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Author's Chapter Notes:
Warning: Kennedy bashing.
Kennedy opened her eyes. She had to be dead. Had to be. Except, she expected death to feel different. Less real. Less painful.

Yet when she carefully unfolded her legs, she felt two things. The first was shrieking pain from dozens of bruises and wounds she had sustained between the Slayer ambush and her futile struggle to escape capture. The second was the firm familiar mattress and white lace comforter of her bed at the Westbury house.

If she had to choose a heaven for herself, Westbury would not be it. England was too damn cold. The British were too damn cold, too. She preferred the spicy climate of Rio and her parent’s plantation to her temporary and sporadic dwelling with Willow in Westbury.

So if she was dead – she doubted it – but if so, hell it was. Kennedy forced her swollen eyelids apart. Through the haze, she saw her teakwood armoire with its stark-straight art deco lines that didn’t match Willow’s Victorian bedspread. Above the armoire, she caught the room’s reflection in the mirror. The image of it appeared like something out of a dream. Soft sunshine spilled through floor-length white curtains. Willow’s tatty brown sweater, the one that looked like a bath robe, lay over the back of a squarish 1950s recliner chair. She heard children playing outside, at the parochial school at the end of their cobbled lane. It didn’t seem like hell.

Kennedy ventured to raise her head. Her vision sloshed like a ship in rough seas. She gripped the border of the lace comforter with both hands. Pushing it back seemed to take every shred of her summoned strength. She had to sit on the bed’s edge for several minutes just to will her body into motion.

“Slow,” she mouthed to herself. “Just go slow.”

Not that she had much choice. But getting up and moving around gave her the chance to better appraise her injuries. Her shoulders hurt. Her wrists bore angry chafe-marks from being bound. She felt deep tissue bruises in her thigh muscles. Whatever it was that tried to hold her down, she felt reasonably sure she had booted it mightily in the head.

Kennedy slipped stealthily from the bedroom, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror. She didn’t need to see her face to know it was banged up beyond belief. The taste of blood in her mouth and stingy puffy eyes told her all she needed to know.

Her ass had been kicked. It didn’t happen often, but she survived. The loss was huge, but not total. She survived.

Still, questions remained. How did she turn up here? Had Angel come through and rescued her? Did Willow have some magical contingency set up that would deliver her safely home if things went suitably ill? Or had she by some odd miracle managed to pull off a spectacular escape? She imagined herself crawling into the back of a taxi cab in North London with only her Westbury address on her lips.

There were no answers here. Kennedy knew that much. She left the bedroom, limping but gaining momentum. She had to get to the telephone. She had to call Willow. She had to let Buffy know what had become of their school. And if there was a chance, however small, that Angel had betrayed them, it might be a good idea to let someone know.

Kennedy took the stairs with care. The landscape seemed clear. She heard nothing but the drone of the refrigerator in the kitchen. From what she could tell, the house was empty. Nothing out of place.

Except…

The corner of the runner rug at the base of the stairs curled over on itself. Kennedy toed it over with the tip of her bare foot. As she scanned the hallway, a knot twisted inside her belly. Slayer instinct could be a bitch sometimes. Nine times out of ten, you saw demons in shadows where there were just shadows. Every dank alley was suspect. All mullet sporting punks out past 9 had an alter ego with fangs.

But on the tenth time out, it was correct. The car parked at the curb beyond your driveway really did hold a pair of demons packing hard-core devices of torture. And the phone that normally rested on the entry hall table beside the ornate brass dish that held the mail was really gone. Removed.

Kennedy lifted the severed phone cord from where it still lay on the table. This was the only phone in the house. Control-freaky as Willow could be, Kennedy felt certain Willow would not have moved the phone.

This only sparked more questions in Kennedy’s mind. She peered outside through the peephole in the front door.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself. “So I didn’t imagine the demon stake-out.” Slayer instinct was batting a thousand today.

Kennedy stood in the entry hall, body swimming in hurt; head drowning in indecision. She had to get out.
But even if she did, how far could she get on her gimped legs? The safest place had to be the house. In theory, Willow’s protection spells would help keep the good things in and the bad things out. That went nowhere in explaining the missing telephone.

Kennedy planned to make a dash for the kitchen. She could dart down the back steps, cross the field and make her way to the Coven… but the corner a photograph on the hallway table caught her eye.

Kennedy tugged the postcard from the stack of junk mail in the brass dish. Buckingham Palace by Night. Splash of photo-bright fireworks above Big Ben and Parliament lighted up in cheerful gold tones. Fanciful script proclaimed “Wish You Were Here!” like a banner across the top.

She flipped the card in her mangled hands. She read the inscription twice, mouthing the words to herself, feeling with dreadful certainty that she was missing something. Something huge.

“Angel has the blade,” she whispered. “What blade? Tons of help, Connor. Thanks.”

Kennedy crumpled the card in her hands, her frustration boiling over.

She heard the dull thunk of footfalls on the front steps too late. She turned, ready to brain whoever it was with the brass letter holder. To her sickened amusement, she discovered that the front door was unlocked. The handsome, youngish man stepped inside, all very prim with this chocolate black hair, faded relaxed-fit khakis and glossy Versace dress shoes.

“Ah, you are awake,” the man said in a supple French accent. “Very good.”

Kennedy opened her mouth to speak, but the Frenchman continued without heeding her.
He said, “I am a representative of Wolfram & Hart. Monsieur Angel’s liaison to be exact. My name is Luxe. Angel sends his regrets in regards to last night’s tragedy.”

“Luxe,” Kennedy said. Her head ached. Her stomach churned. Angel. Wolfram & Hart. The names connected, broke apart, rejoined. Nothing made sense.

“Monsieur Angel asked me to deliver you here,” Luxe said. “Until arrangements could be made for your safe return to London.”

“Safe return?” Kennedy asked.

“Ah, oui. Your attack last night caused quite a stir, mademoiselle,” Luxe said. “Quite a stir in vampire and Slayer circles alike. It did not turn out well, now did it?”

Kennedy shook her head in disbelief. “It was Angel’s plan,” she said. “We had no idea Thellian would show.”

“Even so,” Luxe said. He shrugged. “Word has reached the Slayers and the witch. You are no longer safe…”

“Willow?” Kennedy asked. Fissures formed in the thin ice of her resolve. They spread deeper, threatening to break her into pieces.

“Angel felt it best for you to leave here, once you regained consciousness. You show remarkable constitution, considering the extent of your injuries. We had no idea you would wake so soon. Regardless, Angel can shelter you. His reach through Wolfram & Hart is exceptionally long,” Luxe said.

Kennedy shook her head, temporarily clearing it. “The phone,” she said.

“Pardonez-moi?” Luxe said.

“You pulled the phone. Why?”

Luxe nodded once. “To prevent you from calling your friends. For your own safety.”

“And you can enter the house…”

“Because I have no intent to harm you,” Luxe said. “Of course.”

Kennedy twisted the postcard in her suddenly clammy hands.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, quietly.

Luxe seemed to swell with smugness. “It matters not. You see, you have fallen into a kind of choicelessness. You live now only because Wolfram & Hart wills it. The only thing you must decide is whether you will come along quietly or with a fight. Either way, your ultimate fate rests with Angel.”

Kennedy lunged for him, thumbs hooking for his eyes. She was injured and he was a demon. He took her down with a quick open-palmed smack to her already damaged ear. Kennedy bounced into the hall table on the way down. The table caught the edge of the gilded mirror that hung above it. It crashed down on top of her in a deafening mess.

Highly annoyed by this, Luxe rolled his eyes and sighed. “I said I had no intent to harm you,” he told her unconscious form crumpled at his feet. “I didn’t mean I that would not.”

Luxe fireman-carried Kennedy out of the house. The Berithi demons in their black Continental pumped her veins full of morphine for the trip to Amesbury. Luxe took no note whatsoever of the wrinkled postcard Kennedy had dropped on entry hall rug, in the hope that Willow would find it and understand.

~*~

Memories haunted him, more persistent than any poltergeist. It had been perfect. For her.

For Angel, it had been a moderate facsimile of perfection. Except he knew he did not belong. And if heaven had been perfect, Angelus would have stepped in to spare him his present misery.

Lifetimes of wishes and promises fulfilled beyond his hopes, yet she let them all go. Her friends ripped her from their bliss, leaving him alone in a running pit of sewage beneath a rotting city.

She had forgotten he was even there with her.

Angel sleepwalked through the building that presently housed Wolfram & Hart. Thick-armed workers, some men, some demon, all in dust blue coveralls, lugged boxes into the hallways, stacking them to precarious heights. He heard a lot of grumbling over the uprooting of root-of-all-evil offices, but he had put his CEO foot down. Relocation was part of his master plan. Yet, as he meandered, he caught the stolen glances from his displeased employees. He didn’t give a damn about them. Not giving a damn covered a lot of things at this point.

Angel left the caring to Thellian, who waited beyond the double doors of the main conference room. Thellian was the real plan man. Angel believed with what was left of his heart that Thellian could pull it off, could finally do what every halfwit diabolical fiend had failed to do since the Demon Age had passed into history.

Angel entered with purposeful flourish. Thellian sat dead center of the conference table, facing the doors, an expression of placidity on his face. A woman wearing a white corseted dress of sheer taffeta and ostrich feathers lingered near the bookcase, lithe fingers plucking her way through the volumes in search of something she fancied.

When Angel entered, she turned. It was like watching a feather drift on the surface of a pool.

“Angel,” she purred, crossing to him. She looped her gloved arms around him. They slithered like satiny snakes around his neck. “It seems like a hundred years since last we met.”

He stared back at her. Then recognition struck. “It has been,” he said. “Lalaine.”

“You have changed. And changed again,” she said. Her lilac eyes sparkled.

“So have you,” Angel said.

“No,” Lalaine said, withdrawing her arms. She slipped away. Instantly he craved her nearness. “I’m the same as ever.”

Lalaine rounded the conference table. She drew herself around Thellian, caressing his neck with her dove-white skin. “I’ll leave you boys to talk. I promised to take Morna to the catacombs to play.” She nipped playfully at Thellian’s chin. “She loves to chase the rats.”

When Lalaine left, it seemed most of the color had drained from the room. Thellian remained seated, long hands folded on the table in front of him. He held himself with the patience and poise of a spider on its web, waiting for his prey to find him. Angel moved to the bookshelf, sliding his fingers along the dustless spines just as Lalaine had done.

“Last night went well,” Thellian said. “But it was not a whole success.”

Angel continued to walk. The heels of his expensive shoes clacked on the hardwood floor.

“Three were missing,” Thellian went on.

“Three?” Angel said, genuinely surprised.

Thellian waited for a beat. Then, “Yes. Three: Mikayla Ford, Anjelica Reyes and Buffy Summers. Kennedy assures us Miss Summers was not part of her raiding party, and that the others were conscientious abstainers.”

Angel chuckled. “Dissention in the ranks. Built-in Slayer trait of fighting alone. It’s Chosen One, after all,” he said. Angel reached the end of the bookcase. He continued his slow stalk along the back wall directly behind Thellian. “How is Kennedy?”

“Recovering nicely. She will remain at her home in Westbury, until it is time for her. As for Miss Summers,” Thellian said.

Angel moved to Thellian’s right side. He put his hands on the table. “She’s not the one we need to worry with. The real wild card is Bloody Willie,” he said.

Thellian rolled his eyes up to look at Angel. Humor cast a sparse net of lines around his lips, but the smile never reached his eyes. “The Legendary Spike,” he said. “I have yet to make his acquaintance.”

“Yeah, well,” Angel said, resuming his deliberate march around the room. “He never fails to disappoint. Been a thorn in my side for a century. Now he has the supplemental benefits package of life eternal.”

Thellian’s stillness was unruffled. “Everyone can be killed, Angel. No one is immune to death, no matter how invulnerable we seem.”

Angel laughed again. “Oh, he can be killed. Trouble is, he keeps popping back. A regular Spike-in-a-box.”

“There is a weapon,” Thellian said.

Angel ground to a standstill.

Thellian nodded. “One of extraordinary power. A demon-forged blade created for the purpose of killing The Slayer.”

“The D’Ganti Blade,” Angel said. “I’ve heard of it. A ritual weapon.”

Thellian’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “I found it,” he said.

Angel eyed him, not daring to move.

“In Italy,” Thellian continued.

Angel waited.

Thellian smiled, all too knowing. “Miss Summers evaded the Berithi I hired to capture her. Shortly after, she relocated here and the dagger was lost.”

“Lost?” Angel said.

“Yes.”

Angel took up his stride once more. “Then it can’t help me take out Spike, can it?”

“The blade is here,” Thellian said. “In the city.”

“We know this for certain?” Angel asked.

“We do.”

Angel cast a backward glance. Thellian remained impervious, but Angel knew that he knew.

“The dagger,” Thellian said. “It prevents a wound from healing. Its victim bleeds to death.”

One corner of Angel’s mouth drew into a lopsided smile.

“As for the others,” Thellian breezed. “They will soon fall. I’m not concerned. The Priestess already has their Watcher. You see, the advantage to longevity is patience. I don’t need everything I want tomorrow, or next month, or even next decade. My plans have spanned centuries. No human can grasp the scope of something that extends beyond his or her pitiful allowance of years. That’s the beauty of it.”

Angel came to rest. He sat down in the chair at the head of the table. “I think we should drink to that,” he said.

Thellian tilted his head. “Tonight we will drink. To longevity,” he said.

“Tonight,” Angel agreed.

In the seconds of silence that followed, Angel realized that the brand in his chest no longer twisted or burned. In place of the dull, unwavering ache, he found clarity. The memories of his time with Buffy lay like prints in sand, but they were only memories to him. Now.

Angel drew the blade from his pocket. He placed it on the table between them.

Thellian said nothing. No part of him betrayed any hint of surprise.

~*~

“Can we tie her to a chair?” Dawn asked. “Because we have done that before.”

Willow thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. We can’t,” she said.

Buffy entered the dining room. “Can’t what?” she asked.

Dawn brightened. “Keep Maya here against her will,” she said. “Oh, maybe you could talk to her. Convince her that the saving-the-world gig has many perks. I mean, other than the world-saving. Obviously.”

“Niblet, you’re one of our sanest. And you’ve just made no sense,” William said. He came up behind Buffy and slipped his arms around her. “No blinking phone light, pet. No message from Rupert.”

Dawn appeared on the ragged side of things. It seemed to be going around. Her usually smooth hair was less than lustrous, like she had showered but forgotten her Frizz-ease. She puffed out her breath, underscoring the hypothesis of lack of sleep.

“Maya is the Rose,” she said, pointing to the symbol on the scrolls. “Her name is Maya Rose.”

Buffy studied the pages spread out before them. “Part of the Circle,” she said, under her breath. “The Circle is complete.”

“Yes,” Willow stated. “And we woke it. We stood around and said our Latin names. Scrolls went all glowy. Then, poof. Maya freaked and pulled an Andrew act.”

“And after all we did for her,” William said, sardonically.

“Yeah,” Willow said.

“We need her,” Buffy said. “Maybe she just needs adjustment time.”

“We don’t have time,” Dawn keened. “Her parents wired her money for a one-way ticket back home. Unless Xander can convince her...”

“It’s a tinner’s rabbit,” William said. He parted from Buffy and came to the table’s edge.

“A what-ers what?” Dawn asked.

“Tinner’s. Rabbit,” he said. He touched his fingers gingerly to the page. “A maker’s mark for a tin-worker. A tinker. It’s, um, a circle of three hares that begins as one thing then changes into something else... something unexpected.”

“I hate unexpected,” Dawn said.

They heard a thunderous noise behind them and turned to see Andrew pounding down the stairs. He brushed past Buffy and threw a book into the center of the dining table. Scrolls scattered like leaves across the room.

“Hey!” Willow cried, looking aghast.

“Here’s your stupid book,” Andrew yelled, whirling on Dawn. He tried to storm out, but Dawn caught up to him.

“What is wrong with you?” she said, forcefully.

“I’m on a mission. I don’t have time to chat,” he said. Andrew sucked in his cheeks. He tried his best to look steely-eyed, but his hair stuck up in unflattering clumps. His red-rimmed eyes looked rheumy and bloodshot. Worse than that was the sallow, bloodless look of his skin. It was the haggard disposition of the presently hung over.

Dawn pulled him aside, ignoring the questioning looks from the others.

“Okay, drop the Spy vs. Spy,” she whispered. “You aren’t going anywhere until we know what that mark means.” She pointed to his wrist, which he concealed by tugging down the cuff of his sleeve and tucking it into his fist.

“It’s my problem. Not yours.”

Dawn jiggled her head. “Yeah? Well, you made it my problem when you went out and got yourself seductified.”

Andrew glared. “What bothers you more: that I have put us all in danger, or that I got lucky?”

Dawn raised her hand to slap him again. He recoiled. A swell of guilt spilled over her.

“That’s the dumbest question ever,” she said.

“I’m gone, gringa,” Andrew told her. He headed for the door.

“Andrew,” she said.

He paused.

“It was an accident, okay? A stupid, alcohol-induced mistake. I’m sure you didn’t mean to...”

Andrew wrenched the door open.

“Where are you going?” Dawn said.

“To fix it,” Andrew bit out. He slammed the door when he left.

Dawn returned to the dining room. Buffy, Willow and William were picking up the pieces of the puzzle while trying to pretend they hadn’t heard anything.

“Well,” Dawn said. “That was intense.”

“What’s with the boy?” William asked.

Dawn knelt, feigning to fumble under the table for the Damas journal to hide the tears in her eyes.

“He, uh, recorded over his James Bond marathon with info-mercials about skin care products,” she said. She closed her fingers around the Damas journal. “Of course it’s my fault because I held on to last week’s TV Guide to read the tell-all article about Orlando Bloom. So he had the wrong listings. Blah blah blah. No Bond. Wah.”

When Dawn stood back up, she had managed to quell the teary-ness. She clutched the journal to her chest like a shield.

Willow smirked. She said, “Right now Giles would say, ‘Now children. We have more important things to worry over than missed programs and the availability of celebrities.’”

“So true. Right down to the spot-on Giles accent,” Dawn said. She sighed. “I’m going to take this upstairs for a light dissecting. Willow, can you put the puzzle back together?”

Willow bent to retrieve a scroll. “Sure, unless it’s changed in the last half hour,” she said.

“Don’t say that,” Buffy said. “You know what happens when you say things like that.”

Willow uncreased the corner of the scroll. “It won’t,” she said, blandly.

Buffy squeezed Dawn’s shoulder. “You sure you won’t have breakfast with us? You look a little peaked.”

Dawn gave them a wan smile. “You sound like Mom,” she said.

Buffy’s skin blushed a rosy pink. She felt the blood warm her face all the way to the tips of her ears. “I do?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Dawn said. “You really do.”

~*~

The Priestess left her charge alone in the hotel room, knowing full well that he could not manage to escape on his own. She had an appointment with Thellian, and couldn’t be dragging around useless weight with her. It was too unprofessional.

Once she had gone, taking the door this time instead of the window, Rupert Giles squirmed his way across the gummy carpet, feeling every centimeter as if it were a mile. His vision blurred and his ears filled with the oceanic sound of what was left of his blood rushing in his veins. He collapsed into a stupor at the foot of the bed.

After languishing there for time untold, he felt a pair of strong arms hefting him to his feet. His head swam. He tried to reach for his glasses, but his hands hung useless at his sides. He opened his mouth to speak, but his parched throat allowed only a weary croaking sound.

“Hush.” It was woman’s voice. Slightly familiar.

Giles struggled to keep his feet below his body. They had other ideas and wanted to roam about independently. She held him steady. She opened the hotel room door, guiding him. Once they were safe within the cracker box of an elevator, she let him lean against the mirrored wall. He squinted to see the blurred shapes in the polished metal. Seeing her reflection made the last remnants of strength run out of his legs.

It was Nighna.

“But...” he managed to say.

“Don’t get excited, Mr. Giles. It’s not an act of mercy. It’s attrition,” Nighna explained. “They have plans for you. If you think them through to a logical conclusion, you already know what they are.”

Rupert stared only at the rumpled man reflected in the scratched mirror. The bite marks on his neck still caked with blood. Bruises underscoring his eyes. Long twisted slash marks through his sleeves. He looked like hell. He looked dead.

The cord of the necklace Willow had given him peeked through the torn collar of his shirt. Without it, he would be dead. The Priestess – Amy – would have killed him. No, not killed him...

And just like that, Giles got it. He slowly craned his head to look at Nighna.

He made a strangled little noise.

The door of the elevator slid open.

“Quickly now,” Nighna said. “Lean on me. I have a cab waiting.”

Nighna, possessed of demon strength even in human form, was able to practically carry Giles to the taxi that had curbed in front of the hotel. She put him into the seat, then knelt beside him. He could feel the heaviness of her body against his, which felt quite unpleasantly light.

“There is one more thing,” she said. “Angel’s soul. He needs it to fulfil his destiny. Thellian wishes him to keep it because one way or the other, it all falls on Angel. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”

Giles nodded. Red and black spots swirled across his field of vision. Spike had been right. The Shanshu...

Giles tried to say something, to ask questions... something, but the words clotted in his throat. All he managed to utter was a thin sentence of spittle from his lips.

Nighna disappeared. He heard her direct the cab driver to Parkside Memorial Hospital. In moments, he was speeding away through the sun-spangled streets of London, to safety, and to death.

~*~

Andrew used his knock spell to get in to Nighna’s flat. In seconds, he acquired the target.

There was a small Italian table beside the cage on which Nighna displayed her collection of rare perfume bottles. A silver brocade cloth covered the table. Andrew ripped the cloth from the table, scattering the precious glass curios like chips of ice across the floor. He covered the cage and the startled bird inside. He left as quickly as he arrived. The entire operation took less than seven minutes.

Andrew knew a thing or two about Kimaris demons. He knew they preferred their human disguises to their demon forms. They folded themselves into society, embracing the culture, the literature, and the arts. They found political intrigues far too delicious to resist. These were all common factlets any amateur demonologist could find.

But Andrew managed to unearth one little known fact in his demon studies. Unlike most demons, Kimaris had souls. Discorporeal souls. Nighna’s could be found within a needle of gold, concealed within an egg, which was hidden inside the body of a bird.
Clarisse was the link to Nighna’s powers. Sever it, and Nighna became a normal girl. Forever.





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