[A/N: This is the penultimate chapter. I had originally planned it to be the last, but when I started writing it, I just kept going and going, tying up as many of the plot lines that I could. Until it got away from me completely, and became this 10,000+ word behemoth. Spikeslovebite took one look at it and said, “ Love what you've added, but I think you're gonna have to cut it in half. It's over 10,000 words lol.” Yeah, she wasn’t wrong, kids. It was heading towards 15,000 and that’s just impossible to add. So she made the call where to divide it, and now you have this. The final, last, swear-to-the-heavens ending of this portion of the Originsverse is more than three-quarters written (that chapter is up to 4,252 words at the moment) and should be posted by the end of September. Thank you all for your extraordinary patience and consideration while I get this done. Disclaimers prove I own nothing but the plot and a few of the minor characters, all else belongs to Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, and Mutant Enemy. Title and quotes are as attributed.]

Previously: Nicholson spilled the beans about Spike’s origins; Spike fought with and thoroughly thrashed Riley Finn; Kennedy intervened and lost. This picks up shortly following the last chapter.

Book Three

Chapter Thirty-Seven – Acting Prematurely


In fighting and in everyday life you should be determined though calm.
Meet the situation without tenseness yet not recklessly, your spirit settled yet unbiased.
An elevated spirit is weak and a low spirit is weak.
Do not let the enemy see your spirit.
Miyamoto Musashi

The two worst strategic mistakes to make are
acting prematurely and letting an opportunity slip;
to avoid this, the warrior treats each situation as if it were
unique and never resorts to formulae, recipes or other people's opinions.
Paulo Coelho

Spare me through your mercy, do not punish me through your justice.
Anselm of Canterbury

If you get all the facts, your judgment can be right;
if you don't get all the facts, it can't be right.
Bernard Baruch

Entire ignorance is not so terrible or extreme an evil,
and is far from being the greatest of all;
too much cleverness and too much learning,
accompanied with ill bringing-up, are far more fatal.
Plato





“Spike!” Buffy shrieked his name, her breath held in horror as Kennedy swooped down from the tree and threw a stake aimed at Spike’s heart. Her warning came in time, because he turned at the last moment, the stake embedding itself in his back, just under his right shoulder. Oh, God. . . oh, no.

Buffy closed her eyes in gratitude, her knees weakening. Giles was right behind her, muttering under his breath about stupid girls, but it was Wesley who held her up, his arm under hers. “He’s fine, Buffy. He’s fine.”

Oh, he better be, because if he isn’t, I’m gonna kill her myself. But she couldn’t talk, couldn’t force enough air into her lungs to manage the trick. Instead she wrenched free and was at Spike’s side before the thought finished forming. She reached for the stake, but his growl stopped her. Spike turned around, his stance predatory and nearly feral.

Connor dropped down into a crouch from the roof, poised to take over if Spike faltered, even just a little. His own knife was clenched between his teeth and he prowled forward, halting when Spike reached the girl.

“Fatal mistake, little girl.”

Buffy heard Spike clearly and she spared a brief glance at Wesley and Giles. Thankfully, neither man appeared to want to stop Spike so she turned her attention back to where Spike was stalking Kennedy. How could she be so stupid? She’s nowhere near ready to face a vampire like Spike.

And in less then a minute, Buffy was proved right.

Kennedy was dead, Spike standing over her, his chest heaving with pain and exertion.

His eyes fixed on hers and she didn’t hesitate.


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The instant Kennedy dropped down from the tree, yelling about vampires, Giles had one thought in his head, one he couldn’t and didn’t shake – foolish child is about to get herself killed.

There was no preventing a different outcome. Kennedy had involved herself in a situation she knew nothing about, against a fighter she didn’t know at all. Spike’s reputation wasn’t unwarranted. He was – far and away – the best fighter Giles had ever seen, at times even surpassing Buffy. He’d fought bigger, stronger, and sometimes more technically skilled opponents, yet he’d never truly been beaten. Kennedy hadn’t stood a chance.

She died far quicker, though, than Giles had thought she would. Barely five minutes into the fight.

There was no censure in his thoughts. Spike had been pushed beyond even his limits. The Initiative’s threat and the stress from that, coupled with the twins’ birth less than twenty-four hours before, Giles couldn’t blame him for his reaction.

He wasn’t over the moon about it. But he understood.

What he didn’t understand was his own lack of reaction. Giles knew he should be angry. Knew that he should be – reacting. Yet he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything beyond stare at the two blondes standing two feet away.



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Blood dripped from his fingertips, pat-patting onto Kennedy’s still body. Spike’s game face slipped away and he clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth against the pain and bracing himself for a confrontation with Buffy. He didn’t dare look away, couldn’t. Though he had spared Finn, Spike knew his killing of the baby Slayer wasn’t a smart move.

Buffy crossed the distance between them, her eyes never wavering from his. “Oh, God, Spike.” She reached around, pulling the stake from his back, grimacing at the sickening squelch. Her arm curled around his waist, holding him upright. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He looked at her, disbelief clouding his eyes. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“We need to get you cleaned up and see how bad it is.” She led him to the deck, ignoring all the blood to hold onto him. “Good thing the doc is still here. He can patch you up.”

“Buffy?” He halted at the bottom step, grabbing onto her wrist and slowing her as well. “Buffy?”

She knew what he was asking, understood what he wasn’t able to say. “Not your fault. She attacked you. Kennedy didn’t have a clue what was happening and she didn’t bother to find out. She just – attacked.”

Spike stared at her, unable to wrap his brain around what just happened. What Buffy had said, what she’d done. He’d been braced for – in the scant seconds he had to think – her outright rejection and condemnation. Expected it. Known it was coming. He’d spared Finn and killed the girl.

But nothing prepared him for Buffy’s reaction. She’d acted like the baby Slayer was wrong. She reached for him. Not in anger, but with concern and caring. With – dare he think it? – complete and utter trust.

He couldn’t help himself. Wouldn’t have been able to stem the emotions even had he wanted to. Unwanted tears flooded his eyes and Spike gave in to the fatigue and drop in adrenaline, and let Buffy lead him inside.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



He heard the rustling tree branches seconds before the shadows above him shifted, and a blacker darkness dropped down from the tree. Wesley moved forward the instant he recognized the threat, his warning cry drowned by Buffy’s outraged shout.

Reacting instinctively, Wesley grabbed Buffy, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her upper arm. Uttering words he wasn’t sure he even believed, Wesley kept repeating, “He’s fine, Buffy. He’s fine.”

And then, “Spike’s okay. He’s okay.”

He only realized she wasn’t listening when she pushed away from him, surprising him when a low growl erupted from her throat.

For long seconds, time slowed and the thudding of his heart and the harsh intake of air was all Wesley could focus on – even Connor’s sudden appearance didn’t register. Blood flowed from Spike’s shoulder wound and his visage shifted, demonic ridges and golden eyes blazing. Spike will be fine. . . He’ll – he’s going to kill her.

Damned stupid. . . . he’s going to kill her.

Wesley waited for his conscience to galvanize him into action, to prod him into preventing Kennedy’s inevitable death.

There was nothing.

No inner outrage, no overwhelming need to avert the outcome. He waited, breath indrawn and suspended. Waited and watched while William the Bloody killed his third Slayer.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



She was running, hiding, trying to get away from the group of girls chasing after her. Rona had spent her day avoiding each one of them, until her luck ran out at sundown. Now she was tired, out of breath, and her whole body was shaking. Ducking into a boarded up building, she doubled over, trying to ease the stitch in her side and slow the thunderous pounding of her heart.

Their voices carried, calling out as they searched the surrounding buildings. This shit isn’t working. What the hell am I gonna do now? Eyes scanning the growing darkness, Rona looked for an escape. Any escape.

So far, she’d avoided the gangs, avoided the problems of growing up in a violent neighborhood, but it was becoming more and more difficult. This particular group wasn’t taking no for an answer and now they were out for her. Rona suppressed the shivers and muscle spasms in her legs, forcing herself to move further into the decaying building. If the staircases are okay, maybe I can make it up to the roof.

The dangers were more immediate down on the ground. She had to take the chance.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




The kitchen was crowded, too many people in such a small room and everyone was focused on the two blondes at the counter. Spike was slouched over the sink, facing away from everyone, Buffy gently washing the puncture wound and checking the rest of him for bruises.

Dawn and Anya had been the first ones to respond to the noises from outside, though the others had crowded in just behind them. Ironically, Ian Darrow didn’t enter the kitchen until he heard Dawn’s rather loud exclamation of “Holy crap! Is all that blood Spike’s?”

He was inside the kitchen, Nicholson and Travers at his heels, before Buffy could remove the towel staunching the blood. Ian’s fingers circled Buffy’s wrist, pulling her hand away from the still bleeding shoulder wound. “I need to get a better look.”

There was a confusion of voices, everyone talking over and around each other, barely any of them making any sense, even after Giles and Wesley entered the crowded area.

“He’s going to need stitching this time.” Ian directed his comments to Buffy, ignoring the clamoring for explanations behind him. “I don’t think cauterizing this will help.” He thought for a moment, obviously caught by surprise. “Will regular stitching work?”

“It’ll work.” Spike growled lowly, his voice suddenly showing the strain of the last three days. “They’ll just be a pain in the arse to remove.”

Ian leaned over to catch his eye. “Would you rather I cauterize the wound?”

A deep sigh broke from the vampire and he slanted a look at Buffy, who was hovering to his right, straining to hear what was being said. “Dunno. Smell’s right nasty, an’ the arm’ll be no good for a week.”

Before he could go any further, Buffy interrupted. “Stitch him. We’ll take them out tomorrow.”

Her voice was soft and low, barely audible, yet it sounded clear to each one of the kitchen’s inhabitants. They’d all fallen silent once Giles motioned for quiet. He paused, waiting for the three at the sink to realize they were the only ones speaking.

Anxious eyes, all different hues and with varying degrees of concern waited for Giles to finally speak.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




She was shaking with exhaustion, every inch of her weak while her muscles burned. Panting through her mouth, Rona eyed the teetering staircase leading up and away from the gang chasing after her. Any chance she had was that way. Down would lead her to a beating. Or worse.

Wiping the sweat from her neck, Rona took a deep breath and tested out the first step. The creak was ominous, but she couldn’t hesitate. The voices from below were becoming more distinct, their angry and strident tones goading her into moving. Gotta get the hell outta here.

Ten steps up, the stairs gave under her weight and she panicked, adrenaline surging through her tired limbs. Praying with every molecule of her being, Rona flailed for the railing, her fingers scrabbling to grab hold of the splintering wood. No. . . no. Not gonna fall. Not.

The noise attracted her pursuers and Rona stared down into the hostile faces, one hand wrapped around the precariously hanging railing.

Another surge of adrenaline flowed through her, startling her into movement. Hands gripping the wood tightly, Rona swung dangerously three floors above the taunting gangmembers. Using the momentum of her swaying body, Rona inhaled deeply and trusted the sudden instinct to aim for the sturdy-looking floor opposite where the stairs had been. At the last possible moment, Rona let go, rolling herself into a ball and willing her body upwards, ignoring the pull of gravity.

She didn’t open her eyes until she rolled into the wall, crashing heavily against a solid, heavy door. The wood splintered under the impact and Rona laid there, heart thundering in her chest, eyes tightly shut and waited for the first blow.

When nothing happened, she touched the floor below her, slowly opening her eyes. The tin ceiling glittered dully from the reflection of the streetlights, and Rona shook her head. What the fuck? I made it? I made it!

Rolling to her side, Rona stared down at the gang, noting the disbelief on every face. With a glance to her left, she saw the piece of railing she’d flung herself from swaying from the force of her jump. “Holy shit.”

Without wasting any more time, Rona got to her feet and headed for the roof.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Connor crouched down, his attention focused on the dead Slayer. “That was pretty stupid.”

“Probably not the smartest thing she ever did.” Oz looked down at Connor, a slight frown marring his features. He looked over at Lawson, noting the other’s game face. “Maybe you should go.”

“Huh?” Sam’s gaze swung between the two, confusion clouding his expression.

“Game face, dude.” Connor looked up at Lawson, then got to his feet. “What should we do about her?”

Oz stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and blinked slowly. “Let the Council deal with her.” He looked at Sam. “You need to motor.”

Sam had finally shaken off his game face, which only made his confusion clearer. “Why?”

“Probably not a good idea to be a vampire around a dead Slayer.” Oz moved away from Kennedy’s corpse, toward the house.

“Oh. Right.” Sam shook his head, trying not to let his momentary stupidity get the best of him. “What about them?” He motioned to the Initiative soldiers, who were still being held by the other demons.

“Give them back to the Army, with the others.”

Connor followed Oz up the steps and into the house, not watching as Lawson and the others melted back into the shadows.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



How in the world am I going to – Travers isn’t going to take this well. Bloody hell, what a stupid thing for that child to do! And Spike –

Giles opened his mouth more than once in a vain attempt to broach the news of Kennedy’s demise, yet each time he stifled himself. He just had no words to impart. Nothing he could say would soften the blow for any of them. Spike had killed the girl.

He cleared his throat. Twice. Looked up to find nearly every eye on him, waiting for his – “Kennedy – is . . . She’s – “

His uncharacteristic loss for words, coupled with the tight look the elder Slayer fought to suppress told the story Giles was unable to express.

Silence prevailed in the over-crowded kitchen and most eyes were averted from the two members of the Council.

“Rupert.” Travers motioned his fellow Englishman to quiet. “Details only.”

Relief flooded through more than one person in the kitchen and the Council head’s calm demeanor. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t Giles who started the explanation, it was Wesley.

Leaving out much of the personal background between Riley Finn and Buffy, Wesley time-lined everything from the moment of their awareness of Buffy’s actions forward. In little over seventy-two hours, the stresses had compounded, with any given event possibly resulting in disaster. That major bloodshed had been averted weighed heavily in their favor. Hopefully – and Wesley wasn’t alone in that hope – that would mitigate some anger. But even as he was recounting, Wesley was still uncertain of Travers’ reaction.

Spike had killed another Slayer. . .

As he was winding down, Travers once again interrupted. “Who planned all this? Who mobilized the non-hostile demon population?”

“Spike did.”

Inhaling deeply, Quentin motioned once more for silence. “She attacked him, without provocation, after he had already turned away from the Initiative Agent, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How close was the wound?”

“Had Buffy not given warning, it could have proved fatal.”

The kitchen echoed from several indrawn breaths, the loudest bordering on a choked sob.

Travers, however, remained silent, keeping his thoughts hidden. Long moments elapsed, the only real sound the snick of Ian Darrow’s scissors.

“Giles, Wyndam-Price, if you please?” Quentin gestured toward the dining room, excluding everyone else.

It took barely any time for the Watchers to file from the kitchen, though no one protested or even spoke. Pointed looks were shared, but even Anya held her tongue.

Buffy laid her head on Spike’s uninjured shoulder, in an effort to hide her tears.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Though it had been more than a hundred years since the last English Slayer, the Council – and by extension the British Crown – considered the Slayers British assets. There was a proprietary concern that was separate and apart from the Council’s interest, and in more than a few cases, the Slayer had been given British citizenship. Passports, documents, any paperwork necessary to confer that status was usually a formality and done once the Slayer had been called.

He’d been a member of the Council, in one capacity or the other since his teens, and Quentin Travers had seen his fair share of Slayers. They were, as a whole, impossible to define, yet each one of them had an independent streak that very often proved their downfall. And they didn’t always share confidences with their Watchers. Buffy Summers and Rupert Giles were an anomaly.

That was to their advantage.

Quentin knew his decision to remove the behavior modification chip and to cement the alliance with William the Bloody could prove a mistake. Under normal circumstances, he was certain of it. However, these were far from normal, even by Slayer standards. There were three active Slayers – a situation no one had ever foreseen, nor planned for. At current count, there were two active Hellmouths, the one here in Sunnydale and the second one in Cleveland. There were four more, dormant ones that had been opened in the last two hundred years; and six more that hadn’t been active since before the year 1500. Having three active Slayers allowed for possibilities the Council hadn’t planned for, but could surely take advantage of.

Faith could remain at large, going wherever she was needed, while Buffy remained stationed on the Sunnydale Hellmouth. The new Slayer could be sent to Cleveland. It was an ideal solution.

Travers merely needed to be reassured that William the Bloody wouldn’t turn on his Slayer.

If he couldn’t secure that promise, Travers knew he’d be looking at removal from the Council.

He barely waited for Nicholson to enter the dining room before he was speaking. “Assure me, gentlemen, that this is not a colossal mistake.”

“What’s that?” Giles stood across the table from him, arms at his sides. Wesley stopped just beside him, his expression deceptively blank.

“This alliance and trust you have in William the Bloody.” Travers leaned his palms on the table, eyes steadily on Rupert’s face. “Convince me I shouldn’t take retaliatory actions for his.”

“Would anything I have to say convince you? Would it make any difference, since it appears you have already decided upon a course of action?” Giles didn’t flinch, and nor did he bother to veil his rising anger. “Why bother with this interrogation at all?”

“Because this isn’t an interrogation, Rupert.” Travers stood straight, crossing his arms. “Because I’m not – because I don’t believe it’s entirely unreasonable, given his history to expect some deeper explanation for the complete about-face in his behavior. Why has he aligned himself with the Slayer? Why this Slayer?” He paused again, clearly waiting for answers. Travers needed to know if his intuition was correct that Spike had engineered the entire defensive operation of the last two days. “And how in bloody blue blazes did he get my Slayer pregnant in the first place?”

In a reflexive action, Giles took off his glasses, and slowly laid them on the table. “Suffice to say that Spike’s alignment with this Slayer was probably inevitable, given their natures. As to why? He loves her.”

Travers looked from one to the other. “He loves her.”

“Undoubtedly.” Giles mimicked Travers’ earlier pose, his hands leaning on the table. “He’s proven so on more than one occasion. There isn’t anything Spike wouldn’t do for Buffy.”

“Can you guarantee that he won’t turn on her?” For Travers, this was key. If he understood this, then there was a possibility he could convince the remaining members of the Inner Council that William could be trusted.

“I can.” Sharing a look with Wesley, Giles came to a decision. “They have claimed each other. Spike and Buffy consider themselves married.”

“Ah. That answers both questions, doesn’t it?” There’s the answer I was waiting for. Abruptly feeling tired, Travers sat down, lifting his eyes to Giles. “That explanation should satisfy the other members of the Council.”

It would have to suffice.


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Calls from the Department of Defense, Secretary of the Navy, the NSA, and the Joint Chiefs had poured in, causing a flurry of activity in Holdfast Camp. Immediately following the first phone call from his immediate superior, Major Ellis had the entire camp on Alert Status. Each subsequent communication amped up the sense of urgency pervading the camp. Long before the Joint Chiefs’ call, Ellis had mobilized the remaining Initiative squads and all troops were awaiting air transport.

Three Chinooks airlifted the troops to Texas, where further transport was waiting to take them to Sunnydale, California.

By eighteen hundred hours of what Ellis considered Day Two, approximately twenty hours since the first communication from Major General Smith, he and his troops were in Sunnydale.

Ellis surveyed the battered remnants of the squad sent with Finn and questioned his own judgment. He’d believed Finn, knowing the younger officer had more time in the Initiative and had done two tours of duty at the Hellmouth. The current circumstances indicated he should not have entrusted Finn with this mission. Finn had overstepped his mandate by a wide margin.

Though there was only one fatality, Finn and Miller were still unaccounted for, and every other officer was sporting some sort of injury. Triage had been set up, treating the minor injuries, and the corpsmen were moving from pallet to pallet quietly. He’d already been debriefed by most of the team and though most of them had been hand-picked by Finn, the only one with any insight why this mission had gone tits-up was Kramer. Gebhardt wasn’t talking, so Ellis had no way of discovering how much of the blame lay on his shoulders. All in all, this had been one definite screw-up.

The local police department was guarding their perimeter, though it was clear to Ellis that the ones truly in charge were the English Special Forces unit. They looked to be some sort of counterpart to the Initiative, only their weaponry was superior, their tacticals and night-vision equipment surpassing theirs easily.

“He bled out in the operating theatre.” Grayson, the British team leader was relaying information to his superiors, his attention focused on the movements around him. “Affirmative, sir. Six operatives from the first team and twelve additional support troops.” There was a brief pause on his end of the conversation and then, very dryly added, “We had outside assistance.”

Ending his call, Grayson faced Ellis. “We have orders to hand over your men.”

“Thank you.” There was nothing else he could say, so Ellis kept it to a bare minium. “Is there any word on the two missing officers?”

“None as of yet.” Grayson had the class to look a bit concerned, though Ellis got the impression that the emotion was merely for show. He was about to add something when there was a commotion by the holding area. There was a loud thumping at the steel door and several of the police officers headed for the door before any of the others reacted. “A moment, if you will?”

Grayson didn’t wait for his answer. And once the door was opened, Ellis didn’t care that he’d been dismissed. Graham Miller was pushed through the entrance, visibly free from any injuries and unrestrained. That answered one of his questions.

Seconds later, the other pressing question was answered. The inert form of Finn was carried in and dumped unceremoniously on the closest pallet. Four men stepped away from the body, the one clearly in charge delivering a brief explanation to Grayson, and then all four waited at the doorway. Medics converged on Finn and the flurry of activity had Ellis moving in that direction.

Low murmurs were being exchanged, medics firing off information about Finn’s condition even as they stripped the tattered remnants of his fatigues from his upper body. “Blood-ox is good. Pulse is slow and thready. BeePee is one-seventy over one-ten. Contusions along upper right side, possible broken ribs and internal bleeding.”

Christ. Looks like Finn took a . . .

“We need to run lines and get head ex-rays, sir. His jaw is broken in several spots.” Two of the medics looked to him for permission to move, and Ellis stole a quick glance at Grayson before nodding his head in approval.

It was Grayson, again, who spoke. “Call for an ambulance.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Xander had watched and listened to all the conversations, for once keeping his mouth shut and not interjecting any comments at all. He’d had a lot to think about in the last day, and more information poured in by the minute. I guess Cordy was right. There is a lot I need to think about.

He’d stood at the back door while Spike had fought with Riley, torn between wanting his erstwhile friend to beat the vampire and rooting for the vampire to get back at the man who wanted to tear apart his family. It was a position Xander wasn’t at all comfortable with, and he didn’t enjoy the tension.

He also couldn’t deny, at least to himself, that Buffy would be devastated if something happened to Spike.

The flurry of activity after Spike had walked away from Riley hadn’t registered until Buffy had cried out. His brain couldn’t catch up with the over-before-it-really-started thing with Kennedy. In fact, he hadn’t realized it was Kennedy until she was dead. It had happened so fast.

Too fast for him to really focus on exactly what had happened. He was still floored by Spike walking away from Riley to process the other stuff.

He was still staring out the back window when they all came trooping in, subdued and quiet. Xander couldn’t tear his eyes away from the new Slayer’s corpse.

Dead bodies were nothing new in Sunnydale.

Hell, dead Slayers weren’t all that unusual.

Buffy had died – the first time – in a puddle of muddy water.

Kendra had died in the old high school library.

And now this girl – Kennedy – had just breathed her last in Buffy’s backyard.

Xander tuned out the conversations behind him, although his mind registered the gist of them. The brief debate over stitches. The stuttering admittance that Spike had just killed another Slayer. Travers and the other Watchers hammering out assurances and promises in the dining room. It all made for mundane, every day conversations. At least on the Hellmouth.

But Kennedy’s body was still.

Abandoned on the grass.

Xander couldn’t bear it any longer.

The backdoor slapped against the frame, making him wince from the sharp snap.

His feet carried him down the steps, over the moonlit grass. Over his shoulder, the motion-detecting lights flickered on, lengthening his shadow.

Only the odd, twisted angle of her neck stood out as wrong. Otherwise she looked like she’d just fallen asleep, stargazing at the night sky. Xander crouched down beside her, his breath shaky and shallow. He reached out to close her eyes, then drew his hand back in sudden reluctance. A breath gusted out from his chest and Xander fought the inexplicable wave of grief and sadness washing through him.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t know this girl at all. Didn’t matter that before this moment, he’d barely set eyes on her.

What mattered was what she had been. What she represented to him.

She was just a girl. Just a formerly living, breathing, vibrant girl.

Like Buffy.

Like Faith.

Like Kendra.

Xander had known four Slayers in his life. And only one of them hadn’t died.

It was a mind-numbing statistic. It only reinforced his decision to distance himself from the Hellmouth.

But first, he had something to do.

Gently gathering up Kennedy’s body, Xander headed for the house.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The discreet vibration of two cell phones disrupted the uneasy silence reigning in the dining room.
Following Travers’ last statement, Giles had dropped heavily onto one of the chairs, his elbow thumping loudly onto the wooden table. Wesley’s attention diverted to the kitchen, since he was closest and it was as he was about to give an update, when he thought better of it and kept his mouth closed.

Nicholson reacted first, answering his cell before Travers had even found his. “Already?”

He listened intently for a few moments longer, then disconnected the call without anything more than a terse “thanks”. His gaze swept over the room, coming to rest on his boss’ stoic expression. “They’ve identified the new Slayer.”

When he had everyone’s undivided attention, Nicholson continued. “She’s in Los Angeles.”

Travers nodded briefly. “We’ll need her location.”

“Sir?” Wesley broke his silence. “I’d like to make the identification, if you don’t have any objections.”

Having no real reason to deny him, Travers nodded his approval. “It would be best if you brought the girl here.” Continuing one of his earlier thoughts, as though they’d all been privy to them, he stated, “She should train here and then be stationed in Cleveland.”

“Sir?” Various voices responded to Quentin’s last statement, in varying degrees of concern.

“It would prove beneficial to have one of the Slayers in Cleveland. Miss Summers can remain here in Sunnydale.” He paused a bit dramatically, then added, “That would allow Miss Lehane the freedom to travel wherever her presence was most needed.”

Giles was quick to add, albeit somewhat under his breath, “Thereby keeping her one step ahead of the authorities should our attempt at subterfuge fail.”

Travers didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t heard. “Precisely.”

“I’ll be leaving shortly.” Wesley moved away from the wall, his mind already on the logistics of his trip. “We need to locate her before anyone else does.”

“If you’ll permit me, sir, I’d like to accompany Wyndam-Pryce.” Nicholson looked from one to the other, requesting permission from both men.

Travers nodded, leaving the final decision up to Wesley, who quickly acceded. Glancing down at his watch, Wesley remarked, “It’s nearly nine. Can you be ready before midnight?”

“Won’t take but a brief stop at the hotel to pick up a change of clothes and an overnight kit.” Nicholson followed Wesley out the front door, his voice trailing behind.


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Oz caught the movement in the darkness before anyone else, his senses more attuned to the night. Xander struggled with the back door for a few moments until the werewolf held it open. The kitchen’s occupants lapsed into silence, none of them certain how to react. Without waiting for any comments, Xander carried Kennedy’s body straight through into the dining room, where the Watchers were gathered.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Xander shrugged, his motion dislodging Kennedy’s arm. It thunked against the table with finality, the sound dull and muffled. “It seemed wrong to leave her out there.”

He smiled weakly, the expression not reaching his eyes.

“Indeed.” Travers rose to his feet. “Thank you –“

Giles reached to take her, pausing when Xander stepped back. “Yes, thank you, Xander.”

An awkward silence descended abruptly, growing more pronounced the longer it lasted.

Xander floundered, until he couldn’t stand the lack of noise or action. “So?”

A deep sigh shook the eldest Englishman. “Unfortunately, this is an event we are rather well prepared for. I must make arrangements.” He looked to Giles to answer his question. “Is there somewhere we can bring her?”

The sight of Xander cradling a dead Slayer conjured up memories and images Giles hadn’t ever wanted to revisit. He didn’t know this girl – barely remembered her name – but that was immaterial. She was a Slayer. She had the same sacred Calling as Buffy; the same gifts and abilities as Faith. The same instincts of all the Slayers before her. While her actions had been rash and ill-advised, she’d been following those instincts. She’d gambled, without knowing all the information, and had paid the ultimate price.

He could barely stand to look at her.

It was just about a year since Buffy’s death, though it hardly mattered. Whenever Rupert reflected on that day, the ache in his heart was just as fresh, just as immediate. He could barely think about it, and talking about it was entirely out of the question. Only the fact Buffy had been returned mitigated the depth of his emotions. But he knew there would be no such relief for this girl’s family.

She was gone and no one was going to revive her.

Giles shook his head, returning to the present. “I believe I can prevail upon the Fisher’s to give us assistance.” Taking one look at Xander, Giles motioned him into the living room. “Perhaps you could let her rest in there while we wait.”

Xander didn’t speak, merely nodded his agreement. He laid her gently on the couch, half listening while Giles made the phone call to the morticians.

Not really knowing her didn’t make it any easier for any of them.

She was still a dead Slayer.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



He could feel the trembling and tremors quaking through her tired and sore muscles. Could almost taste the fatigue running sluggishly through her body. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, running in tiny rivers across the bare skin of his arm. She was warm against him, heat radiating and seeping into his own tired and battered body. Spike wanted to move, wanted to shift away from the cold counter top and sink into her arms, let the world recede from around them until the aches and pains were things of the past.

The knowledge that within days all the physical fatigue would be gone hovered somewhere in the back of his mind, though at the moment it gave him no peace. Buffy was tired. Probably more tired than she’d ever been in her whole life and Spike could feel every nuance of it. And because she was tired, he shared it.

The others shifted and moved in the space behind them, murmured conversations muted and muffled by the haze of pain and fatigue. Spike ignored them. Ignored the doctor hovering at his injury, closing the wound with almost unnecessary stitching. Ignored the distraction when the backdoor thumped and new noises filled the kitchen. Ignored everything until a soft cry pierced the fog of his muddled senses.

The first mewling noise was followed rapidly by a second, and within moments, those tiny noises were all Spike heard. His head was filled with them, his heart almost thumping in time with them. Buffy stirred at his side, her hand wiping away the tears and she inhaled deeply, gathering her strength. Her heart rate quickened and Spike could feel the brief surge of adrenaline loosening the bonds of her fatigue. Her scent changed, piquing his interest and making his demonic side stir.

It finally registered with him, the source of the wailing and Buffy’s response – and that wonderful, sweet, soft smell emerging from her. The babies. . . Their twins were stirring, no doubt looking for their mother; the primal hunger all infants had rousing them to seek her out. Buffy eased away from his side, a silent apology crossing her face as she did. Spike tipped his head in the direction of the cries, urging her to go.

The noises settled down, the returning adult murmurs adding to the distraction of his own injuries. Fatigue he’d been fighting weakened his knees now that Buffy had gone and Spike knew it was only a matter of moments before he would succumb to the need for rest. Buffy would, no doubt, be just as drained, just as in need of sleep.

Spike wanted all these people crowding the house to leave. Needed them to leave.

He was swaying on his feet, staying upright only by force of sheer determination and utter stubbornness. Neither of those emotions was going to work for more than a few moments.

Strangely enough, it was Anya who caught on before any of the others. She must have been watching him, paying attention when no one else around was. “Time to go, people.”

Within moments, almost faster than Spike thought possible, the former vengeance demon had his house cleared of all intruders, leaving behind only those living between the walls. Dawn drifted up the stairs, one of the now-sated infants held tight against her. Connor looked at him owlishly from beneath his ragged hair, remarking, “Dude, you look like you need help getting up the stairs.”

The growling caught his blurred attention and Spike realized with a start that it was his own throat making those menacing noises. Bloody hell. . .

He waved a hand in the general direction of the living room. “Help Buffy first. ‘ll get there m’self.”

Minutes later, the pounding of Connor’s feet heralded his arrival back on the ground floor. Spike refused his help, pushing slowly off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Lock up the doors, whelp. ‘m going.”

“I can see that.” Connor hid the smile when Spike arched his scarred eyebrow in his direction. “I’ll go ahead and get the doors.”

Connor watched him from the hallway, following the weaving vampire up the stairs and into the bedroom he shared with Buffy. Spike slid face-first onto the bed, his body angled to take up the maximum amount of space. Buffy sighed from her spot at the crib, shaking her head. “Can you move him?”

“Sure.” Connor rolled and pushed, getting Spike situated to Buffy’s satisfaction, then undid the laces and removed his boots. “How long do you think he’s gonna sleep?”

“As long as we let him.” Buffy laid down next to her vampire, and motioned the two teens out. “Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t – “

They were both asleep before Buffy finished speaking.







I know, believe me I know. It's been so long, it wouldn't surprise me if no one even remembers this story, much less wants to tackle the whole bloody thing again. I wouldn't blame you. I don't want to tackle it again! Seriously, though, I want to thank you all once again for the time and consideration you've given me and this story. Your words and best wishes have meant so much. Rest assured, the final chapter isn't far behind. Just a wee bit more tweaking and then it's done. So hopefully before the end of August, this will be finished. Slainte, Nia