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Author's Chapter Notes:
The Countdown begins.
8:04 a.m.

Buffy felt her way forward in the darkness, a centimeter at a time. She moved with one arm extended in front of her body and the other feeling along the seeping cement wall. She had fallen more times than she could count. The ground was craggy, broken by what she assumed was tree roots or two hundred years of weathering. The ever-present gush of water remained constant in her ears, always below and to her right, always distant.

As she crept, she thought, this is what faith is: Feeling along blindly in the dark, hoping that the light is there, somewhere, waiting to be found. Even if there was no proof that she would ever find it again, the hope was there.

That kept her fingers inching forward, fighting for whatever handhold she could grasp.

After a long while, she lay back against the wall. Her muscles ached. Her spine complained. Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Buffy rested her eyes just long enough to almost doze. When she did, she felt a small pair of cold hands link with hers.

Buffy pulled her hands away as if she had touched a hot iron. The tunnel was too narrow for her to turn, so she backpedaled, fighting to keep her feet on the uneven ground. Her shoulder blades struck the wall. Buffy lashed out with a controlled and very precise right hook. The owner of the hands ducked the attack.

“Vampire,” Buffy panted to herself. She kept her spine to the wall and her arms up to defend. All she had to do was wait for the creature to advance.

But again, the hands linked with Buffy’s. Tiny fingertips brushed over Buffy’s palms.

“Aconda,” the vampire said. The voice was throaty, no where near human, but oddly familiar and gruffly feminine. She nudged Buffy forward, impatient as a small dog on a leash.

Buffy held firm. That word. It sounded so familiar. Where had she heard it?

“What are you?” she asked.

The vampire pulled Buffy’s arm again. “Eya. Aconda.”

Whatever she was saying, Buffy understood that the vampire could see in the dark. She also guessed that the vampire was trying to lead her somewhere. Probably to Thellian or Angel.

Somehow, though, Buffy doubted it. Her instincts whispered to her to trust. To have faith. To believe that the small hands that sought to guide her would not lead her astray. Scared as she was, lost as she was, Buffy had to trust that.

Sensing her decision, the vampire entwined her hand with Buffy’s. She took a careful step forward then waited for Buffy to follow.


9:12 a.m.

Dawn awoke drenched in tepid sweat. A shrill pinging noise had shattered her sleep. It was a constant metallic hammering, and reminded Dawn of a dentist filling a cavity. She sprung from Buffy’s bed, but in her confusion she had forgotten the broken glass scattered across the floor. Several sharp shards drove into her bare feet. Dawn yowled in pain, then danced, bleeding, into the bathroom.

After plucking thorns of glass from her skin, Dawn swaddled her feet in gauze from under the sink. She felt all jittery and tense, like she had just awakened from a horribly graphic nightmare. Then she looked into the mirror. Her hair fell in stringy curtains around her pasty white face. Her eyes had a haunted, hollow look to them. Basically she looked like Dawn of the dead.

With a weary sigh, Dawn wrenched her hair into a twist and splashed water on her face.

Dawn hobbled downstairs on the heels of her feet. The dreadful clanging hammer sound was louder and more droning. Dawn figured it was construction on street level, probably due to some of the damage caused by Amy’s black magical outburst.

Dawn expected to find Andrew dutifully at work in the dining room. However, and much to her continued dismay, Andrew was absent. Someone, thankfully, had removed all of the offending glass in the entry hall and dining room. That same someone had taken the time to rearrange the scrolls on the dining room table and duct tape black garbage bags over the windows.
MK came out of the kitchen with trash bags draped over her arms. She wore the roll of duct tape on her wrist like a bracelet.

“You’re awake,” MK said, not masking her concern. Dawn watched the girl’s eyes dip to take note of Dawn’s mummified feet. “And wounded?” she asked.

“Glass,” Dawn said, flatly. She had wrapped the bandages too tightly. Now she could feel her heartbeat in the soles of her feet. “Where’s Andrew?”

MK bobbed her head. “Um. Watching TV,” she said.

Dawn boiled. “TV? You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Want me to bag the windows in Buffy’s room too?”

Dawn slid past the girl. She waved her hand as if to say, yeah whatever, just keep out of my way.

As MK had said, Dawn found Andrew huddled in the back room watching television.

She pounced on him with the full and spitting fury of her righteous rage.

“What are you doing?” she shouted. She snatched the remote from his hands.

Andrew bounded to his feet. “Hey!”

“You’re watching the news?”

Andrew swiped for the remote. She bapped his temple with it.

“Ow,” he whined. “It’s research.”

“Passive research?” she said. She struck at him again, but he batted her away.

“Quit it!”

“You were supposed to be deciphering the Circle, Andrew,” she yelled.

“I was...”

“I hate you,” she sneered.

Andrew withered. Briefly. Then retorted with, “Yeah, well I hate you.”

“I hate you with every fiber of my being,” Dawn hissed.

“Really?” Andrew said, in tones reminiscent of Spike. “Is it sweater resentment, or full-on 300 thread count hatred?”

“What is wrong with you? Don’t you know what’s happening?” she said.

Andrew folded his arms and waggled his head. “Ye-es,” he said. “World’s ending.”

Dawn looked past him. The news report showed several office buildings burning against a matte black sky. The jiggling camera panned out to show a handful of men lobbing flaming gas cans into the charred remains of the buildings.

Dawn pressed the volume button. The British news anchor, with her crisp over-annunciation, stood out in stark contrast against the violence that played out on the screen.

“...mimicking Detroit’s infamous Devil’s Night, arsonists in Cleveland, Ohio, seem to have gotten an early start this year, resulting in millions of dollars damage to property in that city,” the anchor woman said. “Police officials in Cleveland declined to report whether or not...”

“It’s on every channel,” Andrew said, softly.

“Just Cleveland, or is it...?” Dawn said.

Andrew took the remote. “No,” he answered. “It’s everywhere.” He flipped to the next channel.

And to another news report: “...bikers in droves have overrun the city of Amsterdam. As you can see Joan, they have torn down the facade of the Parliament building. There are fires burning. Reports of public torture, executions, even cannibalism. It’s total chaos. Traffic into and out of the city has ground to a halt as people flee for their lives...”

Andrew clicked to the next channel. “...scientists have been baffled by the unseasonable locust swarms in the African countries of Zaire, Kenya and Ethiopia. Dr. Raimon Mobarek of the International Ecological Initiative believes that the recent occurrence of abandoned villages, or ‘ghost towns’, could account for the problem, due to the fallow fields the former inhabitants of these villagers have left behind...”

And the next channel: “...further violence erupted in San Antonio, Texas, where a stand-off between Latin gang members and police ended in a bloody fire fight, resulting in two officers killed in the line of duty. The situation worsened last night when three young men stormed into the River Walk, taking five as yet unidentified tourists hostage...”

Andrew held the remote out to change channels again.

“Stop,” Dawn said. She dragged her attention from the television set to Andrew. It was then that she got a good look at him. If it was possible, Andrew looked as haggard as she did. His poky hair stuck up in like the pelt of a greasy alley cat. Cobwebs and chalk laced his turtleneck. His skin looked waxy and almost translucent.

“I already solved the Circle,” he told her. He cinched his lips, trying for smugness but looking more like a child whose feelings were unjustly hurt.

“I thought you were stuck on conjugating Be verbs,” she said.

“Yeah, well... once you get through those, the rest just clicks into place,” Andrew said. “Did you know you were only asleep for, like, fifty-six minutes?”

Dawn sagged against the stuffy chair. “This has been going on all around us,” she said, gesturing to the TV set. “We’ve been so busy fighting evil, we haven’t noticed all the evil.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Forest for the trees kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Dawn said. At the moment the throbbing pain in her feet seemed kinda trivial.

“So,” Andrew said. “Do you really...”

“Dawn!” Xander called from the entry hall.

She elbowed her way past Andrew. Xander waited with the door open behind him. Dawn halted. Andrew, who had puppy-dogged after her, bumped into her.

“You’re here?” Dawn asked. “You’re supposed to be changing shifts with Buffy...”

“Dawnie,” Xander began, holding up his hands. Then, “What happened to your feet?”

“Why are you not changing shifts with Buffy?” Dawn said. Her eyes widened.

“Willow called,” Xander said. “She gave me a list of stuff she needs. Magical stuff. And she wants both of you to come with me.”

“Where’s Buffy?” Dawn said. She swallowed. “Where’s Giles?”

Xander took a prudent step forward. “Giles is in the car with Maya,” he said.

Dawn seemed incapable of movement. It was like she had finally short-circuited and the last command to her brain was stand there and look dumbstruck. Andrew, sensing Dawn’s system malfunction, stepped up beside her.

“What’s on the list?” he asked.

Xander patted his breast pocket, then withdrew a scrap of paper torn from the cover of his car’s maintenance manual. He recited the list to them from his shorthand.

“Have Andrew bring anything useful for a location spell,” Xander read. “Also the Malm’s Treatise on Healing Spells,” Xander said. “Any of this handy?”

Andrew nodded. “Go on.”

“Okay, and anything from the Kabalistic studies Dawn and Andrew did on creating golems. Oh, and some lemongrass,” Xander said. “Willow needs some tea. Nerves.”

“Golems?” Dawn said. She lifted her eyes to meet Xander’s. Xander scrubbed his hands through his hair.

“Hurry, Dawnie,” he said. “We’re wasting daylight.”



9:21 a.m.

Andrew was sandwiched between Giles and Dawn in the back seat. Xander glanced at them in the rearview mirror just before putting the car into gear.

“Wait!” Maya shouted. She leapt from the passenger seat, slamming the door behind her.

“Maya?” Xander called. She disappeared around the back of the car, then raced up the front steps into the Flat.

After a few seconds of silence, Andrew said, “Unpredictable. I like that in a woman.”

Dawn jack-hammered his ribcage with her elbow.

Xander uttered an uneasy laugh. “How you doing, Giles, old sport? Hanging in there?” he asked in an excessively chipper voice.

Giles’ lip twitched. “I’m not a convalescing uncle, Xander,” he said, all upper crusty. “No need to speak in coddling tones.”

“But I was just...”

Maya hopped back into the seat. In her lap, she cradled a small round object bundled in dishcloths.

“Something useful in a location spell,” Maya said, breathless. She buckled her seatbelt. “By the way, MK says she’s in charge of the house until Buffy gets back.”

Xander shifted the car into reverse. Once more he got a rearview full of the haggard backseat occupants, and his heart lurched. If Buffy gets back, he thought before he could stop himself.

But he said, “Great. A thirteen-year-old Slayer with her mighty roll of duct tape. Fear us, ye legions of evil.”


10:37 a.m.

Maya, Dawn and Willow took their places around William’s body. Willow at the head. Dawn at the feet. Maya stepped up to his right side, her toes nearly brushing the coat sleeve of his outstretched arm.

“Oh my God,” Andrew whimpered. “He saved my life, and now look…Can’t we cover his face or something?” Andrew whined from across the room.

“No,” Willow snapped. “Just, stand over there. And keep quiet.”

Andrew, not good with carnage, had lost his breakfast at the sight of William. Keeping his distance was not going to be a problem. He spread his map of London out on one of the round dining tables in the bar and began to array amethyst crystals at each compass point. It was difficult to see the street names through his streaming tears, but he figured he’d manage.
Maya, on the other hand, was nearing an all-body flake-out.

“Is now a good time to point out the fact that I’ve never done anything like this before?” Maya asked. She twisted a lock of her short-cropped hair over and over the end of her forefinger.

Willow centered her body. She drew in a deep breath. Released it. “No one in the history of ever has ever done this before,” Willow told her. “He’s not human, technically. And so, technically, he can’t be defined as dead. Not really. All you need to do is find him and talk him back home.”

Maya imitated Willow’s posture and breathing. “Oh. Easy,” she said, trying her hand at Scooby sarcasm. “I feel so much better about it.”

“It’s okay,” Dawn said. She winced at the stabs of pain in her feet. “You’ll find him. I know you will.”

Maya lifted her small white hands over William’s body. “By the power of three times three, come to me. Come to me,” she said. Maya felt like a hack amateur magician, using such ouija board words in Willow’s presence, but they were all she knew.

“By the power of three times three,” Dawn said, taking up the thread of Maya’s incantation. “Come to me, come to me.”

And then Willow joined them. “By the power of three times three. Come to me. Come to me.”

The air stirred within their circle. All three felt it.

“It’s working,” Dawn breathed.

Willow always smiled when the magics flowed through her. “We can do this,” she urged Maya. “Keep pushing. Have faith.”



Connor, Lorne and Xander huddled together near the bar, drinking warm pints of Guinness and watching the women work their magic. Giles sat in a nearby high-backed chair sipping orange juice and blearing in and out of wakefulness.

“Ever feel like the unnecessary part of the human species?” Xander said.

Lorne toasted the air. He said, “Make a Xena reference and I’ll smack you.”

Xander inhaled foam and laughed a nervous little titter like he always did when he felt way out of his depth.

“No, it’s true,” Giles pitched in. “We’re bloody useless. We’ve never once rescued Buffy. It’s always been the other way around.”

“I don’t get it,” Connor said.

“See, they’re women. All with the power and the sacred feminine,” Xander said. “And we’re basically tools.”

“No,” Connor said. “My Dad. I don’t think he could do this. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would he kill Spike?”

“Well,” Xander said. “Could have a lot to do with the fact that they both love them some Buffy.”

“Doesn’t add though, Gilligan,” Lorne said. “They’ve fought over that before. Came to serious blows, too. But both fighters came away with their gloves up. They’re hero types.”

“Yeah, but that was before Buffy made a choice,” Xander said. “Before that, it was still anyone’s guess.”

Connor pushed away from the bar. “No,” he said, forcefully. “It’s not him. Angel would not throw his very long life’s work away – not to mention his soul – over a girl.”

“He did it before,” Xander said.

Connor seized Xander’s jacket collar. Lorne clamped them both on their shoulders, attempting to insinuate himself between them.

“Stop this,” Giles hissed. “Now is not the time. Are you insane? One of our own has been murdered, stabbed in the back, in cold blood. It is highly likely that Angel did this because he is one of the only men in this world who could.”

The corners of Connor’s mouth twitched. Xander looked away. Lorne, who knew the truth of it anyway, continued to watch Giles’ bruised and swollen face.

“And if that is true,” Giles went on, softening his tone, “if Angel has taken this path, then we are in far more trouble than we dared imagine.”



Anya tucked the next three cards into the discard pile, then dealt three more. She checked her stacks but found nothing on which she could play her Jack of Hearts.

She swore, then discarded. He was watching her. Anya could sense now when he was watching.

So she played her Solitaire. Two of spades. She placed it on her Ace, played the Nine of Diamonds. Dealt again.

“Where did they go, Anyanka?” Luxe asked her. He materialized suddenly, all Cheshire cat – no grin.

“Where did who what?” she asked. She reached the end of her stack, shuffled the discard pile and re-dealt.

“The Slayer and her lover. Where did they go?” he asked. She could hear an uncharacteristic bristle of agitation beneath his usual silken tone. Causing him further irritation would be just the bonus to make her day.

“They weren’t really here, you know,” she said.

“Of course they were,” Luxe said. He moved around the bar to the table where she played her game. “This is a nexus point. They were drawn here.”

“I made them,” Anya said, in her matter-of-fact way. “I dreamed them. Out of boredom.”

Luxe considered the possibility. Then discarded it. “Then why are they gone now?”

“You broke my concentration,” she said. She played the four of spades, giving her an open row. She moved the King of Diamonds and turned over the Queen of Spades.

“Yes!” she said to herself.

Luxe banged his fists on the table hard enough to make the cards dance. Anya started, but lagged only a second before dealing out the next three in the deck.

“Temper, temper,” she said. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the rack this morning.”

“You want to play games, Anyanka? I serve the master of ceremonies in this three-ring circle of Hell. I doubt you have the stamina to go rounds with me,” Luxe said.

Anya swept her cards into a pile. She stacked them fastidiously into a deck, then set them aside.

She leveled her hazel eyes on his. “You know what I think?” she asked. She smoothed her tongue over her lips.

Luxe stood motionless, not answering.

“I think you have bled this well dry, Cowboy,” Anya said. “Why don’t you just run off to your master and tell him I’m no longer his little songbird?”

Luxe was on her in a flash, his hands clamped tightly over her throat.

Anya pouted. “Aw. You know, it hurts me you think this hurts me.”

“I know your game,” Luxe said, breathless. “You think you can push me into doing something foolish.”

Anya shrugged. When she did, she blinked from Luxe’s grasp and re-appeared on the other side of the bar.

“Nah,” she said. “I’ve just learned the tricks of your game. It’s much more fun this way. At least, it is for me. But then, I’m not a power-tripping frog with an 80s hair band denim jacket.”

Luxe rubbed his hands together. “Very well. I concede. You have finally realized this isn’t the real world. Given how long it took you to figure that out, I doubt you can outmatch me in a battle of wits.”

“I was really hoping it could go like this,” Anya said. She reached behind her to the butcher block knife stand. She slung the first blade she could grab, hurling it at Luxe’s chest. He didn’t move to defend himself; there was no need. The knife’s handle bounced off of the breast pocket of his jacket and clattered across the floor.

“Damn,” Anya said with a nervous laugh. “That sorta played out differently in my head.”

“Tch,” Luxe muttered. “They were here.” He moved toward her. As he did so, the light in the kitchen dimmed, drawing the shadows deeper around them in menacing pools. Anya backed away until she brushed against the counter. “Why were they here, Anyanka? And where did they go?”

“I’m through, Luxe,” Anya said, almost hiccupping over the words. “No more spying or listening in. I’m not your girl. Not anymore.”

Luxe shoved her into the counter. Surprisingly, Anya did not fall back or even wince.

“It’s over,” Anya told him. She kept her eyes on his. She was serious this time. But Luxe already had a plan.

“I can do things to them. To your friends,” he said. He waited for a heartbeat, enjoying with perverse pleasure the flicker of doubt that crossed her face. “Things even you could not imagine, worse than anything you wrought in your demon days, the most inhuman of tortures. Do you want that for them?”
Anya tried to compress herself further, to meld into the cabinetry. But it was indeed his realm and his rules. He had her right where he wanted her.

“Of course I don’t,” she said.

“Then tell me. It will all be painless. For them. For you…”

Anya felt something squeeze her right hand. She had the wherewithal to pretend to ignore it.

“The Slayer,” she said. “And um, who… again?”

Luxe clamped his hands onto Anya’s shoulders. “Anyanka!”

The squeeze again, and this time, a voice. “I’m here with you,” it whispered. “Right beside you.”

Anya saw that Luxe heard nothing. She almost glanced over her shoulder, but caught herself. And suddenly, she understood. She wasn’t alone this time.

“Right. Wait. I got it,” Anya sputtered. “Um… The Slayer. Buffy. And Spike, right?”

“Maintenant, Anyanka,” Luxe said. “I am losing my patience with you. Do you wish for your friends to find your beloved Xander in a ditch somewhere?”

“Well, actually,” Anya said. “It’s somewhat humorous, you see. Spike’s still here. He’s right behind you.”

Luxe darted a quick look over his shoulder. Anya looked down. She caught the glimmer of silver just as it slipped into her hand. It was a dagger. A bright and silvery one. This one looked and felt much more effective than kitchen knives.

Luxe returned his attention to her. She wore an expression of perfect nonchalance.

“I have had enough of your games,” Luxe said. He lunged for her. She brought the dagger up to his nose.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said. “By the way, can’t believe you fell for that one…”

Luxe sighed, unimpressed. “More knives? I had hoped you would be more inventive. After all, you worked eleven centuries with D’Hoffryn and he is legendary…”

Anya turned the dagger in her hands so that the scant light gleamed across its surface. Even in the false glow of the dream-kitchen’s feeble light, Luxe recognized the unmistakable power of the triangular shaped blade in Anya’s hand.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

Anya brandished it at him. “Let’s just say I have friends in high places,” she said.

Luxe took several reeling steps backward as she advanced.

“I’m thinking, since I’m already dead and this place is a constructed reality, there really are only two things of consequence in the whole room,” she said, slicing dramatically through the air between them. “You. And this. I bet this can really hurt you. Let’s find out, shall we?”

Anya brought the dagger down in a bright sweep toward Luxe’s face. He put up his arm to block, but the blade cut clean through it. And at first, he thought it was a trick of the light, that the blade made no contact at all with his skin. Then he glimpsed the first drops of blood spattering the tile floor between his feet.

“Oh, lookit,” Anya said. “I was right.” She grinned at him. “Guess you better have that looked at.”

“Anyanka,” Luxe roared. “You…”

“I what?” she laughed. “Looks like the rules have changed, Luxe. And I can end all this, right here, with no one winding up in ditches or mysteriously missing limbs. Well, except, maybe for you.”

Luxe lunged at her again. Anya clutched the dagger high above her head. She brought it down, hilt-first, cracking the bridge of his nose. It squashed like an overripe tomato, spurting blood down the front of his face in an embarrassing gush.

“Let me go,” Anya growled.

“Non! C’est impossible,” Luxe said. He danced backward until he collided with the breakfast table.

“Talk American, you Kimaris freak,” Anya spat. She slashed wildly, growing bolder with every stroke. “Let me go and leave my friends alone. Or I gut you… you… fat pig.”

“I cannot,” Luxe said. He batted lamely at Anya’s attacks until his hands and wrists were scored with twenty or so minor lacerations. “I cannot let you go.”

Anya ceased attacking. “Cannot? What do you mean, you cannot?”

Luxe leaned heavily against the table, grimacing at the pain from the cuts in his hands. “I hold you under the authority of Wolfram & Hart,” he said. “I cannot release you. Please understand… I am already in enough trouble with them as it is. Were I to let you go, it would mean bad things for me.”

“Aw,” Anya said. “Come now. Nobody likes a sullen sycophant. Tell me, what did you do?”

Luxe rubbed at his nose. It was droopy and red and ludicrously swollen, like a pear with a sunburn. “I do not wish to speak of it,” he said.

Anya backed off. She folded her arms, surreptitiously concealing the dagger. “C’mon. You can tell me. Might as well, right? I found it helps, talking things out. Especially to strangers,” she said.

Luxe shrugged. “We are hardly strangers, Anyanka,” he said. He managed a watered-down smile.
“I have come to almost enjoy holding you prisoner here.”

Anya shifted uncomfortably. “I know what you mean. That whole slave-master paradox. So,” Anya arched her brows. “What did you do?”

Luxe rolled his eyes. He went to the counter to pull the hand towel from its rack. He pressed it firmly to his nose, so that when he spoke his words came out snuffly and slightly garbled.

“It is not so much what I have done, but what I did not do,” Luxe said, with a sigh. “I have let one of Wolfram & Hart’s weapons get out of control. It isn’t that I worry Angel will find out, but there are others who did not wish for her to become so powerful so fast.”

“The weapon’s a her?” Anya said. She edged onto the bar. “Interesting. Go on…”

“And then there was the fiasco with Monsieur Wells,” Luxe said. “We were supposed to recruit him. He is a simple human boy, Anyanka. How is it that he could slip through Nighna’s snare?”

Anya raised her shoulders. “Maybe she really liked him,” she said.

“Impossible,” Luxe hissed. “How could she?”

“He can be surprisingly insightful,” Anya said.

Luxe shuffled his feet. His fingers had begun to twinge uncomfortably. His throat was dry. And his nose felt feverish under the constant pressure he applied to stem the bleeding. “Look, Anyanka. We are both victims here in the sprawling bureaucracy. I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure, you see. You cannot imagine… Even if I wanted, which I don’t, I have no power to release you.”

Anya thought for a moment. She scratched her chin with the tip of the blade. “So don’t,” she said.

“Quoi?” Luxe sputtered. “You mean to try and kill me, then?”

“Oh I should,” Anya said, enjoying his general squirminess. “But we can call it square if you just leave and, you know, never come back.”

“Never come back…” Luxe repeated hollowly.

“That’s right, Repeato Boy. And leave my friends alone too. Just forget I’m here,” Anya said. “And I’ll just keep nice Mr. Shiny Blade here in case you change your mind.”

Luxe seemed to consider this for a long while. The blood continued to flow from his nose and many cuts on his hands. The cuts seemed to grow more tender with every second that passed and had now begun to throb with a raw ache. Luxe did not like pain. He liked death even less, and the magical dagger Anya now wielded would be enough to do the trick. He was not willing to wager his life on a lucky shot from Anya’s enchanted blade.

Luxe already knew his time on this plane was almost over. Between Thellian and Wolfram & Hart, Anyanka didn’t really rate high on the list of VIPs.

“All right,” Luxe said. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“All right? Really?” Anya said. She held the dagger out to get a better look at it.

“Oui. Really. In the grand scheme, Anya, neither of us is very important,” Luxe told her. His voice sounded all reedy and plaintive through its fragmented cartilage. “I do not know what will become of you.”

Anya waved dismissively. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Really.”

With that, Luxe teleported away with a less than dramatic swoosh of air.

“Yeah, well… back atcha,” Anya called out to the void once occupied by her captor. She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the remarkable lightness of her freedom.

“Did you see that?” she said, overloud. When there was no answer, Anya lay down the dagger on the counter top. “Come on. I know you’re still here. You had to see.”

William materialized soundlessly beside her. “Can’t believe he pulled the old ‘leave your loved ones in a ditch’ threat,” he said. “And all that about Wolfram & Hart’s renegade weapon. That was for my benefit?”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” Anya said. “I saw a snag and ran with it. Could be useful, huh?”

William folded his arms around his body, hugging himself tightly. “It could, sure. If we both weren’t dead. You know, Angel killed me and I still had that blade in the pocket of my coat,” he said. He pursed his lips. “Glad it could be of some use.”

Anya picked up the dagger again. She turned it in her hands, studying the elegant curve of the triangular blade, and the sweeping tracery of the language scrolled down its length.

“It was a big help,” she said. “But you aren’t dead, Spike, so I can’t keep it. Much as I would like to. I mean, Luxe is bound to turn up again. Wouldn’t let me off that easy. I suppose I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

“Wait, Anya,” William said. “I did die. Angel offed me, remember? I just had a heartrending moment with Buffy about it. Plus I think the…”

Anya cocked her head to the side. “Aw,” she said, pudging out her lower lip. “Poor Spike. You really think he could do that? Angel can’t kill you. It’s okay. You’re dreaming, William. William – you’re dreaming.”


11:06 a.m.

Maya’s eyes rolled like marbles behind her eyelids.

“I have him,” she said. She was silent a long while after that.

“You have him what?” Dawn ventured. “Is he...?”

“You’re right. He’s not dead,” Maya answered. “He sleeps.”

Willow wrung her hands. “Well, wake him.”

Seconds passed, and no one breathed.

“I can’t,” Maya whispered. “He’s with someone else just now. He…”

William’s eyes flew open. Willow and Dawn sprung back, startled.

“Spike?” Dawn said.

William blinked. “…Poncy bastard ruined my coat,” he said.

“Oh my God!” Dawn said. “It worked. You did it. It worked.”

“I didn’t,” Maya said, her cheeks turning pink. “I talk with the dead, not the slumbering.”

William raised his head to get a better look at Dawn. “Hey, niblet,” he said. He cringed in pain even though his wounds seemed well on their way to mending.

“You shouldn’t move,” Willow said. “You should definitely lie down. Or remain lying down.”

“Right,” he said. From where William lay on the floor, he could see their faces fine enough. He ran through the count: Dawn, Willow, Maya, Andrew, Connor, Xander, Giles and Lorne. All of their faces. One was missing. By his reckoning, the most important one.

“Where’s Buffy?” he said.


6:04 a.m.
New York

Ten minutes after landing at La Guardia, Faith ran into trouble. Trouble with traffic and the cabby who had refused to turn back. Lincoln Tunnel was shut down due to some big ass car crash, but the driver told her, “This ain’t a Hollywood picture, Missy. I can’t just bust my way through cars. Looks like you’ll just have to wait like the rest of us.”

He had scarcely finished this line when she skipped out on the fare. Faith wove her way through back streets in the gloomy predawn. It was never truly dark in New York City. The sky was always the color of murky rainwater at night. That was why she loved it. She could always find her way.

Soon her feet tread the familiar haunts of her patrol route. She was half a mile north of 45th when she sensed the eerie disquiet she had come to associate with The Priestess. Faith knew the truth of it. The Priestess had come to New York. That was fine so far as Faith was concerned. New York was home base. Nobody could take her here.

Faith cut south along Park, walking fast. The sharp scents of sweat and blood filled her nose. It was ever-present since Haiti. She thought she might never smell anything else. A bitter seaward wind blew in down the ravine-like walls of the buildings. Faith crossed at the corner. There was a newsstand owned by an old guy named Ollie. She knew it was usually open by now and thronged with people in identical gray suits buying morning editions of the New York Times to consume with their Starbuck’s and Marlboro Lights. Today, the plank front window was closed and padlocked. Stacks of the Times stood untouched, still bound with poly-wrappers. Faith checked the date. October 21. Delivered this morning.

She quickened her stride. Two blocks down, she ducked between tenement buildings. The alley was a bricked path with a narrow ditch snaking down its center. There, she found five vampires huddling over the body of a woman, probably homeless, all the way dead.

One of them caught Faith’s scent and lifted his lumpy head. The others ignored her, intent on their feasting. That kinda pissed her off.

“Looks like you should have ordered this meal to go,” Faith said, raising her voice. The vamp that had looked at her managed to actually seem bored before returning to his dinner.

Faith put her boot through a wooden crate. It snapped to pieces with a reverberating crack. That got their attention. No vampire worth his salt ever disregarded the sound of splintering wood. All five turned to watch her kick a stick of wood into the air and catch it.

“Now that I have your attention,” she said. “The Priestess. Where is she?”

Of the five vamps, three were female and until recently were streetwalkers and/or junkies. The men may or may not have been pimps, but judging by their baggy clothing and excessive blingage, were definitely pushers. They were hardcore types, accustomed to getting rough with authority. Clearly, if they knew anything, they wouldn’t share it with her. She’d just have to settle with the rough-and-dust routine.

Faith threw the first punch. She ground her fist into the rodenty face of a woman wearing hot pink cheetah print. Faith rode the body down, staking it so that she rolled through the vampire’s dust before striking the second in the knees. The third female vamp twisted her fists in Faith’s hair.

“Bitch!” Faith yelled. She slammed the stake backward into the vampire’s thigh. That one sprawled prone, taking the stake with her. The two men seized Faith’s arms. Faith kicked behind her, clocking one in the back of the skull. They all heard it thunk like a watermelon against a sidewalk. He spiraled away, clutching his ears.

The other male vamp sank his teeth into Faith’s shoulder, all the way through her jacket. Her hand shot down; she closed her fist around his genitals and squeezed until he let her go. By then, both remaining female vampires were up again. The one with the thigh wound broke off the makeshift stake, determined to give back what she got in spades.

Faith found herself in the middle, with nothing but balls and claws on her side. That, and the approaching sunrise. She wondered, as she had so many times in her life, whether she could ride it out to daylight. Or would this finally be her last fight?

Faith brought up her fists. “The Priestess,” she said, again. She kept her breathing level.

“We don’t know no Priestess,” the woman in the orange vinyl coat said. Faith saw a flash of gold on her pointed teeth when she smiled.

“You’re lying,” Faith said.

“Maybe,” said one of the men. “And maybe you won’t last long enough to find out.”

Faith shrugged. She moved with blinding speed, tackling the vampire to the ground. She spun before they could jump her. In the few seconds it took for them to register what had happened, Faith scanned the alley for a weapon. She saw only a wooden door wedge probably used to prop a kitchen door open during summer. Faith dive-rolled for it. She snagged it, bounding back up as they leapt on her. Four pairs of hands like steel shackles pinned Faith’s arms and legs.

Faith kicked one off of her, only to have him pop right back. He slipped his hand under her coat to shove his fingers into the place where he’d bitten her. The pain of it sliced through her. Her knees turned watery. She would have fallen, but they held her up. There was sickening tearing sound as the vampire forced his nails deeper into muscle. Through the glaring pain, Faith felt him hook his fingers around her collarbone.

The vampire brought his meth mouth close to hers. “Looks like you picked the wrong gang to fight. We already rid the city of your breed of trash,” he said. He licked blood from his teeth. “Slayer.”

The others tittered like hyenas. Their laughter transformed to a horrible licking noise as all four prepared to feed.

After that, things happened very quickly. Faith didn’t see the creature at first. She heard a ripping, popping sound, like skin being pulled tight over a drum. In seconds, the leering faces of the vampires disappeared. Faith fell hard to the bricks. For a moment, she thought the bones cracking must be hers. She rolled to her side, holding her wounded left arm at the elbow.

Two of the vampires were running right at her: Orange coat and the one she’d groined. Faith sprung up, catching the female with a doorstop to the heart. The other seemed more intent on fleeing. Faith still felt his fingers worming under her skin. Yeah, he was going down. She adjusted the door wedge in her hand. She took aim and nailed him. He ran a few feet more before leaving a trail of dust.

Faith turned her feral eyes to face the empty alley. She waited for the body that belonged to the approaching footsteps. The creature paused. She could hear it sniffing the air. She braced herself, knowing she was no go for more fighting. Whatever it was, she hoped sunlight would send it packing.

Faith heard that strange stretching, popping sound again. And then a voice, oddly familiar, called her name.

Her vision blurred. Through the haze, she saw the slight shape of a young man in green corduroy pants and a bomber jacket. Between her labored breaths, she said, “Who did you date in high school?”

“Willow Rosenberg,” he said. “She was kind of a one-and-only.”

“Oz?” Faith asked.

“It’s me,” he said.

“You were wolfed out,” she said. Her eyes rolled back. “I was setting up an ambush.”

Oz knelt beside her. He flipped her jacket open and sucked breath over his teeth. “Not your usual style. Just saying.”

Her eyes flashed, then flickered. “Why are you even here, yo? Don’t you have a bitchin’ rock show to get to?”

“Finished one in Cleveland last night. Girl named Vi asked me to check in on you guys in NY,” Oz said. He took off his jacket and plumped it under her head. “What happened here?”

“How the hell would I know?” Faith said, but without the usual punch to her voice. “I was in Haiti till like four hours ago.”

Oz patted her good shoulder. He disappeared momentarily, and when he did, she thought she heard him talking to someone else. As she lay there she recalled her stint in Sunnydale Memorial as a comatose patient. She had experienced times of semi-lucidity when she saw and heard things, but her consciousness had been like a bubble near the surface of an aquarium tank. When Oz returned, his face floated over her.

“You wolfed out,” she said again. She tried to sit up, but he eased her back down. “How much control do you have over that?”

“Total,” he said. “Look, Faith. They didn’t all die.”

“Huh?”

“Your Slayers. They didn’t all die,” he said. “Tall girl. Super-model legs. Threw ninja stars...”

“Sabine?” Faith said.

“That’s the one. She and six others found Vi and Rona. They’re in Cleveland, too. Kind of a fire/frying pan deal, but...” Oz said.

“Lucky seven.” Faith said. She despised crying, but this news was enough to make her throat go froggy.

“Yeah, but they were a little Dali on the details. Hence, why I’m here,” Oz said.

“Good girls,” Faith said. This time she did sit up. The pain in her shoulder burned like a chemical spill, but she owed some payback to an evil witch that needed some serious killing.

She held her arm to her body as she gingerly got to her feet.

Oz watched her with obvious concern. “Super-Slayer healing aside, shouldn’t you, I dunno, sit or something? Maybe an ice pack? Or a fifth of Jack Daniels?”

Faith attempted a shrug. The pain of it sent shocked tears to her eyes. “Bones not broken,” she managed to say, gritting her teeth. She leaned against the wall. “You got any cash?”

“A bit. Looking to play the lottery?”

Faith smiled at that. “Yeah, ’cause my luck’s bound to change...” she said.

Behind Oz the sky turned the color of faded denim.

She had survived one more night. That had to count for something. “Got another plane to catch,” she told him.

“You just got here,” he said. He added, blandly, “Plus we have so much to catch up on.”

She barely heard him. Faith was moving, plowing ahead on unsteady legs, held up by the puppet strings of her own stubbornness. Oz sprinted to catch up to her.

“Where are you...?” he said.

“London,” she said, gaining momentum.

“Because there’s a Buffy and the Scooby gang holiday reunion special?” Oz asked, matching her stride.

“Because that’s where The Priestess is going,” Faith said.

Oz caught Faith’s elbow. He stopped, pulling her to a halt with him. “The who is what and why?” he asked.

“Hey, guy,” Faith said, pulling free. “Really don’t have time for chit-chat. Four hour flight though, if you wanna come with.”

Oz added things quickly. He nodded once, and they left the alley. Still no Ollie in the newsstand. Still that eerie disquiet in the morning crowds that had begun to trickle in. Faith turned north, walking against the stream of foot traffic. Oz tugged on his jacket as they walked briskly up the street. At the corner, he turned to her.

“Where’s Wood?” he asked.

“He didn’t make it,” she said. She flinched almost imperceptibly, but said nothing further. The light changed. They crossed the street. An hour and a half later they were airborne, and although Faith filled Oz in on the whole pursuit of the Priestess story, she said nothing more about Robin Wood. Oz, being of the clever sort, decided it best not to ask.



11:54 a.m.

Before long, Buffy and her guide were darting through patches of light and dark at a ludicrous speed. But Buffy trusted every step. She didn’t need eyes to run.

Time passed, and though the vampire was tireless, she seemed to know when Buffy needed to rest. They came to a culvert through which a trickle of water seeped. Scant rays of golden light lanced through the grate at the end of the tunnel, turning swirls of dust motes into twinkling embers. The vampire released Buffy’s hands. She gestured excitedly to the grate.

“You want me to go in there?” Buffy asked.

The vampire nodded vigorously. In the meager light, Buffy could see the girl’s shape and dress. She was a small thing with knotted hair that hung in untidy clumps over her shoulders. She wore a dry-rotted petticoat, yellowed with age and hemmed with irregular patches of mud. Even though her face hid in shadows, Buffy knew her. Lalaine was the eldest, but this girl had Boadicea’s features. She was the younger. The name came to Buffy like a line from a beloved children’s poem.

“Morna,” Buffy whispered.

The girl made a choking, gurgling noise. She rubbed her filthy hands together. “Eya,” she said. “Ugluck. Out.” Morna waved her hands in a shooing motion.
She was telling Buffy to go.

Buffy crawled into the culvert. It was a cramped, squalid cement tunnel three meters long. The grate at the end was a circle half clogged with chunks of sod and debris from recent rains. Buffy clambered down the length of the hole on hands and knees. The light that fell on her felt welcome and warm.

When Buffy reached the grate, she laced her fingers through the metal mesh and gave it a good shove. She didn’t expect it to move, not really. That would be too easy. And it didn’t budge, even with her full Slayer strength to back her up. But it was light, and Morna had led her to it.

Buffy pressed her eye to the grate. The culvert served as drainage for a boggy area in a park. Beyond a grassy ditch maybe fifty meters away, Buffy saw a pair of women chatting together on a wrought iron bench. She heard children playing, and the metallic wheeze and whine of swings sawing back and forth. Her heart quickened at the sound. There were actual people out there, within hearing distance. People who could go for help. People who could get her out.

Buffy twisted around in the tunnel. She put her feet in front of her and kangaroo-kicked with all her remaining might against the grate. She screamed, thinking that would add to the force of her kicking, but the mesh held.

Solid British engineering, she thought. She cursed it.

Back in the tunnel, Morna babbled something unintelligible.

“It won’t bend,” Buffy called back to her. “No bendy?”

Morna grunted, returning to her messy chattering.

Buffy put her face near the grate again. She started yelling for help. The women on the park bench heard nothing. Buffy began to wish for random joggers with curious little puppies. She yelled herself hoarse, but no one could hear her over the buzz of children and mid-afternoon traffic.

Buffy flung herself into the curve of the tunnel. “No one’s coming,” she said. “No one can hear me.”

Silence in the cave. Morna was gone.

Buffy held herself very, very still. She strained to hear the slightest trace of noise beyond the tunnel. After a moment, she caught the scrape of slick-soled shoes on concrete. Morna had been barefoot. Someone else was in the cave.

Cold laughter bubbled up to her.

“I wouldn’t say no one can hear you,” Angel said. “I can hear you just fine.”

Buffy scrambled to the checkerboard of sunlight, knowing it would be poor protection if Angel chose to come for her.

“Stay away, Angel,” she warned.

“Or what, Buffy?” he said, laughing again. “You may as well come along quietly. You’re cornered. You don’t have your back up. Don’t think you can win this one.”

Buffy tried to think, to reason, but her thoughts scattered, useless as dead leaves. She grasped at random thoughts, hoping to stall long enough for someone to see her.

“What was the price, Angel? How did Thellian buy you off?” she asked. "Is it Connor? Is he using your son...?"

Buffy thought of her own child, then. Right now it was no bigger than a hummingbird, but it slept within her. It was part of her. What wouldn’t she sacrifice to assure its safety? Everything. Anything. The knowledge of it enraged her. She could see Thellian’s face, so calm, so utterly composed. Why shouldn’t he seem serene? It wasn’t his child on the altar.

“Angel,” Buffy said, trying to sound rational. “What kind of evil has us fighting its war with the blood of our children?”

After a moment’s consideration, Angel gave his bitter reply. “Don’t be naive, Buffy,” he said. “That’s how all wars are fought.”

The simple truth of it broke over her in waves. She shuddered. She held back tears, knowing that giving in to them would wash her away. She wouldn’t realize it until later, but in that handful of seconds, her life had irrevocably altered. Everything she knew had changed.

“That’s how all wars are fought?” she whispered. She felt the words with her tongue. Her eyes narrowed. She crept forward in her tunnel, leaving the safety of the light behind.

“Not this one,” she told herself. “Not this time.”

Buffy crawled from the culvert to meet Angel face to face.





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