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Buffy stayed on the balcony to regain compose after Spike left. His words had caused fear to fill her, the feeling alone so alien that she had to fight back a wave of disgust. Fear was a weakness, the first step in becoming a pawn. In the world she played in, you were either a master or a pawn, and she had no intention of taking a drop in roles. With that resolve, she took a deep breath and left her place at the railing to go back inside.

Heat and a thousand smells hit her when she walked through the arched doors. It seemed half of LA was at the gala, dressed to the nines and packing them. She casually made her way to one of the refreshment tables, murmuring a greeting as she passed several old acquaintances. She asked for a glass of champagne from a silent man in formals, and was immediately handed a flute.

She made a vague attempt at finding Des, but the girl was nowhere to be found. Probably off with some new hottie, working up a sweat. The other person she was interested in finding, a certain blond, blue eyed creature of the nocturnal variety, was on the other side of the room steadily ignoring her.

Well, she’d figure out how to corner him soon enough. And then she’d find out exactly what he knew.

Buffy was in the middle of sipping bubbly when she felt their presence; they were wearing glamours, but she could smell their anticipation and fear tainting the air as they prepared to drop them. She tensed, setting her champagne back down on the table, and snaked her hand down to the edge of her skirt. She drew her baby Glock from the mini-holster on her thigh and raised it slowly, stopping discreetly at waist level.

Spike was immediately at her side, having seen the almost imperceptible action. If it wasn't for the impending danger, she might have been flattered that he was paying so much attention to her skirts.

"What is it?"

"Gustuuks," she said, voice low. "They’re here, and I don’t think they’ll be wanting to party."

The first screams came from the other side of the ballroom. The predators of the room looked eager at the sound, the ignorant surprised, and the pawns fearful. Spike exchanged a look with Buffy; the massacre had begun.

Buffy raised the Glock and took out a Gustuuk across the room, one that had his mouth buried in man’s throat. His head ricocheted back as the bullets hit, his mouth ripping away in a spray of bloodied flesh. Spike threw himself into on the right, shoving guest aside to get to one of the demons.

Around her the other boys moved into action, darting between guests to get to the demons. Some of the more equiped guests whipped out their weapons, some firing at the demons, others at longtime nemisies. Nothing like chaos to cover long seething plans for revenge.

Another Gustuuk went charging past her, screaming in rage with his gun firing at the room at large. She took him out with the last of her shots, in quick sucession to the back of his skull; it caved in a mass of green matter and bits of bone, and he fell hard.

Buffy watched as bodies fell around her, bullets expended, and felt the knowledge rise in her that she had to do something, anything, to stop what was happening. The exact what entered her brain like a vital prompting.

Crouching down to the floor, Buffy lifted her hands up and began chanting in Latin. The flesh on the palms of her hands began to glow a fiery red, and the color slowly extended outwards to envelop the room. There was immediate silence.

Standing up, Buffy surveyed the success of her spell. All around her the luckier party-goers were frozen in various states of surprise, horror, and glee: half drank glasses of champagne dangled dangerously from still hands, limbs frozen in the process of retreat or charge. The deceased and dying were littered among them, on the ground, suspended mid-air in the throes of death.

"Everybody’s got to get their fucking fingers in the pie," she muttered as she crossed in front of two men with pistols held to each other’s heads, faces contorted in rage.

The only people that hadn’t been frozen were the boys, courtesy of her father’s anti-magick charms. They stood scattered about the room, chests heaving and bodies covered in various bodily fluids. Spike was the closest, and he came to stand next to her.

"Well, pet," Spike drawled out. "That was sure one hell of a show."

"Yeah," she said, catching his eyes and the warning behind the words.

"Some show."

The air was suddenly filled with an acidic smell, not unlike that of a freshly lit match, accompanied by a gurgling sound. Buffy fought back the urge to roll her eyes as her father appeared in the center of the room in a cloud of bilious white smoke.

If someone saw Hank Summers on the street, they would never believe he was an all-powerful sorcerer. At first glance they would see a normal man of the richer sort, Italian leather loafers, designer pants and shirt. He was tall, with brown hair, and a deep voice that suggested confidence. But if they looked closer, at the eyes so pale blue they were almost translucent, they would realize he was not so normal at all.

"What happened here?" he asked, those other-worldly eyes staring down at the body of one woman who’d gotten caught in the crossfire. He nudged her limp thigh gently with his loafer, and she stared back at him with glassy, lifeless eyes, blood soaking the bodice of the baby blue gown she’d worn.

Spike walked to stand next to him, a bit of demon blood splattered across his cheeks and forehead.

"Gustuuks. A pack of them." He gestured to the one Buffy’d taken out last.

"A neighboring clan most likely. Strikes just a bit odd they’d come in such force though, mate. They’re more street fighters than much else. And not big on the public displays."

"Hmmm…." was Hank’s only reply as he walked around surveying the damage.

"The spell’s your work, Tesh?"

Tesh came forwardly timidly from the corner he’d been crouched in, and dropped the glamour he’d been wearing for the gala. His voice cracked as he spoke, as it was wont to do when he was nervous.

"N-no sir, wasn’t me. I don’t have the juice. It was your girl, sir."

Hank turned and looked at her sharply.

"Buffy, you did this?"

Glancing at the frozen guests around them, she resigned herself to her fate.

"Yeah," she said finally. "I guess I did."

"How, exactly, did you do it?"

The question in his voice grated, and in a flash Buffy recalled all her failed attempts at magick over the years: spells that floundered and potions gone awry. She had lived years with the shame that she was the dead cell daughter of one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world. It was only when she’d started dirtying her hands with the street business that she’d finally found her groove.

Through it all, her father had insisted that she at least learn the logistics of the dark arts even if she couldn’t perform them. She blew air from her lungs in frustration.

"I don’t know what happened. I just knew I should use a freeze spell on the room, I did, and it worked." Her father didn’t say anything to that, just watched her face closely.

The unnatural stillness of the room, the awful, sour smell of violent death, of open bowels and stale panic, was starting to get to her.

"I’m gonna go get some air, clear my head."

Hank nodded his head curtly. "I’ll see you tomorrow, then. In the library."

"Yeah," she replied, then paused. "Thanks, Daddy." Then she was gone.

Tesh spoke up cautiously after she'd left. "You want me to prep the memory spell while you hold th-this, sir?"

"No, Tesh, it shouldn’t be a problem. Buffy’s still holding it for us."

"Bu-but shouldn’t be possible. She’s not here, sir."

"I know." The glee in his voice sent a chill through Spike. His next words were spoken so softly that Spike barely caught them.

"Keep an eye on her."

Then he turned, rubbing his hands together as he spoke to the rest of the boys. "We’ve got a major clean up here. Let’s get on it, shall we? Starting with the mayor..."

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