Callie, Buffy, and Spike sat in a large, cool library in the Council’s London base. Maria removed her glasses, and bit one of its arms in a very “Giles” like fashion.

“Well, the only thing I can think of is an old gypsy curse.”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Damn gypsies. First they get Angel, now us. So, what does that mean?”

“Oh, dear, I’m…I’m not quite sure how to word this….”

“Just spit it out, bit.”

“Uncle Spike, when was the battle you two fought against Thia, the dragon?”

Spike shrugged.

“Dunno, bit. After two hundred years, dates really lose their meaning.”

“Would you say about fifty years ago?”

“I think so,” Buffy offered.

Maria nodded.

“That’s what I was afraid of. You see, when Thia was killed, there was an imbalance left in the power structure that holds our world together…and the gypsy curse states that when a dragon as powerful as Thia is killed, its power will wait for 50 years before moving into the next most powerful being, be they good or evil. Callie is the good…and I fear our new Slayer is the evil.”

Callie’s mind wandered to all of the “good” acts she did in her fifty-year life as the Council’s “whipping girl.”

“It’s not fair that all of this is on me…I’m ridding the world of evil, and I’m all alone…can’t they just mark off my prophecy as completed?”

Maria shook her head.

“It isn’t that easy, Callie. We’re all cast a lot in life, and we have to use our gifts and make sacrifices to fulfill what we must do. The new Slayer will feed on your loneliness, Callie, she…she’s a terribly evil girl. She’s also very powerful…more powerful than I’ve ever seen a Slayer, no offence Aunt Buffy.”

“None taken,” Buffy smiled.

“She is very much like Faith had been in your time, Aunt Buffy, but Istolna has none of the redeeming humanity that eventually saved Faith from becoming truly evil. She just has a fearful amount of power and bloodlust, and a penchant for torturing her slays before killing them. If you do not defeat her, Callie, I’m afraid of what she will do with all of Thia’s power.”

“Even if she is a Slayer, I don’t think I’ll have any problem defeating her…I’ve beaten tougher foes before.”

“She is a force to be reckoned with, make no mistake about that, Callie, but she isn’t quite alone in her quest for Thia’s power either.”

“Anyone we know, bit,” Spike asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Who?”

Clearing her throat, Maria fidgeted about, unsure of how to continue.

“Well, ah…uh…Uncle Spike, its very hard to describe. It’s your Sire, Drusilla, but not…it’s…uh…it’s more complicated than that. Angelus had anticipated his death last year before you defeated him, Callie. If you recall, he spoke a few short words before you sent him back to Hell?”

Callie nodded.

“Yes, but I couldn’t understand them. I think they were Latin or something.”

Spike sighed and tossed his cigarette down on the carpet, in a huff.

"What is it with your generation, poppet? Doesn't anyone learn old languages? I mean...when I was in school...sodding...sodding everyone knew Latin."

Buffy smirked.

"And I'll bet to get to school you had to walk fifteen miles through the snow...barefoot..."

"Uphill...both ways, right Papa," Callie asked with a giggle.

"So not funny. Sodding kids and your...ways...," Spike said, as he sunk back into the chair, shaking his head.

Maria cleared her throat.

“Back to my point...they were Latin. It’s a little known spell the Council thought was destroyed long ago. It frees a vampires’ essence; its mind, memories, and personality, before death, and sends it into that vampire’s closest ‘living’ relative; Drusilla, in this case. Callie, you must be especially careful around this creature now, because if you don’t rid Drusilla of Angelus in the correct manor, his spirit could transfer into your father.”

--

Snow rushed around the small log cabin in the dark woods. Drusilla’s thin frame was covered in a tighter red leather jumpsuit she bared almost no resemblance to her ‘normal’ self. The vacant, otherworldly stare that had filled her eyes for an eternity was gone, and replaced with a cold fury. Angelus’ hold on Drusilla’s mind was beginning to destroy her already thin grasp on reality. Angelus grabbed as much firewood as Drusilla’s small frame was able to carry, and brought it into the cabin with a grumble.

A lithe, chocolate haired woman lounged on a leather sofa in the small cabin, nibbling on a forkful of boiled potatoes. She ignored Angelus as he forced Drusilla’s arms to throw more wood in the fireplace. He turned to face her, a brooding scowl plastered on Drusilla’s normally vacant face, his thick, Irish accent sounding strange coming off of Drusilla’s tongue.

“You know, you can do something other than lie there and eat.”

The woman rolled her eyes, and continued to eat.

“Aye, just roll your eyes you mute cunt.”

Before Angelus could react, the woman had swiftly lunged at him, pinning Drusilla’s frame to the wall,
uncomfortable close to the fireplace.

“Hey! Watch it! If you kill me, you’ll never get what you want.”

The woman’s eyes flashed in rage, but she dropped her hold on Drusilla’s neck, letting her frail body crash onto the floor. Angelus stood up, brushing the dust and ash off of his host’s body.

“Glad you can see reason. So, why is it you don’t talk again?”

The woman scowled in reply, emitting a low growl.

“Aye, not from a lack of vocal chords, then? It’s going to be a long night without someone to talk to.”

Angelus’ gaze wandered to the window when he noticed a slow, staggering figure cross their yard.

“Well, Istolna, it looks like I won’t be so bored after all.”

--