It wasn’t sun-up yet, not nearly.

She was crying again, mewling more than bawling. Couldn’t believe she had a tear left to shed.

“Buffy …” she’d been in his arms for hours, refusing to speak, but not inclined to leave, either. “I’m sorry, Buffy. I didn’t mean … look, I know I got carried away. We got carried away. Last night …”

Her mewling slowed to a whimper.

“I don’t know how far to take it, love. I think – I can’t help but think that you like it, Buffy.”

“Don’t know what I like anymore.”

Spike held his breath. It was her first sentence since he’d gone all Stanley Kowalski last night.

“I don’t. I don’t taste things. Y’know? Can’t tell what flavor yogurt I’m eating. I don’t see colors. Not really. I mean, I see them, but they’re not really vivid.”

“Go on.”

“And … with you … with you, it’s different. For a little while. It’s easier.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I think it might be.”

“Oh?”

“I’m still not sure I’m okay, Spike. Still not sure I’m normal.”

She met his eyes, finally.

He cocked an eyebrow, amused.

“Don’t laugh. I mean – I know, not normal because hello, sacred duty … but before … Glory … I was always still within the normal human range. I felt … tethered. And now? Now I feel like I’m falling off into the universe. Here, but not keeping up.”

“Not sure that’s so unusual.”

“You don’t …”

“Wait – I do. I do know something about this. I’m older than you.”

“Yeah,” she snorted.

“I mean, even … I remember my early twenties. Didn’t know where I fit. Felt like everyone else had it figured out. Had a better plan, better future, better present. I know different now. I know we’re all lost, all scared. Most of the time.”

“Not like this, Spike.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She exhaled, blowing her hair out of her eyes and staring at the ceiling.

“Listen, if it’s the sex … you’re not the only girl out there who likes it rough. I’ll wager there are a dozen soccer moms in this town alone that think what we did last night was pretty tame.”

“In Sunnydale?”

“Even in Sunnydale. Especially in Sunnydale.”

She half-smiled.

“There’s my girl. Look, I know I’m not the happy ending you were imagining. Just let it be, Buffy. Don’t hate yourself for every guilty pleasure. Have an Oreo. Have a freakin’ bag of Oreos. I’ll nick ‘em for you.”

She laughed.

“Whatever we’re doing? This tryst? It’s not the end of the world. No prophecy, no curse, no cosmic laws at risk. It’s just pleasure, Buffy. Let yourself feel it.”

Buffy went quiet again, but curled into his side and let him stroke her hair. Only his superior hearing carried two small words to his ears.

“Thank you.”

***

Dawn was having a bad day. Not that bad days were anything new. Nope, they were pretty much the norm.

Kate Chadwick had the microphone at the student assembly. She also had Lucky jeans and Miss Sixty boots, and a t-shirt that looked like it had been around since the 70s, making it totally designer and way cooler than Dawn’s Sunnydale hoodie.

This wasn’t just wardrobe envy. Dawn had some clue about how tight money was getting and was trying hard to be happy that they were still on respectable Revello Drive and not in the scary trailer park. Nope, that didn’t bug her – much. Kate’s reminder that the Sunnydale Father-Daughter dance was being planned for the first week of December and wouldn’t everyone please buy her tickets before Thanksgiving break?

Janice was trying to play it cool, on her left side. To her right, chubby Aubrey Fennel was talking about the ocean blue halter dress she’d found at Nordstrom’s last weekend. Emily Hannon, Kate’s equally fashionable and stick-thin sidekick, snorted something about whales from the row in front of them. Aubrey’s face crumpled.

“Don’t let her get to you, Aub,” she whispered. Janice just rolled her eyes.

Of course, Dawn would be thrilled to be going to the dance, even in an unflattering dress. Well, maybe not. But Buffy had piles of clothes. She’d find something, that wasn’t a problem. Dawn Summers could fake the couture, but a Daddy figure?

As they worked their way down the bleachers, Janice sniped, “She is going to look like a whale in that dress, D.”

“Shut up, Jan. That’s just mean.”

“Oh, right. Dawnie and the no-daddy complex. There’s got to be someone.”

“Nope. No grandfathers, no uncles. No male role models in the picture.”

“How ‘bout Big Dick?”

Dawn snorted. “That would not go over well.”

“Okay, fine. Then me and Gramps are just going to have to share a table with Wonder Whale and Erin Harker and her dad with the comb-over.”

“My heart bleeds for you.”

***

“There’s a new report, sir. From our contact in Sunnydale.”

Quentin Travers nodded at his clerk, accepting the file with a studied, casual manner. But it burned in his briefcase on his short trip home. Couldn’t very well pull out the file on the tube, of course. Wasn’t exactly wise to carry work home. That’s what they told all of the Watchers-in-Training. Of course, reading the Sunnydale reports in the office had its hazards, too.

Most everyone with any access in the Council, even a casual contact or two in the London office and a brain, well … they knew that something was afoot. The Helfta Prophecy was obscure, of course, nearly forgotten by even Council leadership until events had sent the research team scurrying into the depths of the archives.

Now activity was up, and operatives had been dispatched to places the Council had avoided until just a few weeks ago.

He’d reached Bond Street. The crush of commuters and shoppers took time to navigate, too much time.

Anxiety cresting, Quentin barely made it through the front door of his townhouse and into the library before he’d ripped open the envelope.

So it was confirmed, he sighed. Britta Kessler was in Sunnydale.

***

Willow sat cross-legged on her bed, the dusty volume open to 1609. Her translation spell had been immaculate. The only explanation for the unintelligible text was mediocre Latin in the first place, and no spell could help with that. As she flipped through the pages, she was dismayed to find that multiple authors had contributed to the book, often disagreeing with each other about this detail or that. Even worse, they frequently disagreed if an entire Slayer was accurate. No index, no table of contents and no clue when the vampire might’ve been turned meant that she was forced to turn, page by page, until she found something promising.


Ildiko Gellert, called 1609; killed 1609, by the Countess Bathory.

That one seemed true.

Robin Whitby, active in 1661, posing as captain of a ship and serving four years after her calling.

Three separate entries disputed the tale’s veracity and mentioned other slayers in the early 1660s. Robin’s watcher might be the WHP signing later entries in the book, but he remained quiet on the matter.

She flipped closer to the present, to

Eleanor Boudreau, died in Louisiana at the hands of Kakistos.

No one disputed her ending. The story of her fights with demons in Los Angeles? There was an entry disputing it, and another insisting that every word of it was true. This one was signed “John Travers, Head of Council, 1941.” Guess that was official then.


So slayers got killed by vampires and other uglies – happened all the time, and so quickly that it was stunning. Plenty of girls made it only a few weeks, a few days – even less. Willow marveled at Buffy’s long history. So far she hadn’t found a single story about any Slayer making it past 20, at least any that weren’t hotly disputed.

But neither had she found any about slayers-turned-vamps and that made her suspicious. Maybe she was on the wrong track?

Willow glanced at the clock. History was never her favorite subject. But if she hurried, she could still make her organic chemistry lab.

***

Was anyone nostalgic for their times in fast food? Sophie carried on about tonight being their last closing shift together, and how Buffy had to keep in touch, maybe stop by for a milkshake now and again. Buffy’s reply, a snort and “I’ll be happy to have the door close behind me the last time,” had probably not been the thing to say.

She was cleaning grease traps, a few minutes after closing, when Sophie sidled up.

“Hey.”

“It isn’t that I’m sad that you’re going. I mean, it is that I’m sad that you’re going. And, y’know, I’m still here.”

“Yeah, but not forever, Sophie.”

“Probably. Oh, look … it’s Not-Your-Boyfriend.”

“Oh, well, maybe he was just out for a walk.”

“Sure. Cause lots of people walk by fast food joints after closing.”

Buffy blushed.

“I know we’re not that close, or anything, but Buffy … he’s into you. Anyone can see it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

***

“So just like that? She got the job?”

“Yes. What’s so hard to believe? Teaching self defense is a natural career path for a Slayer.”

“Ahn, doesn’t it seem just a little convenient? Guy shows up, opens a business, needs to hire someone …”

“That’s not convenience, Xander. That’s commerce.”

“Commerce in Sunnydale.”

“I saw him in the sunlight, sweetie. In the harsh light of day and everything. Now can we drop it?” She turned back to her spreadsheet, “I need to decide if we should cut the monogrammed napkins or just drop passed hors d’oeuvres from the menu. Everything costs more than I expected. What do you think?”

“I didn’t know we were having napkins or … hors whatevers. And I thought we agreed on no wedding talk after 11.”

Anya closed her laptop and grabbed the remote.

“Hey!” Xander tried to reach for the remote.

“We also agreed no SportsCenter in bed.”

“But they’re going to do a thing on the Raiders.”

The tv screen went black.

“It’s late anyway.” Xander rolled onto his side, facing the wall. A minute later, Anya sighed and did the same.

***

For the first night in many, Buffy found herself showered, in her pjs and tucked in to her bed, all by her lonesome, at a perfectly respectable hour. To Spike she’d said that she needed to be up for her 5 a.m. open at the DMP. To herself she’d explained that Willow would freak if she didn’t come home again.

They both knew that, despite his early morning apologies and her starring role in last night’s B-movie, Buffy was put off by how far things got out of control. By how far she spiraled out of control.

And would it really kill them to go 24 hours without getting horizontal?

Buffy pulled the covers up to her chin and listened. When she was calm like this, in the quiet, it was amazing what she could hear. Dawn’s measured breathing the next room over, faint but clear … and Willow, a little farther away, but equally steady.

And in the dark of night, with her loved ones sleeping soundly, Buffy was surprised to find herself drifting off, too.

An hour passed.

Two.

And then the dreams came.

She dreamt she was training in a field, with a handsome young Watcher. Not now – no, she was … oh, this was Britta before she was called. Britta flirted with her Watcher. Maybe a girl way back then couldn’t see it, but from Buffy’s vantage point, the young man was struggling to contain his emotions.

The scene shifted. This must be the night of the party, Buffy realized. As her dream fast-forwarded, she found herself in the crypt, waking with a burning sensation in her chest, her gut. Who was that? Herr Sahr, someone called him. He was above her, murmuring, then guiding her down the stone corridor, warning her to beware the torchlight.

Buffy could feel blood lust, could feel her features shift into game face. And then she was there, in the cell, with the handsome young Watcher from earlier … as her fangs sunk into his neck, Buffy woke with a scream.

***

Spike was third to her bedroom, but only because he’d finally convinced himself to give up his vigil by her tree and was halfway down Revello when he heard her.

Lights were on all over the house, and Willow and Dawn were at her side when he launched himself in the window.

“It was just a bad dream, really.”

“Speaking of,” Willow snarked as Spike swung himself from the window frame.

“What is it, love?”

“Nothing. A nightmare. Would you all go to bed, please? Dawn, you have school. Willow, you have school. And Spike, well …”

“What kind of dream?”

Buffy sat silently for a minute. Seeing that the three of them hadn’t budged, she admitted, “a Slayer dream.”

“And?” Spike demanded.

“And what?”

“You’ve been the Slayer for, what, six years? Seven? Don’t tell me you still wake up screaming like a girl every time you have one.”

“First, I am a girl. Second, okay, no, I don’t. But some are worse than others.”

Spike nodded.

“Well, if you aren’t being axe murdered, I’m going back to bed.” Dawn shuffled off without waiting for a reply.

“Good-night. And good-night, Willow.”

“Is he staying?”

“No. Well, maybe just for a minute.”

Willow glared, but left.

“Now are you going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t just a Slayer dream, Spike. I dreamt I was … I dreamt I was … was …”

“Britta Kessler?”

“Yeah.”

“Post-vamping?”

“Pre and post. The post part – it was bad.”

At the door, Willow gasped softly, then shuffled back to her room. So her hunch was right. Kessler, Kessler … she’d have to look through the book again.

***

“You brought spades?” she hissed.

“Um … yeah,” Jonathan responded.

“Told you guys we weren’t gonna need shovels for this.” Warren covered, smacking Andrew in the back of the head.

“Ouch! But you told me which ones to …”

“Never mind, Andrew. Let’s listen to what Miss Kessler has to say.”

“Thank you. We’re standing near the Temple of Proserpexa. I need you to help me get inside.”

“I don’t see anything,” Andrew stammered. “I just see … y’know … trees and grass and I think maybe a twitchy little bunny rabbit over there.”

“You don’t know about Proserpexa? None of you?”

The three stared blankly.

“Proserpexa was the most powerful of the feminine deities. A demon the likes this dimension has never seen.”

“You haven’t been in Sunnydale long-”

“Silence!”

Jonathan closed his mouth.

“Truth told, she’s a touch challenging. I don’t want to raise her, you see. But her followers amassed mystical objects. Powerful talismans. The treasure trove beneath our feet is priceless.”

“Like in those Master Card commercials?”

“Warren, will you tell the pale one to let me finish?”

“You heard her, Andrew.”

“They’ve been underground for nearly 70 years. Undisturbed. Many have forgotten about them.”

“What kind of mystical objects?”

“I’m glad you asked, short one. But I won’t tell you. I’m not even necessarily going to share.”

“Then why should we help you?”

Britta slipped into game face and slowly stalked forward, standing between Warren and Andrew, reaching out an arm to snake around Jonathan’s wrist. “You’re alone in the woods with the most powerful vampire you’ve ever faced. I rather imagine that you’ll be amenable to my wishes.” When each of the boys trembled, Warren just barely and Andrew and Jonathan visibly, she switched back to her human features. “And I didn’t say I wouldn’t share. I’m desiring a few baubles more than others. If I can retrieve them, you may examine the remaining contents and choose for yourselves.”

“Miss Kessler, I’m not sure …”

“The Orbs of Nezzla'khan are rumored to be among the relics, Warren.”

“Okay, then! Hand me a spade.”

***

Spike slid into bed next to Buffy, curling up and pulling her head down on his shoulder. She drifted off again, after long minutes.

An hour later, she stirred.

“More dream?”

“More dream.”

A minute passed. Two.

“This was after Britta was turned. She … I … killed everyone. Parents, sisters and brothers, friends that didn’t die that night at the party … strangers, too. My little brother, Spike. He was still a baby, almost.”

“That wasn’t you, Buffy. Just a dream.”

“And I was lonely. So lonely. So … hollow inside. And so I’d go to bars and talk to people and get to know them and then decide about killing them. Sometimes … most of the time I had to kill them. I had to eat.”

“That’s the food chain, pet. Life as an apex predator. Imagine Great Whites don’t get invited out much, either.”

“I don’t want to sleep again.”

“Ever?”

“Just not right now.”

Spike quirked an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s go downstairs.” He didn’t wait, just slipped out of bed and headed for the living room.

Buffy pulled on a sweatshirt. “What? Did you bring that Eddie Murphy movie?”

“Not exactly.”

“Watch the volume – I don’t want Dawn up again.”

He ignored her, moving the coffee table, tossing sofa cushions and the throw on the floor. “Come ‘ere.”

Buffy obeyed, curious.

“Omigod … is this a …”

“Shhh, kitten. It’s a classic.”

She knew she was blushing, a furious scarlet, as the opening credits rolled.

“The actress? She was a model. Ivory Snow ads and the like. Big fuss in the day.”

“I don’t … I don’t …”

“Just give it a chance.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. It was dated, the film was grainy and the special effects were waaaay too trippy. And the sex? She couldn’t meet his eyes for embarrassment, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen out of curiosity.

She didn’t notice when he stripped his shirt off, and didn’t object when he pulled her tank top over her head. The story of the girl being kidnapped and introduced to decadent sexual exploits … was he trying to tell her something?

He’d set the DVD to loop, so even though he thrust in during the closing credits, she was watching the kidnapping scene again as he moved slowly.

“My darling girl,” he purred, “not so innocent as you’d like me to believe, then? Seeing her face? Knowing she’s being forced? It gets you hot, yeah?” He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, guiding her hips.

Buffy squirmed, pulling away, glancing at the screen, then arching back again. His pace never changed, steady and rhythmic.

With a graceful flip she was on her back again, wondering how many of Spike’s moves were for pleasure and how many were just to prove that their fluid muscles could do so many delicious things?

And then she found that place that she found with Spike. “That’s right, Slayer. Reach for me,” he coaxed, her body rising to meet his.

She knew his pattern by now, knew that this was when the deep, slightly jagged motions would begin.

Except they didn’t.

He pulled back, slid all the way out and rubbed his cock against her slick opening, striking her clit again and again.

In seconds, she orgasmed, reaching for him with a mewling cry. She was still clenching tight when he forced his way in, ramming his hips. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she gasped and moaned.

He spilled inside of her only when he couldn’t wait any longer.

***

In the office behind the Fitness Factory, Jay reached for his tiny, gold-rimmed glasses. He’d been just about sleeping in the building, eager to have everything ready for the gym’s grand opening. Since he’d been sanding and painting, paperwork had gone undone. A manila file sat on his desk, one of the few dust-free surfaces in the place.

Summers, Buffy Anne

He opened the folder. A few sheets of paper were clipped to the inside.


A determined and thorough Slayer, Miss Summers exhibits both strength and agility at the highest ends of the known slayer capability. She is a resourceful and even daring fighter.

Miss Summers’ considerable talents are marred by a tendency to behave in a headstrong and impulsive fashion. Coupled with a marked distaste for authority, she has proven nearly impossible to direct.

Her service record is exemplary. To date, she has defeated at least two vampires on our Priority list, as well as several formidable demons, the American military’s experimental hybrid warrior Adam and the Hell God Glorificus.

It is suspected that her time on the Hellmouth has amplified her slayer skills – both by enhancing the energies on which Slayer gifts rely, and by presenting her with an outstanding training ground to develop these talents.

A rupture in the Slayer line was caused in 1996 when Miss Summers died at the hands of a vampire, but was resuscitated using CPR. The calling of the Slayer Kendra resulted, causing an unusual two-slayer scenario. Just a few months ago, Miss Summers died in the final campaign against Glorificus, but was revived after some weeks by her close friends, drawing on powers of witchcraft that have been under observation for the better part of a year.

The presence of skilled practitioners of dark magicks, as well as a number of friends and allies, make Miss Summers more vulnerable – kidnapping has been used more than once – but also with resources different to those possessed by most slayers.

Her ability to win friends and followers is perhaps her most deadly quality.