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An hour and a half later, after a shower and change of clothes, Buffy sat in her father’s office being drilled on the test. Her hands had quit their trembling sometime during her hour long washing; her skin felt raw from the vicious cleansing she’d given it. Still, she felt dirty, like she’d never be clean.

It was the anger that sustained her, she was sure. The betrayal of her father finally showing her real darkness from where she could never come back. Of friends who’d betrayed her for power and rich digs. Despite it, her thoughts kept drifting back to Spike’s words, and the expression in his eyes as he’d spoken them.

“Remember that nothing’s what it seems, pet.”

“So Buffy, you were saying?”

“Huh?” She blinked out of her reverie and realized her father’s waiting expression.

“Sorry, what was the question?”

“How, exactly, did you best Charles?”

“You didn’t see it?” she asked, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice, trying not to scream at him for his casualness.

“No, no. That place was Charles’ alone. His were the only eyes there. It’s a shifting dimension of sorts.”

“Oh,” was all she said for a moment. Then, “I wished him his nightmares in ancient Terick.”

Her father grew very still in his chair, eyes cold and appraising.

“I see,” he said finally. “Very inventive.”

“Yes, well, there’s no worse thing for a monster than having to face himself.” She felt so cold, icy like death was kissing her skin.

“Yes,” he said, smiling mildly. “You may be right there.”

He stood, walked over to a bookshelf and pulled down an ancient leather bound text.

“Charles was a very good friend of mine. His powers had been marinating since before birth, in the tomes of a prophecy I found.” He raised the book in his hand and shook it slightly towards her.

“I raised him to be what he was, and I sacrificed him for something greater, Buffy.”

He settled back in his chair, fingers caressing the book like it were a lover. Buffy ignored his hands, kept her eyes locked with his.

“You are my greatest work, and you shall share the world with me when the day comes.”

The lesson he had created was clear to her, and she wished it wasn’t. Before her power, she had been a commodity, usable, expendable. Only now that she’d become a thing to truly fear was she a comrade.

Inside she died, but she smiled brightly. “I look forward to it, Daddy.”

“Good then,” he said, clapping his hands on his knees and rising. “I have some business with Wolfram and Hart in a few minutes, but maybe we’ll have dinner together later on this week. Why don’t you go out with your friends, celebrate a bit? Take one of the boys with you as a driver.”

“I might just do that.”

Dance away some of this rage, she thought as she headed out of the library.

“And Buffy?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Tell your little friend Cordelia that I wish her father well.”



*



They arrived at The Room a little after eleven. The limo was waiting outside, but two of the boys were posted against the walls watching her, Cordelia Chase and Fred Burkle; she hadn’t seen Spike since the hallway. On the other side of the room stood Cordy’s new muscle, a tall, dark and brooding fellow named Angel, content to watch from his own space. Buffy knew he was a vamp from his smell, but there was something a bit odd about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

The club was loud, seething, all lights and mirrors. It was the sort of place that set your skin tingling, made you feel raw and alive. It was exactly what Buffy needed, since she was trying real hard not to think about Des.

She lost herself in a mass of panting bodies, flesh against flesh, blood humming with the beat and flesh glistening with sweat. There was nothing except the music, the pulse of it as her limbs fell into the time of it.

The song ended with a last resounding drum beat, and she let her body fall lax.

“I’m going for aqua, guys,” she said just before the new song came up, slipping her way out from the crowd to find an empty place at the bar.

She noticed Cordy standing there then, separate from the writhing bodies, all eyes on Angel across the room, who appeared to be nowhere in present time or space.

“You ok, Cordy?” she asked as she cracked a bottle of Perrier.

“About as ok as you are.”

Buffy paused with the bottle halfway to her lips.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean.”

“Come on, Buffy. It doesn’t take the brains of a Berndoff blond to figure you’re of the strange as of late.”

“How d’ya figure?” Buffy drawled.

Cordy gave her a dead stare. “Do you honestly think my father made it to be mayor of LA without a few casters at his back? Please, Buffy. You and I are so beyond that.”

Buffy felt her jaw dropping and covered it with a sip of water; it fizzled going down.

Cordy sighed at her silence.

“Come on Buffy, let’s be real, ‘kay? I know about the party last week, that you’ve got your fingers in some new juice. Dad warned me about you.”

“Did he now.” Shock quickly morphed into irritation.

“Don’t worry, I told him you weren’t any threat to me.” Guilt filled Buffy at those words, and she felt her anger drop.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asked as quietly as she could over the din of the place, making eye contact with her childhood friend.

“’Cause I’m not like you, Buffy. I’m not one of the shadows. I don’t have any magick, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be caught dead packing. It’s better to play dumb.”

Buffy stared at her, at a loss for words.

“I never used to care,” Cordy continued, turning back to stare longingly at Angel. “But now, there are times that I wish I was. So I could be a shadow and not have to play at dazzling.”

“Now, I'm thinking being in the darkness wouldn’t be so bad, as long I had someone there with me.”

Buffy’s thoughts flew to Spike, the kiss in the cemetery, and felt a rush of sensory memory. It was like he was standing in front of her, the scent was so strong: smoke and leather, and just a hint of liquor. His words of warning, the softness of his touch, the pleading look in his eyes in the hallway earlier that night, all of it spun pretty circles inside her head.

“Yeah,” Buffy said softly. “I kinda know what you mean.”

They stood quietly for the rest of the song, let the rhythm take the place of dire thoughts. But when the next beat came on, Buffy set her drink down with a firm thud and grabbed Cordy’s arm.

“Come on. Let’s go get tall, dark and gorgeous to dance.”


*


Back in London, in the opulent yet musty luxury of the Watcher’s Council’s headquarters, Quentin Travers sat impatiently behind an immaculate desk, waiting for a phone call four days overdue. Even his favorite seascape, prettily done in the pastels of watercolors, wasn’t enough to appease him.

Finally the phone rang, a shrill sound that managed to get halfway through its scream before he had it to his ear.

“Yes?” he said harshly, waiting for the voice on the other end of the line.

The reply he got put the gleam back in his eye, and set his fingers tapping on the smooth surface of his desk.

“Good, you’ve located her.” He was silent as the voice continued on.

“Yes, well, understandable, that, considering who her father is. Just try to get in close enough to evaluate her.”

He twirled the length of phone cord with his other hand, spinning plastic coated wires deftly between his fingers.

“Yes, mmmhmmm. Well, I hate to say this, Rip- Rupert, but why don’t you go get a bit of rest. You sound the worse for wear. Yes, I’m sure your judgment can wait a day or so. No use rushing these things. Very well. Hear from you soon, then.”

With the dial tone, he set the phone gently back down and let the glee fill him.

“No use rushing at all.”


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