seat to face her, he said, “I suppose your selfless act of analyzing deserves to be returned in full. How are things with Xander?”

Golden eyes darting to the far end of the cabin to where Xander sat with Willow and Cordelia, Anya said, “Perfectly dreadful. Thank you for asking. Now, back to Emilia-”

“Not just yet. I want to make sure you fully comprehend your thoughts and feelings concerning Xander. It’s only fair seeing as how you so graciously pried into my personal life.”

“I wasn’t prying.”

“Really.”

Sighing, Anya shot an irritated glance at Giles and said, “I’m just trying to help you get over whatever funk you’re in so you can apologize to Emilia and commence with the kissing.”

“I never said I wanted to kiss Emilia. And she doesn’t want to kiss me. Honestly, is that all you ever think about?”

“How do you know she doesn’t want to kiss you?” She waited for his response, golden gaze gleaming with satisfaction as he struggled to think of an appropriate answer. “You don’t know. You’re a man and are ignorant to the inner workings of the feminine mind. It’s not your fault. Too much testosterone in your blood creates deficits in nearly all higher cognitive functioning among the male gender in most species. Just because I’m feeling generous and feel the need to illuminate your tragically deficient mind, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Rupert.” Anya leaned close to Giles and said in a low, confidential tone, “You’re attractive in a ruggedly handsome way. A woman would have to be crazy not to want to kiss you.”

One corner of Giles’ mouth quirked up in amusement. “So does this mean you want to kiss me?”

“I already have. Twice.”

“I remember.”

A broad grin appeared on Anya’s face. “Of course you would. I’m an excellent kisser. But we’re not supposed to be talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“No, you’re talking about me and dragging me along for the ride.” Before Anya could answer, Giles spoke again, “And there are more important things to be doing right now than analyzing me.”

“Like what? Staring out the window? Flipping through these nice little books on airplane safety?”

“Planning how we’re going to rescue Dawn and Connor from Travers.”

A slow smile stretched across Anya’s face as she said, “I don’t see you planning anything. Might it be because those who are planning something include Emilia, who you’ve been avoiding since we left Spike’s?” She pointed to the middle of the cabin where Wesley, Charles, Emilia, and Buffy sat huddled around maps of London and schematics of the Watcher’s Council, discussing the best way to bring down Travers and rescue Dawn and Connor.

“I don’t want to interfere,” Giles said stubbornly.

“Right. Of course you don’t. Despite your lame excuse, you’re still here instead of there, thus we should be discussing you and Emilia because there is nothing better to do.”

Giles stared at her, blinking every few moments and opening his mouth only to close it without speaking. He shook his head slowly as he stood. “I think I’ll check on the pilot, see how long we’ve left on this flight.” As he walked towards the front of the plane, Anya heard him mutter, “Bloody stubborn woman. Like a dog with a bone.”
 

* * *

“Would you let it go? I don’t want to talk to you about it, so just fuck off, Angel.”

Ignoring Faith’s request, Angel leaned forward in his chair and said, “Faith-”

“No, Angel. I am not talking to you about Wes, so stop asking.”

“You should probably do what she says, mate,” Spike said as he shifted in his seat beside Angel, burrowing down into the plush leather. “That is unless you want to be heaved out of the airplane by a brassed off Slayer. You’d probably survive the fall into the big blue sea down there, that is if Mr. Sunshine didn’t burn you to a crisp on the way down.”

Scowling at Spike, Angel said, “No one asked your opinion.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Faith said to Angel, dark eyes flashing with anger, “but you certainly gave it to me anyway.”

“Someone has to talk some sense into you. Getting involved with Wesley isn’t a smart thing to do, Faith.”

“Probably not. But if it’s what I want to do, then it’s what I’m going to do. I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions, Angel. I don’t need you making them for me.”

“She has a point, you know,” Spike said as he crossed his arms behind his head and propped one foot onto the empty seat in front of him. “Besides, this Wesley bloke doesn’t seem to be too bad. He’s certainly not the unholy leper you’re making him out to be.”

Turning towards Spike, irritation flaring in his eyes, Angel said, “You’ve known him for about five minutes, Spike. I’ve known him for years. I think I know him a little better than you do.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, Peaches.”

“And what is that supposed to mean, Spike?”

Simultaneously sighing and rolling his eyes, Spike straightened in his seat and looked at Angel, his blue gaze alight with frustration mixed with a dash of pity. “Angel, you’re not exactly the master of objective perception. You see what you want to see, despite whatever contradictory evidence might be smacking you upside your thick, over-gelled head. You want to see Wesley as the village pariah because you don’t want to admit you were wrong to try to kill him and that he was genuinely trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing? He kidnapped my son. He’s been trying to kill us for the past few months.”

Stifling a groan, Faith said, “Did you hear one word Wes said? He wasn’t trying to kill us. He was keeping tabs on Travers, making sure he didn’t kill us.”

“Faith-”

“Look, Angel, I get you’re pissed that he snatched your son. You missed out on your chance to fuck up your kid and make him hate you. Instead someone else screws up your kid and he still hates you. But Wesley made a mistake. He knows it. Doesn’t he deserve forgiveness for his mistakes? Isn’t that what you’re all about? Forgiveness, redemption, atoning for your past sins. Or is your whole spiel on forgiveness and redemption a lie? ‘Cause, if so, I guess I’m screwed.”

“No, it’s not a lie-”

“Then why don’t you start practicing what you preach, Angel, instead of trying to control my life. I’m a big girl. I don’t need you playing daddy.” Faith pushed off her seat and shoved past Angel. She strode down the airplane and plopped into the vacant seat next to Anya, a murderous scowl adorning her features.

“Well,” Spike drawled, “you certainly fucked that one up.”

Angel cradled his head in his hands. For once, Spike was right. He had fucked up. Royally. Supremely. In any and all ways possible he had fucked up his talk with Faith. He just wanted to make sure she didn’t get hurt by Wesley and whatever motivation was driving him to pursue his former torturer. Maybe Angel should have stayed in Sunnydale with Fred, Gunn, Lorne, and Clem to watch over the Hellmouth, stayed far, far away from the explosive drama that was Faith and Wesley. But he couldn’t stay in Sunnydale. He had a son to save and an evil lawyer to kill for her meddlesome tendencies. Sighing, Angel said, “Shut up, Spike.”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“No. The sound of your voice grating on my ear drums hurts. I was just-”

“What? Trying to save the fair damsel in distress? Swoop in with your billowing black coat and tortured morals to rescue Faith from what you perceive as a mistake?” Leaning towards Angel, Spike said, “You keep pushing her to stay away from him it’ll just make her run towards him that much faster.”

“Make who run towards what?”

Lifting his head, Angel watched Buffy sit in the seat opposite Spike, who moved his legs to let her pass, placing them outside her own, encasing her in two slim columns of black denim.

“Make Faith run towards Wesley,” Spike said to Buffy, glancing at Angel out of the corners of his eyes. “He tried to have ‘the talk’ with Faith and she damn near ripped his head off with her bare hands.”

Buffy blinked slowly. After a moment her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in horror. Leaning forward, she hissed, “Faith and Wesley? Wesley and Faith?”

Spike nodded.

“Whoa.” Slumping back in her seat, Buffy gnawed on her bottom lip and said, “Well, that was unexpected. And also kind of disturbing.”

“My point exactly,” Angel said. “I tried to talk some sense into Faith about getting involved in Wesley-”

Buffy snorted. “Maybe you should talk some sense into Wesley for getting involved in Faith. She’s not exactly known for her warm and fuzzy feelings when it comes to the opposite sex.” Shaking her head, Buffy slipped into silence, hazel eyes randomly drifting around the cabin, seeing but not really seeing. As her gaze perused the plane and her mind drifted, she gradually tensed, the muscles in her jaw tightening imperceptibly and her hands clutching the armrests.

Angel watched Spike lean forward and grasp her hands, pulling them off the armrests and clasping them within his own. She smiled at Spike, body relaxing as his fingers gently stroked the pale skin of her hands.

“We’ll get her back,” Spike said softly.

“I know. I’m just not sure how all this will pan out. Travers obviously isn’t playing with a full deck, Tyler’s just flat out psychotic, and Lilah has all the resources of hell behind her. They have the means, motive, and opportunity to do something colossally stupid.” Buffy shook her head, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Wesley, Charles, and Emilia are going to call people they know in England, people they trust, to keep a watch on the likely airports Travers would use. Willow couldn’t find any flight plan logged by him, but Wesley thinks Travers’ll land at this small airport the Council uses a lot. Giles thought that was the likely course of action too since Travers wants to be found. Hopefully someone will spot him and follow him back to his dungeon hide out.”

“How much longer do we have on this flight?” Angel asked.

“About six hours. Six hours and then Quentin Travers is a dead man.”
 

* * *

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah. Totally. Absolutely. Sort of. Not really, I guess, but can you think of anything else?”

“No,” Connor said to Dawn. “Except for the fact that your wonderful idea was given to you by Lilah, who kidnapped us and wants to experiment on us in cruel and unusual ways. She’s probably lying.”

“No, she’s probably telling us the truth to manipulate us so we’ll fall right into whatever scheme she’s cooked up.” Dawn cast an irritated glance at Connor and said, “That just means we’ll have to be careful not to fall into her evil scheme. Now shut up. I need to concentrate.”

Jaw clenched in frustration, Connor stared out the window of the airplane, watching the airport runway get closer and closer until the plane landed smoothly, air rushing by the windows in a muffled roar as it slowed to a stop. He returned his gaze to Dawn. She held one of her small diamond earrings in her right hand and was digging the steel post into the fleshy tip of her right index finger. A small drop of blood appeared on the pink skin. Turning to Connor, she said, “Hold out your hands.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“No. But what have we got to lose?”

He stared at her, the determination in her blue eyes making him sigh; he reluctantly shoved his shackled hands in front of Dawn, the muscles of his body tensing as she brought the bloodied fingertip towards the steel bindings. One small droplet fell onto the steel, causing the shackles to glow blue and sparkle, electricity dancing across the metal bindings for a few moments before fading away.

Glancing at Connor, Dawn said, “Try it.”

Sighing again, Connor braced himself for the impending electric shocks that were soon to travel through his body and yanked his hands apart. The chain connecting the shackles ripped in two, broken ends dangling from the cuffs still attached to his wrists. His dark eyes flew to Dawn, whose own blue gaze was wide with shock.

“She was right,” Dawn said softly. “Lilah was right. I’m still the Key. Wow.”

The airplane stopped. Muted movement and hushed voices could be heard outside the cabin door. Springing into actions, Dawn bent over and squeezed another drop of blood onto the shackles binding Connor’s ankles. A wave of blue light flashed across the cuffs, and Connor broke the connecting chain in two before he jumped from his seat.

Sliding next to the cabin door, he motioned for Dawn to duck down behind the seat. As her head disappeared behind the grey seat, the sound of metal sliding against metal resounded through the plane as the cabin door slid slowly open. Connor shoved back against the door, knocking the person behind it to the floor and eliciting a harsh cry of pain. Running back to Dawn, he seized her hand and yelled, “Come on.”

They tore out of the small cabin, stepping over the unconscious body of Tyler. As they raced down the aisle, Connor’s gaze flickered to the right, locking onto Lilah. She calmly sat in her seat and watched the two teens flee the plane without making an effort to stop them.

A guard stepped in front of Connor, taser clenched in one of his hands. Sidestepping the weapon, Connor threw the man into the outer wall of the plane, a hollow echo of impact emanating from the collision of flesh on metal. Still grasping Dawn’s hand, Connor ran out of the plane and into the airport. To his right, he saw Quentin Travers standing with a group of guards, huddled deep in conversation about the proper method of transporting prisoners. As they sprinted past them, Connor heard their shouts of recognition and the beginning of a pursuit.

They turned a corner and ran down the hall of the deserted airport. From one of the alcoves dotting the hallway, a hand shot out and latched onto Connor, yanking him and Dawn into a dark room. Connor heard the door softly click shut, followed moments later by the sounds of the guards pounding past the closed door in their pursuit.

Squinting through the darkness, Connor saw the lithe figure of a girl standing before him and Dawn. Her hair was long, a silvery-grey color with jet black tips, and her eyes glowed from the faint light weakly illuminating the room.

“Well, that was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?”

“Who are you?” Dawn asked, her hand still wrapped around Connor’s. “What do you want with us?”

“Oh. My name is Christina. I’m here to rescue you.” She smiled at them from across the room. “I believe you know my mother, Emilia.”
 

* * *

Chapter Forty-One: Event Horizon

By: Wynn

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? With all the blood and ickiness and possible concussion I’m not sure I heard you right.”

“My name is Christina. Emilia’s my mother. Technically.” Christina shrugged and smoothed her silver and black hair out of her face. “I was raised by her sister and brother-in-law.”

“Oh.” Dawn nodded, struggling to hide the confusion she knew was sweeping across her face. A person’s mind could only take so much before it entered into severe meltdown mode, and Dawn’s mind was dangerously close to becoming a warm puddle of grey goo. First, she learned she was still the Key, capable of opening mystical locks with her mystical unlocking blood. Whatever the hell that meant. Second, she had to deal with the fact that Lilah, Lilah, supposedly evil lawyer lady, helped her and Connor escape from Travers. And now there was this English chick, who called herself Christina, claimed to be Emilia’s daughter, and said she was here to rescue them.

Oooookay.

Not that she and Connor needed any help. They were only on the run from the British Intellectual Mafia, stranded in some hole in the wall airport in jolly old England with no money, no food, no shelter, and no plan whatsoever to get them out of this mess and back home in Sunnydale.

…

Alright, so maybe they did need a bit of rescuing. But not from unknown tiny persons with really shiny hair.

Peering through the dim room, Dawn examined Christina. She looked a little older than Dawn, closer to Buffy’s age. Long silver hair fell down her back, tips slightly curled and inky black. She wore cropped black and blue striped pants, a sheer black shirt over a red tank top, and pointed black boots. Dangling earrings and sparse make-up completed the ensemble.

Dawn broke out of her perusal at the sound of Connor’s voice. “How do we know you’re who you say you are?” he asked, dark eyes narrowing at Christina. “Why are we supposed to trust you?”

“I thought you were supposed to have enhanced senses, superpowers. Can’t you just tell I’m who I say I am?”

Shifting a bit, Connor glanced at Dawn before looking at Christina again. “No,” he mumbled.

“Well, that’s disappointing, isn’t it?” Christina said, her lower lip jutting out in slight pout. “It would’ve been neat if you could.” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “My first encounter with the supernatural, besides me and my family of course, and it’s turning out to be less than super.” Shaking her head, Christina crossed the room and looked closely at Connor. Her eyes were large, with cloudy grey irises that glowed faintly in the dark room. Scrunching up her nose, she said, “Can you do that thing with your face?”

“What thing with my face?”

“The bumpy forehead thing. I saw a picture of a vampire once. His face was all screwed, and he had the foulest teeth imaginable.”

Casting another glance at Dawn, Connor slowly shook his head. “No. I can’t do that bumpy forehead thing. I’m not a vampire.”

“That makes sense. There’re only faint traces of vampirism around you. I can’t be sure though. Sparky over here’s about to blind me.” Christina stepped back, a wide grin appearing on her face as she said to Connor, “Good for you though. The vampire look is really quite dreadful, don’t you think?”

Sparky? Dawn pulled the sling off her arm and threw it down on the ground. Placing her hands on her hips, she said, “Sparky? I have a name. It’s Dawn. And what the hell do you mean you can see vampirism?”

An apologetic smile appeared on Christina’s face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. You’ve just got the brightest life energy I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around some real glow worms before.”

Blinking once, Dawn arched an eyebrow and said, “Would you mind a little exposition for those not in the know about your life? You can see life energy? How can you see life energy? And you still didn’t explain about seeing vampirism? What is your deal?”

Head snapping towards the closed door, Christina held her hand up in the air, signaling for silence. Her infectious excitement melted into a subdued seriousness as she approached the door and placed a hand upon the smooth grey surface. Drawing in a sharp intake of breath, she ran to Dawn and Connor, grabbed Dawn’s arm, and began to pull them towards the opposite end of the dark room.

“What are you doing?” Dawn asked. “Where’re we going?”

“Quiet,” Christina whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the door.

“What do you see?” Connor asked as they reached the other side of the room. The edge of another door was barely visible in the darkness; cardboard boxes were stacked in front of the door, the haphazard pile reaching about four feet high and stretching three feet wide.

As she grabbed the first box and moved it off the pile, Christina said, “Nothing. I don’t see anything. That’s the problem. Now, help me with these boxes.” They cleared the boxes from in front of the door, and Christina twisted the handle, pulling it and revealing a murky corridor on the other side. Exposed white bulbs shined on cracked concrete at sparse intervals; the end of the passageway was not visible, swallowed in the midnight black gloom.

Turning to Dawn, Christina attempted to push her into the stone hallway. Dawn jerked out from under her hands and folded her arms across her chest, adopting the patented Summers’ glare of stubbornness. “I am not going in there. Not until you tell me what is going on.”

Christina reached for Dawn again. “There isn’t any time for Twenty Questions. We need-”

The closed front door burst open. Light from the airport flooded the dim room, backlighting burly shapes standing within the doorframe. One figure stepped into the room, and Dawn gasped as she recognized Quentin Travers. He held a flat, round ebony disk in one gloved palm. A slow smile spread across his face as he caught sight of Christina.

“Miss Samuel. How wonderful to see you again.”

“The pleasure’s all yours, you slimy git.”

“Such harsh language from such a lovely young lady as you pains me, Miss Samuel.”

“And I feel so bad about it. Truly I do.”

A strained expression crossed Travers’ face at her flippant tone. Moving closer to Christina, Connor, and Dawn, he said, “I wondered if they would send someone here to wait and see if I would arrive. I never expected it would be you.”

“Happy to disappoint you.”

“On the contrary Miss Samuel, I am far from disappointed. You see, aside from Miss Summers and the young man here, you are the one thing in this world I have longed to study the most.” His thin lips curved into a smug grin. “Remind me to thank your parents for presenting me with the opportunity.” The smile faded off his face, replaced by a cold, indifferent mask. “Seize them.”

Four hefty shapes ambled into the room, moving towards Dawn, Connor, and Christina. Stepping in front of Dawn and Connor, Christina held up her hand and the four men stopped in their tracks, eyes widening and muscles straining against whatever bond held them in their place. She pointed towards the door and said, “Turn. Walk to the door.” Like marionettes controlled by a puppet master, the four men stiffly turned and moved back toward the door, their movements jerky as their joints locked in protest.

“Impressive,” Travers said, delight shining in his eyes. “Most impressive.”

Teeth gritted, Christina said, “Dawn… Go. Now.”

“I don’t think so,” Travers said. He moved towards Christina, the ebony disk gripped tightly in his hand. As he drew closer, she fell back, dropping to one knee, body starting to shudder violently. The four men slowed to a stop, remaining motionless before the open door. Smirking, Travers glanced down at the disk in his hand and said, “An event horizon. It sucks all available psychic energy into it, creating a sort of black hole amongst psychic waves. It’s particularly dangerous to those with enhanced psychic abilities.”

“Go…” Christina said to Dawn and Connor. Her face was ashen, mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

Dawn looked from Travers to Christina to the four men, who shook off whatever control Christina had over them and started walking towards her and Connor, weapons drawn and at the ready. “But…”

“Go!” Over her shoulder, Christina locked eyes with Dawn. “Now!” She lifted her hand and Dawn stumbled back into the murky corridor, her hand latching on to Connor and dragging him with her. The door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into the dank dark. Dawn shook her head, clearing the fog that had invaded her mind when Christina looked at her. Her conscious control over her body had faded; Dawn felt as though she had had the reins of power snatched from her and her body moved against her will, making her fall into the dark passageway. So not an experience she wanted to have again.

Standing, Connor pulled Dawn to her feet and started down the corridor. His hand was tight on her wrist, the muscles in his hand like cords of steel beneath his callused skin.

“What about Christina?”

“We can’t do anything for her now,” Connor said. “They would have captured us too if we would have stayed. We need to get help.”

A muffled cry sounded through the corridor, and Dawn’s blood froze in her veins as she recognized the scream as Christina’s. Wood scraping against concrete followed the cry; thudding footsteps echoed in the stone hall. Connor tightened his hold on her arm, and they raced down the corridor, speeding through shafts of brilliant white light interspersed with pools of shadows, the strobe like effect dazzling Dawn’s eyes. They arrived at the end of the hall, where it branched off into opposite directions, the twin hallways twisting into oblivion.

“Which way do we go?” she asked. The sounds of pursuit grew louder in the hall as Travers’ men drew closer. Dawn nervously looked from one path to the other.

“This way,” Connor said as he pulled her into the left pathway. The corridor slanted down as they ran, and they slid across the slick stone ground. They ran twenty… thirty… forty feet and the passageway forked again. Darting into the right branch, Dawn could see light at the end of the hall, a hazy whiteness against the all encompassing black.

“Look!”

“I see it,” Connor said. He increased their pace, and she struggled to keep up. Her muscles began to burn in her body; she drew in gasping breaths of air. She could hear their pursuers closing in on them with each passing second, and Dawn knew she would never make it to the light and to whatever lay beyond it before the men reached them. But Connor could. If he let her go. If he left her behind. He could outrun the men and be able to contact someone who would help.

“Connor…”

His dark eyes darted towards her. “What?”

Something pale and blurred shot out from the left side of the corridor, crashing into Connor’s face. His hand was wrenched from hers as he collided with the stone wall, the impact of skull on stone a sickening crack in the corridor. He slumped to the ground, blood dripping down his face, fighting to stay conscious. “Dawn… look…”

She slowly turned from Connor, mouth going dry, eyes wide with fear as her blue gaze locked onto the feral grin of Tyler. Rooted to the spot, icy snakes of panic slinking through her body, Dawn opened her mouth to scream an instant before his fist shot out and struck her, sending the world into dizzying swirls and then blackness.
 

* * *

She was bored. There was no other word for it. Lilah was bored. It was an emotion she rarely, if ever, felt. She was intelligent, rich, and beautiful; she worked for a demonically controlled law firm. Her life never lacked excitement. Until now. Now was the hurry up and wait phase of what she dubbed “The Plan.” Phase One of “The Plan” had gone off without a hitch; the Summers brat knew of her existing Key related abilities and had immediately put her mystical blood to the test on the specially designed Wolfram and Hart shackles Lilah had conveniently placed on Connor. It was too bad the brat and her boy weren’t smart enough to actually escape. Although the twenty minute will-they-or-won’t-they-escape had provided a break from the boredom, as had the unexpected arrival of the other girl, but thrill had worn off and everything was soon back to business as usual. Scheme. Gloat. Repeat. And Lilah couldn’t complete Phase Two of “The Plan” until Angel and his merry band of men rode in on their shiny white horses, with their heads held high, shoulders thrust back, and virtue waving behind them like big, bright flags. And surprise, surprise, they were late.

Typical.

But it wasn’t as though death was imminent for Dawn and Connor. They were bait, irresistible lures dangling in front of the California White Hats to pull them into Travers’ trap. And no doubt Angel, Buffy, and crew knew this fact and were thus taking their sweet time in arriving, all the while planning the best way to rescue the babes in distress and vanquish the black hearted foe.

Still, Lilah wished they would hurry their pristine asses up. Show a little initiative. Put on the thermal boosters for that extra burst of speed. Otherwise she was stuck in Watcher Central for longer than absolutely necessary, forced to listen to Quentin Travers brag about the genius of his devious plot or to Tyler rant about his severe beat down at the hands of Anya. Both of which were boring, boring, boring. Lilah had things to do and playing audience to one psychotic man’s delusional fantasies of revenge was not one of them. Lilah shook her head. Men. If it’s not sex on the brain, it’s violence. If it’s not violence, it’s evil schemes to take over the world. If it’s not evil schemes to take over the world, it’s back to sex.

Typical and boring.

Although not all men were that monotonous. Angel, on occasion, had proven to be very interesting, particularly in his less soulful days. And from all her gathered intel, Spike was a bundle of interesting contradictions, so much so that it was damn near impossible to predict what he would do next. Lindsay, despite all his other faults, could never be described as boring or monotonous. And Wesley… A slow grin curved Lilah’s lips. Wesley was a cornucopia of interesting layers and facets, all bundled together under one sexy, scarred surface. Definitely a far cry from the simpering do-gooder of old. Maybe that was the key to salvation from monotony: moral ambiguity covered in a sexily scarred exterior. It worked for Lilah.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Not remotely,” Lilah said smoothly, flashing Tyler a saccharine sweet smile. They were in Travers’ office. Dark wood permeated the spacious office. Bookcases stretched along three walls housing the requisite amount of musty leather bound books and various rare and expensive supernatural objects. Interspersed around the cases were heavy oil paintings depicting scenes of battlefield blood and gore. A massive desk resided in the center of the room, surrounded by three lush leather chairs. “Why would I want to listen to your oh so eloquent bitching and moaning about your little cuts and bruises?” Lilah asked. “You can’t even handle a few bruises and broken ribs.” She shook her head sadly. “And you call yourself a real man…”

Eyes narrowed, Tyler said, “I’d like to see you go toe to toe with a Vengeance Demon, sweetheart. You’d be dead before you could even breathe.”

“Ah, no, I wouldn’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I wouldn’t be stupid enough to get myself into a situation where I would have to go ‘toe to toe’ with a Vengeance Demon. It’s called possessing a modicum of intelligence. You had the chance to let Faith go, but you chose to play Jack the Ripper and thus had to pay the consequences. Deal with it.”

Tyler shook his head as he paced back and forth in front of Lilah. Bruises still marred his face and neck, courtesy of Anya’s vengeance induced beating. Cream colored bandages were wrapped tightly around his torso, binding his broken ribs. “No,” he said. “That’s not intelligence. That’s cowardice.”

“So says the walking bruise.” Stifling an eye roll, Lilah said, “Might I make one suggestion though?”

“You might.”

Leaning forward in her chair, Lilah brought forth a condescendingly concerned expression upon her face and locked eyes with Tyler. “Next time you come across Anya, particularly after you’ve pissed her off by trying to murder her best friend, don’t try to play Superman. There might not be someone around to save your miserable life.”

“I won’t need someone around. Next time I’ll be prepared.” Off of Lilah’s skeptical expression, Tyler continued, “You think all I’ve done for the past day is bitch and moan about my cuts and bruises? Hardly. The Council has the best archive this side of the Atlantic of ways to kill demons. All kinds of demons. Including Vengeance Demons. A little research here, a little research there, and bam! The most effective way of slicing and dicing a Vengeance Demon.” He plopped down onto the chair beside her, mouth twisting into a predatory grin. “So next time I come across Miss Demonic Goldilocks, and believe me when I say I will come across her again, she’ll be the one walking away with the cuts and bruises. That is, if she walks away at all.”
 

* * *

The first thing Christina noticed was darkness. She tried to open her eyes but found to her horror that they were already open and staring blindly out into the world that she could no longer see. It was then she felt the cool touch of metal on her forehead. She knew the metal encased a modified event horizon and that no matter how much she wriggled or shifted the metal band would not miraculously slip off her head, allowing her to see again. For the metal band was an inhibitor, a man made device constructed to contain any and all psychic abilities, ranging from telepathy to telekinesis, from soul reading to her own psychic sight. Inhibitors were specially constructed for one person, magically calibrated using the darkest of dark magicks to that person’s unique brain patterns, an unfortunate turn of events that prevented the wearer of the band from removing it from his or her head. Only another person would be able to remove the inhibitor from her head, and Christina knew there wouldn’t be anyone around for miles willing to help her.

Damn Travers.

Christina wondered how he knew of her unique condition, her physical blindness and her psychic sight. Her grey eyes saw nothing, but the dark recesses of her mind saw everything, her brain waves bouncing off the outside world and reflecting it back to her like bat sonar. Not something that happened everyday, or every millennia, and it was all thanks to her inimitable heritage. Children of elves and humans were rare, the resulting offspring a strange hybrid of the two different species; Christina’s Elfish psychic abilities twisted in such a way as to account for her physical human blindness, which was a result of her mixed DNA. Talk about irony. She wouldn’t be blind if she wasn’t half Elf, but she wouldn’t be able to see with her mind if she wasn’t half Elf. Her family had done everything in their power to hide her strange abilities from the rest of the world, particularly from men like Quentin Travers, whose obsessive drive for knowledge took no account of right or wrong, who only saw Christina as a human sized science experiment to be manipulated and tested at their whim.

Bastard.

The second thing Christina noticed was pain. Dull. Throbbing. Inside her head. Overextension of one’s psychic abilities coupled with a meaty fist slamming into one’s temple led to dull throbbing pain and concussions. But not to the sharp, stinging pain down in her arm. She tried moving her arm and ridding herself of the sharp pain jabbing into her arm, briefly panicking when she realized both of her arms were strapped down, tied to the smooth, hard chair beneath her body and immobilized by thick bands. Her feet were also bound to the chair.

One Christina Ariana Samuel reporting for experimentation.

She shook her head softly and sighed. It was her own fault she was captured by Travers. She knew Charles and Emilia had used her as a last resort and sent her to the least likely airport Travers would fly to, sent her there with instructions only to observe and not to interfere. But they hadn’t known Travers would choose that airport and that Connor and Dawn would be able to escape. What was she supposed to do? Sit there and watch those two run for their lives while she twiddled her thumbs? She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. So she interfered. But her excitement at finally being able to do something, anything, other than sit in her gilded cage far, far away from Quentin Travers had briefly overshadowed her common sense, costing Dawn and Connor precious seconds, and resulted in her capture.

Definitely not the brightest thing Christina had ever done in her life. But she didn’t regret it. Inaction was far worse than action, even if the action was the kind that led straight to kidnapping and experimentation. For at least now she was within striking distance of Travers, the man who had ordered the death of her aunt Ariana, who had been her mother most of her life.

She felt something slide out of her right arm. A needle. Great. Struggling against her bonds, Christina froze as she heard the cold voice of Quentin Travers.

“It is quite useless to struggle, Miss Samuel,” he said from somewhere off to her left. “Those restraints are quite strong. I doubt even a Slayer could break them, much less a half-breed Elf.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” Christina said, tilting her chin into the air. “You can kill me, but you’re still going to die.”

“Young lady, I hardly think you are in the position to make threats, idle as they may be.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a fact.”

“A fact? Really. Are you having a portent of the future?” Travers asked his voice tinged with barest hint of excitement. “I didn’t think you possessed the ability of divination. Fascinating.”

“It’s not a portent of the future, you halfwit. It’s just a fact. Call it karma, if you want a fancy name. You killed my mother. You will die. Simple as that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your meddlesome mother is still alive, undoubtedly working on a plan to rescue you along with Miss Summers and the vampire spawn. Pity your fantasy of revenge will have to remain only that, a fantasy.”

“I never said I would be the one to kill you. I just said you would die. Ariana was a good, kind woman who you ruthlessly had murdered. If there’s any justice at all to the universe, you will pay for her death with your life.”

“Miss Samuel,” Travers said condescendingly, “you will soon realize that there is no such thing as a cosmic scale of balance that weighs one’s sins against one’s virtues, or one’s crimes against one’s punishments. There is only the strong and the weak, the powerful and the powerless. And no amount of wishing by a deluded child will change that.”

“I suppose you think you’re powerful. But whatever power you have is from manipulation and fear and that never survives. Never.”

Sighing, Travers said, “I grow tired of this conversation.”

“And I grow tired of you sticking sharp objects in my arm. I guess we’re both out of luck.”

“You’re right on one count. You, my dear, are very much out of luck. I, on the other hand, am not. You think your family will come storming in and rescue you from the Big Bad Wolf, all the while saving the day and defeating the enemy. The world does not work like that. I have not made it that way.”

“Your overconfidence is your weakness.”

“And your faith in your friends is yours. They may be effective against demons and vampires and other supernatural creatures, but this is an altogether different playing field. The Council has influence in virtually every walk of life, from the worlds of finance and business to the realm of the judicial and governmental. The brute force utilized by the Slayers and their friends is of no use here. The sooner you realize that the better. There will be no miraculous rescue. Your family and friends are walking into a trap, and they are going to die. Nothing you can do will prevent this. Nothing.”
 

* * *

Chapter Forty-Two: Family

By: Wynn

The London flat was small and nondescript with dirty white walls, dingy grey carpeting, and dust coated widows. Battered furniture, including two long tables, ten or twelve folding chairs, and three metal bookcases, filled the main room to capacity. Off to the right lay a tiny kitchenette, populated with a dish-filled sink, a smeared microwave, and note covered mini-refrigerator. A narrow hallway branched off from the main room, leading to three closed doors.

Giles entered the flat, grey eyes flickering across the three people moving about the cramped room. A red haired boy slouched on a folding chair, head bent over a black laptop computer, fingers dancing across the keys in rapid precision. His clothes, an odd assortment of colors and patterns, were rumpled, and he wore day glow orange sneakers. Kneeling before one of the bookcases was a tiny woman with short blonde hair; she was immaculately dressed in grey linen slacks, cerulean silk shirt, and shiny black pumps. And sitting at the head of one of the long tables was a burly black man in a tight white t-shirt and black pants whose scarred fingers were tracing a line of text on a yellow piece of parchment.

“Simmons?” Giles asked as he walked across the room.

Head snapping up, David Simmons broke into a wide grin as his eyes focused on Giles. The two men had worked together at the Watcher’s Council during the few years preceding Giles’ move to Sunnydale; frequent encounters in the Council’s archives led to spirited conversations about prophecy translations and ancient texts before evolving into genuine friendship. Simmons pushed away from the table and moved towards Giles. “Rupert!” he said as he clasped one of Giles’ hands within his own, his voice booming throughout the tiny flat. “Good to see you. How was the flight?”

“Long.” Giles glanced over his shoulder at Charles, who had followed him into the flat along with Buffy, Emilia, and the rest of the gang. Charles nodded at Simmons before walking towards the boy with the computer. Looking back at Simmons, Giles said, “I didn’t know you knew Charles.”

“We taught at the Watcher’s Academy together. He did weapons training while I covered ancient prophecies. We bonded over our mutual non-geekdom.” Simmons’ coffee colored eyes slid from Giles over to Wesley. “No offense, Pryce.”

“None taken, Simmons,” Wesley said, a smirk appearing on his face as he sat in Simmons’ recently vacated chair. “Not everyone, I’m afraid, is blessed with your particular brand of charm. The rest of us plebeians must make due solely with our stimulating intellect and biting wit.” Wesley’s eyes quickly skimmed the faded parchment and one of his brows arched in appreciation. “Translating the Babylonian Codex? Impressive.”

“I thought so,” Simmons said, a broad grin curving his lips. “It’s not so hard once you’ve determined all the different dialects used in writing the prophecies. There’re only twenty-five or so. Then you have to decrypt the three different encryption schemes and those can be a bit tricky.” Simmons looked at Giles and winked. “But it’s all child’s play really. Just something to do while I waited for you stuffed shirts to arrive.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Wesley murmured as he flipped through the stack of notebook pages lying next to the parchment. “Of course you do know that the keys to translating three of the ancient dialects were lost in the massive fire that destroyed the Watcher’s Council back in the late 1600s. If I remember correctly, those dialects were crucial to understanding the final sections of the Codex.”

“Yes, they were lost. But a little cross referencing with the Watcher’s journals from back in the day revealed enough fragments of the dialect keys to allow Junior over here to construct a sampling database and compare the pieces of the keys to the Codex.” Glancing at Giles, Simmons said, “I believe a similar technique was used to translate the ritual of soul restoration in Sunnydale a few years ago.”

Giles nodded, mouth flattening into a grim line.

Rubbing a hand over his short black hair, Simmons stared at Giles for a moment longer before turning back to Wesley. Forcing a jovial grin upon his face, he said, “Step into the Technological Age, Pryce. You’ll be amazed at what’s possible.”

“Just pass me a feathered quill and a piece of parchment and I’ll be sure to write myself a reminder.”

Taking advantage of the resumed bantering between Simmons and Wesley, Giles turned and walked over to the closest metal bookcase. Memories of Jenny were invading his consciousness more and more since his heated conversation with Emilia about her deception. Circumstances had only allowed for the briefest of reconciliations between Giles and Jenny before her death. What sort of circumstances would the upcoming confrontation with Travers bring to Giles’ tentative, recently renewed relationship with Emilia? Would history repeat itself and abort any chance for reconciliation with Emilia? Would he sit idly by, saddled by his wounded pride and righteous anger, and let her walk away from him again, as she did twenty years ago?

Sighing, Giles removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Cords of tension wound throughout his entire body. He did not need to ruminate on personal problems and exacerbate the stress level inside his body any more. There were more pressing matters to deal with. Rescuing Dawn and Connor. Dealing with Travers, Lilah, and Tyler. A cool level head was needed, not one filled with rage.

Replacing his glasses, Giles looked at the metal bookcase before him. Cardboard boxes filled with surveillance equipment lined the top two shelves; manila envelopes were stacked haphazardly across the middle shelf; leather bound texts spanned the lengths of the bottom two rows. Crouching, Giles scanned the books, surprise flitting across his face at the sight of a copy of his Watcher’s journal buried amongst the volumes. He slid the journal out from beneath the texts and flipped open the cracked cover. It was his second journal, detailing his second year in Sunnydale. Angelus. Acathla. Spike and Drusilla. Jenny.

History rearing its ugly head once again.

“Reliving past memories?”

Closing the book with a snap, Giles shoved the journal back onto the shelf and stood, eyes growing cold and hard at the sight of the slim blonde woman before him. Her green eyes were alight with unabashed curiosity, her demeanor aloof and composed. Diamond hoops glittered from her ears; a sapphire and emerald choker wound around her throat two times. She held out one delicate hand and said, “My name is Emma Rochester. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t,” Giles said without taking her hand. “But I still know who you are.”

“You do, do you?” she asked in a crisp, clipped voice.

“Yes. Most unfortunately your reputation precedes you.”

A cool smile appeared on Emma’s face. Retracting her proffered hand, she said, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Giles. And if I may offer a piece of advice, it would do you good to play nice. Remember we are all here for the same purpose.”

“And what exactly is that? Career advancement? Seizing the opportunity to brush up on the latest backstabbing techniques?”

Ignoring his remarks, Emma moved over to the bookshelf and extracted Giles’ journal. She opened the book and flipped through the photocopied pages. “A most fascinating read at the Council, Mr. Giles,” Emma said, her eyes alighting with a malicious joy. “Quite the page turner. I must say allowing your Slayer to date a vampire is most unorthodox.”

“Yes, well, Buffy is an unorthodox Slayer.”

“If you mean unorthodox in the manner of dangerous and unruly, then I’m inclined to agree with you. Her first relationship with a vampire involved homicide, psychological torture, and an attempted apocalyptic event. And now she is seeing a second vampire, the one called Spike, who has slain two Slayers in his hundred and thirty years of carnage.” Emma looked up from the journal, a saccharine sweet smile upon her face. “Your Slayer isn’t the brightest of the bunch, is she?”

Drawing in a calming breath, Giles said through a clenched jaw, “Buffy is the brightest young woman I have ever met, and she is the best Slayer the world has seen in three hundred years.”

“Which is why the Council is trying to kill her, I presume.”

“The Council is trying to kill Buffy because it is lorded over by a power hungry megalomaniac, not because of anything Buffy has done or failed to do. And if I may offer you a piece of advice, Ms. Rochester, I would cease all comments upon Buffy, her private life, and her Slaying capabilities. You might not like some of the reactions to your opinions.”

Green eyes sparkling, Emma looked across the room, her gaze drifting over the faces of the Scoobies. “Ah, yes. Her mongrel friends. Not limited to but including a psychotic Slayer, a former Vengeance demon, an unstable witch, and a lowly carpenter. Quite the formidable group, I’m sure.” Her gaze shifted again, and a slow grin spread across her face. “Or maybe you’re referring to her pet vampire protectors.” An unreadable expression crossed her face as she stared at Angel and Spike. “Tell me, Rupert,” she said softly, “how does it feel to sit on the wayside and watch as your Slayer grows ever closer to these two caged vampires? Do you lay awake at night and worry about her welfare, worry whether or not the night will come when one of the two will break through their mystic chains and turn your precious Slayer? Would you be able to find the strength to overcome your inevitable incapacitating guilt and stake her? Or would you foolishly try to save her-”

“Enough.”

“Hey, Emma,” a soft voice said from behind Giles. “Charles wants to talk to you. Now.”

Fists clenched, Giles glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with the skinny red head. He flashed Giles an apologetic smile then returned his blue gaze to Emma. In a slow Southern drawl, he said, “He wants an update on the Travers watch.”

“Of course,” Emma said as she closed the journal. Placing the book into Giles’ hand, she said, “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Giles. I do wish we could continue discussing your charge and her… acquaintances, but duty calls.” She brushed past Giles, shot the red headed boy a vicious look, and made her way over to Charles.

“Don’t pay attention to her, Mr. Giles,” the boy said as Giles turned towards him. His skin was pale and lightly dusted with freckles. His copper colored hair was long, tendrils brushing across his shoulders in slight curls; black eyes stared out from beneath small silver glasses. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his worn jean jacket and said, “She hasn’t done anything but bitch and complain and stir up trouble since the second she walked in the door. Simmons contemplated throwing her out the window at the end of the first day, but Christina told him the sidewalk outside didn’t deserve to be ‘rudely thrashed by an insufferable, snooty know-it-all.’”

Giles unclenched his fists and smiled wanly at the boy. “I quite agree. I’m surprised Simmons was able to last an entire day around Emma Rochester.”

The boy smiled. “It was touch and go there for a while, but Mr. Pryce talked to Emma and she laid off the attitude around Simmons. The rest of us weren’t quite so lucky. She was still Super-Bitch Queen twenty-four seven. I don’t know why Charles keeps her around. He swears she’s an important part of the team, but I’m not convinced. Everyone hates her, and I don’t see how she can help if everyone hates her.”

“It would seem to pose a problem.” Giles cast another glance at Emma, eyes clouding over in anger as she caught his stare and smirked at him. Tearing his gaze away from her, Giles looked at the boy and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

The boy blushed. “Sorry. I, um, forgot to introduce myself. It happens. I tend to run off on long, unnecessary tangents. I’ve tried to pick up some of that trademark British stoicism, but it just doesn’t stick. It sort of bounces off me like oil on water.” The boy frowned. After a moment he shook his head and said, “Ok. That didn’t make much sense. I don’t think oil bounces. But it would be cool if it did though.” He paused again and the frown deepened upon his face. “On second thought, I think it would be more gross than cool, so scratch the whole oil bouncing riff from the record.”

Giles nodded sagely, struggling to stifle the urge to grin. “I apologize again. I still haven’t caught your name. The memory starts to fade as one grows older.”

Blushing harder, the boy pulled one hand from the pocket on his jacket and held it out to Giles. “Sorry. Again. I can’t help myself. Instead of open mouth insert foot it’s open mouth exit continuous never ending chatter. But that’s besides the point, as I’m sure you know, so I’ll stop now.” He smiled at Giles as they shook hands, his dark eyes sparkling with self-deprecating humor. A few seconds passed and the smile faded off his face as his eyes widened. “And I still haven’t told you my name. At least I remembered before you had to remind me again. I’m Jeremy Samuel.”

“Samuel?” Giles asked. “Are you related to Charles?”

“Yeah. He’s my brother. Half-brother actually.”

“You’re not British though.”

Jeremy shook his head. He stuffed his hand back inside his jacket pocket and said, “No. Born and bred in the good old U.S.A. My father, Charles’ dad, suffered one of those mid-life crisis things and fled to the States when Charles was a few years older than me. I guess he was twenty-three, twenty-four. Anyway, my father met my mom and out I popped eleven months later.” Jeremy shuffled slightly and glanced down at the floor. “He-”

“Jeremy!”

Starting at Charles’ call, Jeremy said, “What?”

Charles strode across the room, his broad features pinched in anger and worry. “Emma says Christina hasn’t returned. How long has she been gone?”

Jeremy pulled up the sleeve of his jean jacket and looked at the silver watch on his wrist. “Not too long. Only about… four and a half hours,” he finished lamely. He blinked once and hastily shoved the jacket sleeve back over his watch. “I, uh, didn’t realize. Stefan didn’t call in or anything, so I’m sure everything’s Ok.”

Charles stared at Jeremy for a few moments before he said, “She probably gave him the slip. Goddamn stubborn girl. I told her to stay with Stefan. She promised me she would or I wouldn’t have let her go to that damn airport.” He shook his head. Jaw clenched in frustration, he said, “And instead of calling and telling us like he’s supposed to, Stefan’s probably out looking for her himself, trying to avoid getting into trouble. Again.”

“You can’t blame Christina for running away from Stefan,” Emilia said as she approached the three men. Her eyes were calm and her voice composed. Only the faint twisting of her emerald top by her slim fingers indicated her nervousness. “You’ve barely let her out of the flat in the past year, and when you have she’s been more heavily guarded than the Queen.”

“And with good reason,” Charles said, his eyes flashing as he squared off against Emilia. “I wasn’t going to let that bastard get within one mile of her.”

“And in the process you’ve completely denied her any chance for a life. That isn’t how Ariana would want Christina to live.”

Jeremy nodded. “Emilia’s right, you know. Christina hated having Stefan around. She told me he creeped her out. Something about mouth breathing I think.”

“At least he kept her safe and out of trouble!”

“Oh, he has, has he?” Emilia said, voice laden with sarcasm. “And what exactly do you call this situation now if not trouble?”

“I’d call it an exercise of Christina’s damn Smith stubborn streak. She knows how dangerous it is for her to run around unprotected, especially in London, yet she still chooses to go traipsing all across the city like-”

“-like a twenty year old woman who shouldn’t be locked away for the rest of her life just because there are dangerous people in the world.”

A tense silence descended upon Charles, Emilia, and Jeremy. Giles glanced from one face to the other, taking in the pinched mouths and worried eyes. Apparently this was one of the unforeseen calamitous circumstances that would surround the confrontation with Travers. Clearing his throat, Giles said, “Who is Christina?”

Emilia blanched as her violet eyes snapped towards Giles’ face. Tongue darting out to moisten her lips, she said, “Christina is… um… she’s-”

“-my daughter,” Charles said, dark eyes catching Emilia’s. The two stared at one another for a few seconds before Emilia slowly nodded her head. Charles looked from Emilia to Jeremy and said, “Get Stefan on the phone and find out where he last saw her. Then send Riggs and Havermeyer to look in that area for any sign of her.” He turned from Jeremy and walked over to Simmons. “Simmons.”

Simmons looked up from his piece of parchment and said, “Yeah?”

“Can you go to the airport Christina was assigned to and see if she’s there or if she was there?”

Simmons nodded and pushed away from the long table. He reached underneath the table and removed a grey duffle bag, from which he extracted a nylon shoulder holster containing one handgun and one tazer. He slid on the shoulder holster and removed a black jacket from the bag. Slipping on the jacket, Simmons crossed the room and leaned close to Emilia, whispering something in her ear. She squeezed his hand, and he flashed a reassuring grin. Nodding once to Giles, Simmons walked across the room, opened the door, and left the flat.

“Emma,” Charles said as the flat door closed. “Tell everyone everything you told me about Travers. Answer any questions they may have. We’re going in tonight.”

Emma nodded.

Without another word, Charles strode from the main room into the hallway and disappeared through one of the three closed doors dotting the hall. Giles glanced around the room, gaze flickering across the stunned, speechless faces of the Scoobies, and he sighed as Emma stepped before him, a broad triumphant grin upon her face as she said, “Well, let’s get started, shall we?”
 

* * *

The photograph was taken on a bright summer day three years ago. A family trip to the south of France, one of the few vacations the Council would allow Charles to have from his surveillance job in Sunnydale. A colorful striped beach blanket laid spread beneath the three Smith women, their heads thrown back in raucous laughter, their silver hair gleaming in the bright sunlight. Ariana in her periwinkle one piece, Christina in a tie dyed bikini, Emilia in a lavender top and matching sarong. He can’t remember exactly what they were laughing about. Undoubtedly some private joke known only to the three of them.

They were happy. Carefree. Alive.

They were his girls, his family, each woman vexing and pushing him with their fierce independence while charming and beguiling him with their compassionate generosity. But everything was now shattered, splintered. Ariana dead. Christina kidnapped. Emilia nervous and preoccupied and frayed. And it was all because of Quentin Travers.

Charles’ grip on the frame tightened as he trailed one finger across Ariana’s face. He hadn’t believed in such a sissy concept as love at first sight until she opened the door to her flat, cerulean eyes blazing at him as he cradled Emilia’s trembling body in his arms. She was all biting words and venomous glares, and he was in love. Hopelessly, pathetically in love with a vibrant, strong, tempestuous woman.

And now Ariana was gone, taken from him, from Christina, from Emilia forever. No more spitfire temper or giddy laughter or dry humor. No more late night chocolate fudge brownie fests or Monty Python marathons or off key singing to the radio. Everything gone. And it was all because of Travers.

And all he had left was Christina and Emilia, and undoubtedly the bastard had reached out with his grubby, power addicted fingers, snatched Christina, and shipped her off to some secret laboratory hideaway in the Council Headquarters. His daughter, by fatherly feelings if not by trivialities like genetics, who he had done everything in his power to protect, even if that meant distancing himself from her, both physically and emotionally, kidnapped by maniacal maniac in accordance with his maniacal schemes.

“Is that your wife?”

Charles’ head snapped up as he covered the picture with his hands. He hadn’t heard the door open, and he hadn’t felt the slight pressure of the person sitting beside him sit down on the bed. He had been too caught up in his pain to notice much of anything except his pain.

It was the red headed witch. Willow. She stared at him, her green eyes large and shining with compassion and sympathy. Charles shifted on the bed and stuffed the framed photograph back into the open nightstand drawer.

“She looks like Emilia,” Willow said as he slammed the drawer shut.

“She’s taller.”

Willow nodded. “Who was the girl in the middle? Christina?”

“Yes.”

“She looks like Emilia, too.”

He glanced at her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Willow shrugged in embarrassment. “Aura reading. It’s one of the things I’ve been practicing since… since I left the coven. It’s a more positive, earth magic. Less destructive and end of the world-y.” She paused and glanced towards the closed door. “Emilia’s aura. It’s stressed on a basic, primal level, like a mother worried over her child.” Willow looked at him again. “It’s like yours, but stronger, more intense.”

Charles turned away from her probing eyes and let his gaze roam around the spartan bedroom. A full bed lay in the center of the room; two nightstands resided on either side of the bed. A chest of drawers sat against one wall, and a mirrored closet lined the opposite wall. Clean and functional. No sentimentality here. Just the basic necessities to wage his private war against Travers.

“Plus I kind of saw the not-so-subtle significant glance between you and Emilia when Giles asked you two about Christina.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t say anything, so don’t worry,” Willow said quickly. “I’ve gotten much better with being in the know of stuff that other people don’t know and not letting them know that I know something they don’t know.” She paused and glanced down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. “Plus everyone here’s pretty much wrapped up in their own issues to notice my usual signs of knowing unknowable knowledge.”

“Are they?”

“Yeah. Buffy and Spike are stressed over Dawn, and Angel and Cordelia are worried about Connor. Faith and Wesley are wrapped up in whatever… thing they have going between them, and Anya and Xander are dealing with typical jilted exes in close proximity issues. Giles is trying his best to avoid Emilia and Emma while providing ample support for Buffy.”

“What about you?” Charles asked as he looked at Willow.

Willow shrugged. “The residual pain of loss, probably the worst sort of pain and the biggest of the big issues there are.” She paused again and glanced at him. “You know the pain.”

His dark eyes darted towards the closed nightstand drawer. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I do.”

A minute of silence passed before Willow spoke again. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“How did she die? You, you don’t have to tell me, obviously, and I know it’s rude of me to ask, and I’ve probably offended you, but-”

“No. No, it’s alright.” Charles stared straight ahead at the dull white walls, memories projecting upon the blank surface like a movie from a projector. “She… she… The Watcher stabbed her, gutted her, left her for dead. He just left her. Didn’t… didn’t even bother closing her eyes. We… I… didn’t find her for two days.”

“Oh god.”

“God had nothing to do with it. Only a person who thinks himself God.”

Silence once again stretched between the two, silence loud with remembrances and flashbacks of happier times, of times taken for granted because the future still lay before them uncharted and endless, times abruptly snatched by the cold, cruel hand of violence. “My girlfriend died six months ago,” Willow said softly, her voice shattering the silence like a sledgehammer. “She was shot. The guy didn’t even want to shoot her. He was after Buffy, and Tara was in the wrong place at the right time.” Her voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. “She was shot through the heart. She didn’t even know. She thought something was wrong with me. Then she was just… gone.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Willow looked at him through a filmy veil of tears. “I know how you feel. I know what you feel. I know what you want to do to Travers because it’s the same stuff I did to the guy who took Tara from me. I didn’t care about anything but revenge because I didn’t think I had anything left, and it almost cost me everything. My friends. My life. And it’s not what Tara would have wanted.” She pushed off the bed and retrieved the picture from the nightstand drawer. She gazed down at the three smiling women and said, “I don’t know you that well, or at all really, and it’s probably not my place to be giving you advice on your life, but it looks to me like you have two reasons to live here other than revenge. Try to keep them in mind when you come face to face with Travers. They shouldn’t have to lose you, too.”
 

* * *

“God, I am so bored.”

Cordelia sank into a metal folding chair, dramatically threw her head back, closed her eyes, and rested the back of her hand upon her forehead. Cracking open one eye, she peered across the table at Wesley, who stared at her with a faintly surprised expression upon his face, his hands still resting on the stack of papers he had been flipping through before her arrival. The lecture on Travers, London, and proper flossing techniques from the Wicked Witch of the West, otherwise known as Emma Rochester to those that know and loathe her, still raged behind Cordelia, but she had reached her five minute limit of mind numbing boredom and thus had decided to corner Wesley and make him talk to her, even if she had to drag him kicking, screaming, and biting into a meaningful conversation.

Fun for all.

Besides, if Willow could skip out on Lecture Time then so could Cordelia.

Sighing at his lack of responsiveness, Cordelia straightened in the chair and waved one hand casually over her shoulder at Emma. “And I thought I had the market cornered on channeling your Inner Bitch to perfection, but next to her Queen Frostiness Emma I’m an amateur. Not even an amateur. A pre-amateur wannabe.”

Wesley blinked and turned his head back down toward his pile of papers. “Is there something you need, Cordelia?”

Cordelia nodded, grabbed his stack of papers, and threw them over his shoulder. As the papers fell around them like massive twisting flakes of snow, she said, “I want to know when the hell you’re going to remove that stick that’s been rammed up your ass for the last few months.”

“Pardon?”

“Pardon?” Cordelia mimicked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wesley said flatly. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ok, so maybe ‘stick rammed up your ass’ isn’t the right phrase.” Cordelia rubbed her chin thoughtfully for a few moments before her eyes widened with fake enlightenment. “How about, I want to know when the hell you’re going to stop being the unfeeling, callous bastard you’ve been for the past few months and start being Wesley again.”

“Cordelia…”

“Look, I know things have been more than tense between you and Angel, which, by the way, has become more than tiresome, and I know there’s still a lot of unresolved issues and anger and resentment and rage, but you two are taking this pissing contest to a whole new level and frankly it’s starting to piss me off.”

“What-”

“I’m not saying you’re not entitled to your angsty feelings,” she said quickly. “And Angel’s entitled to his feelings of righteous anger and supreme stubbornness, but don’t you think you two have indulged in the self-pity parties enough? Everything that happened with Connor and Holtz was one massive mistake after another on all parts, but just because you’re both pissed at each other doesn’t mean you can disown us and become unknowable loner guy.” She leaned back in her chair, a superior look upon her face, a look originating from deep insight, knowledge, and intuition on the men in her life. “You’re family, Wes. You’re stuck with us, just as much as I’m stuck with you losers.”

Wesley opened his mouth but broke into an exasperated humored grin before he could speak. Smoothing a hand over his hair, he murmured, “Yes, I suppose we are family.”

“Damn straight. So quit with the snit and talk to him.”

“To who?”

“I am surrounded by morons. What you people would do without me is mind boggling.” Cordelia shook her head sadly and leaned across the table and said, “To Angel. Quit the snit and talk to Angel.”

“Why should I talk to him? I believe the last time we talked he tried to kill me.”

“Don’t you want to talk to him?”

“Does he want to talk to me?”

“I think so.”

“Then why doesn’t he?”

“Because he’s a big stubborn baby. You’re supposed to be the mature one out of all of us. So get off your ass and act mature.”

Moments passed. Silent, Wesley and Cordelia stared at each other. He folded his hands upon the table top, and she folded her arms across her chest. He cleared his throat, and she flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder. He scratched his chin, and she raised one eyebrow. Finally, he said stiffly, “And why, exactly, must I talk to him now and not, say, months ago? It seems that life has progressed along fine since my removal from Angel Investigations.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Oh please. More poor, tortured me attitude. Spare me. The reason why you must talk to him now instead of before is because before I wasn’t here to kick both your butts in gear and make you talk. And then when I was here, you were elsewhere with Lilah, which you will never, ever, mention in my presence, and then everything went to hell due to the Tweed Brigade. So that is why it’s now.” She shrugged. “Plus, I wanted to get out of listening to Miss Priss’s droning, and you were sitting here by yourself. When opportunity comes, one must seize it or be left standing behind like a big loser.”

“And as for why,” she continued, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “He misses you. I miss you. Fred, Gunn, and Lorne miss you. And I know you miss us too.”

“What makes you think I miss any of you?”

“I know you, Wes.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“I know you, and it’s not because I’m an all powerful higher being either. It’s because we’re family.”

Wesley nodded slowly, silently taking in all she had said. His eyes flickered past her towards the group gathered before Emma. She turned in her chair and found Angel staring at them. He quickly turned away and refocused his attention on Spike, who kept interrupting Emma with inane, inconsequential questions.

“Did you talk to him, too?” Wesley asked as she swiveled back around in her chair.

Cordelia smiled. “I may have said a few choice words. I think Spike said a few more choicer words. And Faith. She had a few words to say to Angel too.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? Who knew she could say something more meaningful than ‘I’m going to kill you now with my big sharp knife.’” Off of his look, she smiled a dazzlingly innocent smile and said, “You may have developed a severe case of amnesia when it comes to Faith, but I haven’t. And Faith and I have never been family so don’t even try to throw my own argument back in my face. It’s not going to work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

“Good.” Cordelia stood. She walked around the table and kneeled next to Wesley, gathering him into a strong hug. “I meant what I said. Talk to him. He needs you now. He’s more stressed about Travers taking Connor than he’s letting on.”

Wesley sighed as Cordelia released him. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Do more than think, or I’ll be forced to invoke my higher being powers. Trust me, it won’t be pretty.” She glanced out of the corners of her eyes, grimacing as she spotted Emma making her way over to the table. “That’s my cue,” she said, stepping away from Wesley. Circling around Emma, Cordelia said, “Lovely speech. Absolutely riveting.”
 

* * *

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