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88 A. D.

The girl wore floor length robes of indigo, trimmed in gold thread. She spun in them, around and around, so that the heavy hem lifted and swirled about her ankles. She flung out her arms for balance, but had been whirling for such a long time, it was clear she was bound for an ungainly collapse. Her red hair danced in the hazy sunlight, thrown back by the force of this mercurial girl.

A pair of figures watched the girl from the canvas awning of a tribunal tent, one of many gathered for the Solstice festival that assembled every other year in Londinium. One was Boadicea, the girl’s mother. She was a statuesque woman dressed in flowing silk gowns of black and gold. The second was a foreigner, though well known to these lands. He wore a mane of thick, curling black hair and had skin white as ice. His most outstanding feature was his glacial blue eyes.

“Are you certain?” Boadicea asked. Her eyes never left her daughter.

The man at her side had answered this question twice before. But he understood, and would give the same response no matter how many times she queried.

“It is true,” he said. “It has never happened thus, but the Seers in Devlin are sure. Should you die, the mantle will pass to her.”

As if she heard the adults nearby conferencing about her, the girl abruptly stopped. For a moment, she teetered on the edge of dizziness before scampering to join her mother and her visitor.

“Morna,” Boadicea said, giving a smile that belied any trace of concern. “You recall the merlin?”

“Master Damas,” the girl answered, curtly. “You are the one who brought us the turtle shoes.”

Damas’ placid face brightened. “Tortoiseshell,” he corrected. “And yes, that was I. Where might your sister be this afternoon?”

Morna’s brow darkened playfully. “Lalaine thinks only of boys,” she said. “Likely she’s off letting them chase her near the brook.”

Her mother inclined her head. “Is that so?” she asked.
Morna burst into mellifluous laughter, but never gave her mother an answer.

Boadicea did not share in her daughter’s delight. After a few seconds, Morna picked up on this and grew still.

“What is it?” Morna asked. She turned her green eyes to the merlin. “You bear bad news. Every time you come to us, my mother cries.”

“Morna,” Boadicea scolded.

“No,” Damas said. “It is true. And Morna must know why.”

Boadicea grew even more agitated. “Then I will be the one to tell her,” she snapped.

Damas lowered his eyes.

Morna watched her mother. Boadicea had always seemed impervious to fear, yet now she trembled.
That sent chills prickling across Morna’s skin.

“You are a Slayer,” Boadicea said at length. “Or you will be. If I die.” She considered for a moment, then added, “When I die.”

Morna giggled. At first. She did not deal well with frightening things. Then she said, “A Slayer of what, exactly?”

Damas took over then to explain the finer points of Slaying, from vampires to demons and every evil supernatural being in between.

Before he could get carried away with his narrative, though, Boadicea stepped in.

“There is something I must ask of you, Morna,” she said. “There is a spell that must be wrought, and it calls for blood.”

“Blood?” Morna asked. She glanced at her mother and paled. Her first thought was that her mother was planning to die in some arcane blood sacrifice and that she, Morna, would have to assume this Slayer role immediately. If that was the case, she would not so politely refuse and tell Damas where to stick his runic scrolls.

“Your blood,” Damas said. Morna shot him a scathing look. “Not all of it,” he quickly added.

“What is he going on about?” Morna asked.

Boadicea lay her hands on both sides of Morna’s face and kissed her daughter on the forehead. Her heart swelled with pride at seeing how strong and audacious Morna seemed, in light of such heavy news.

“Here,” she said, taking Morna’s hand in hers. “It’s best that we show you.”


Boadicea and Damas led Morna away from the festival gathering, to the place where the druids had held many of their more solemn rituals – the Henge. Morna had witnessed two of these ceremonies. She saw both in secret, and at the urging of Lalaine, who was far more curious than Morna.

In the first secret meeting she and Lalaine observed, the druids in their sacramental robes had gathered at twilight. She and Lalaine had watched as they formed a circle around the stones. Each druid carried with them a large vessel of water, which they used to fill the small mote that ringed the stones. Morna knew from the stories her mother told her that the mote itself was the henge. The druids used the water in their rituals to reflect the stars, though for what purposes Morna could not be certain. They seemed far too complex for her young mind to comprehend.

Morna felt the same way toward the day’s happenings as she followed her mother and the merlin into the Druidic ceremonial ground. She had been lost in her own troubled thoughts when Damas spoke the incantation that opened the door in the earth. Morna had been forced then to see the merlin in a very different light.

“You’re a mage?” she asked. She turned to her mother. “Have you always known this?”

Her mother nodded once. “Step inside, Morna. Before someone sees.”

Morna did as her mother asked. Damas led the way into complete darkness. Morna walked between the merlin and her mother. Soon, she relied only on Damas’ sure and deliberate footsteps in the absence of light. She would have been afraid if not for her mother’s immutable presence behind her.

It was difficult to mark the passage of time, but Morna understood that they had left the sun-blessed ground above just after lunch, and she was hungry again when they finally saw light. Meager though it was, it stung her eyes as they approached it. Torchlight from a dozen sconces affixed to the cavern walls licked long shadows across the formations. And in between the wavering pools of light, a group of six druids waited. They formed a loose ring around a wide triskele drawn in black sand at the center of the cave floor.

Morna halted at the perimeter, suddenly aware that Damas was no longer in the lead. He had dropped down to a ledge below and was making his way to greet the druids. He was very careful in the confines of the space not to let his robes mar the edge of the triskele.

Boadicea came to stand beside her daughter.

“What is this place?” Morna asked.

“It is the Circle,” Boadicea said.

Morna bit the tip of her tongue before saying, “Yes, I see that. But...”

“Your blood on the Circle will seal a pact with the Sisters. One that may save the world,” Boadicea said.

Morna was familiar with the Sisters. The children in her land said prayers to Ea and her sisters, the Pleiades, to protect them from monsters and stomachaches and bad weather on fair days. They were the wardens against misfortune, but Morna couldn’t see how they – or she – could save the world.

Morna was about to question her mother further, when she caught the expression on her face. In the deep shadow of the torchlight, Boadicea had never looked more beautiful or more lost. Morna’s heart skittered like a small bird in her ribcage.

“I wish it were not you, Morna,” Boadicea said. “I would have this power pass to someone else, had we any choice. I wish many things. So many wishes...”

Damas’ strong voice cut through her mother’s words from across the room. “They are ready for her, Boadicea,” he said.

Boadicea’s head dropped to her chest. “You must go,” she said. Morna had never seen her mother weep; she did not want today to be the first. She slipped from the ledge, following the footprints Damas’ had left in the sand. Morna stomped toward him, fuming.

“What is it you need of me?” she growled.

Damas glanced at Boadicea before handling Morna. But the mother was both removed and resolute. She was not happy with any part of it, but would not interfere.

Damas produced a triangular shaped dagger from the folds of his robes. It gleamed malignantly in the inconstant light. Morna felt a cascade of fear tumble through her.

“Take this,” he said, passing the blade to her. “Go to the center of the Circle. DO NOT disturb the sand. Once you have reached the heart of the mark, cut open your palm.”

Morna made a face. Damas went on. “You must let your blood flow onto the Circle. It will seal the mark and we will all be forever in your debt.”

Morna twisted her head around so that she could see the Circle.

“What if it doesn’t work?” she asked.

Damas held his breath, considering this. “If it does not work, we all are doomed.”

Morna examined the dagger in her palm. She looked at the druids who stood silent as statues guarding the Circle. She looked at her mother, who looked at nothing. With a shrug, Morna stepped over the boundary of the Circle. She hiked her robes to her knees and picked her way over the intricate traceries with a dancer’s grace. At the center, she did as Damas asked. She drew a gash across her palm and let the blood spill onto the sand.

She expected nothing to happen. But the moment her blood touched the mark, it ignited. Blue-white sparks raced along the tracery like gunpowder.

“Morna!” Boadicea cried.

“Don’t move,” Damas shouted to them. “Just watch.”

Cerulean fire fanned out, illuminating the rings and hooks of the triskele, morphing black sand to radiant silver, fusing the mark to the cavern floor. As the Circle widened, beams of light shot up from the mark, filling the room to blinding. And then, quick as a flash, the light was gone.

Morna stood astounded in the Circle’s center. Twin afterimages swam like snakes before her eyes. She started instinctively toward her mother, but caught herself.

“Is it safe to move yet?” she asked.

“Yes,” Boadicea said, laughing. “It’s safe. Come to me.”

Morna raced to her mother, jumping over the still-glowing silver loops of the Circle. Morna flung herself into her mother’s steady arms and buried her face into the folds of her gowns.

“The Circle is complete,” Damas said, rather unnecessarily.

Boadicea smoothed her daughter’s hair. Then, with nervous vigor, she began fussing with the bloody gash in Morna’s palm. “Yes. It’s complete,” Boadicea said, her voice quavering. “But will it last?”

Morna turned her face to Damas’. She had many more questions, but would settle for now with the answer to this one.

“Will it last?” Damas asked. “Of course it will.”



Morna lay with the side of her face pressed to the Circle’s heart. The earth felt smooth and cold, and Morna combed her own fingers through her hair, remembering.
The Circle was there. Still there. It was waiting. And so was she.


2:55 p.m.

Andrew was the last to step over the threshold into the Flat. Willow closed the door behind him and spoke the word of concealment to lock them safely inside.

She turned back to the crowd in the entry hall. They all looked at her expectantly.

Willow dusted her hands, mainly out of nervous energy. “That should hold ’em,” she said.

William glimpsed the bagged and taped windows. “You sure about that? Looks like we’re nice and exposed.”

“It won’t matter,” Willow explained. “The spell is strong. We can hold out here until forever.”

“Or until the food runs out,” Andrew chimed in, sounding morose. “Then we’ll have to make a break for the shops and hope that the vamps aren’t lying in wait for just such an occasion to attack us and turn us into their evil vampyre spawn. Hey, I have a zombie contingency plan we can adapt for vampyres…”

Buffy glared at Andrew before turning to the others.

But Giles shook his head. Willow wore mixed up expression of shock and bewilderment on her face. Xander pointed at something over Buffy’s shoulder.

When Buffy looked back, the rest of the gang followed her gaze.

Faith stood in the hallway, flanked by MK, Anjelica and Oz.

“Hey, B,” Faith said. “Nice place you got here. Love the open floor plan.”

Buffy gaped. “Faith… and Oz,” she said. “Gang’s really really all here.”

Faith hooked thumbs in belt loops. She said, “Me and Oz are tracking The Priestess. And you know me. I always show up in time for the big fight. Hope you’re not planning on charging in without me.”

“We’re not. Not tonight, anyway. The city will be crawling with vampires,” Buffy said. She heaved a tired, dejected sigh. “And we aren’t up for the fight.”

“Maybe we should discuss not fighting,” Giles suggested, weakly.

“Now wait...” Buffy said.

“He’s right, Buffy,” Dawn said. “You’re in no fit state for fighting.”

“Dawn,” Buffy said. “Just stop. We aren’t discussing this.”

Xander snapped his fingers excitedly. He said, “Hey, Willow. Check it out: An American werewolf. In London.”

With that, the discussion skidded to an abrupt halt.

Oz said, “Thanks, Xander, for that side order of cheese.”

Giles seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation. “Buffy,” he said. “Look at us. Myself, I can barely stand. Spike’s been dead most of the day,” (To this, Oz and Faith exchanged looks of concern) “Dawn’s had enough sleep to sustain a goldfish. Faith and Anjelica have wounds that bear some explanation. And you...” Giles shook his head. “Well, you know to what I refer.”

“Hiding is an option,” Dawn broke in. “Like we tried to do when Glory was after us. Only that’s a bad example, given what actually did happen with you dying and all.”

Buffy raised her hands to halt their discussion. “Stop. It’s settled. No more hiding. No more running. We are marching on the Circle tomorrow. What William said was right. Every vampire equals human casualty. We can’t afford to lose any more time...”

“Now you stop,” William said. He took her hands in his. She felt in that moment how near panicked he was by the way his hands trembled. “Forget what I said. Look, we’ll pack a bag. We’ll get in a car, and we’ll drive...”

“To what. our secret desert compound? Or maybe we’ll board a spaceship?” Buffy said. “There will be no place for us to hide. If we leave this house, Angel can track us. You know that,” Buffy said. “But we know where he will be. And I have to face him.”

“Bollocks,” William snarled. “It’s my child you carry. I think I should have a say.”

“Wait. Hold up,” Faith interrupted. “B is PG?”

“I am, okay. Yes. I’m pregnant. And I am as scared as any of you. I’ve never had more to lose.” She glanced at William, then lowered her eyes to the floor. She said, “Destiny decided it has to be me versus Angel. Fate’s decision. Not mine.”

“Fine,” Dawn said quickly, hoping to end the debate. “You’re right. And since you plan to fight, I hereby order you to bed. After I take a look at that cut on your head.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Xander offered.

Willow seemed to leap in front of him. “No. Let me,” she said. She ducked from the room, averting any chance of conversation with Oz.

An air of static tension filled the entry hall. Andrew shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. MK stepped timidly forward.

“Buffy,” she said. “We have some news. Actually, good news. See, Anjelica spent the afternoon making weapons, and I was sifting through Slayer mail…”

Buffy felt like a swimmer slowly resurfacing. “Weapons?” she asked hollowly.

Faith grinned. With her injured arm, she tugged a silver-tipped stake from her hip pocket. “Check this out, B. Girl’s made a Supervamp-piercing stake.”

Faith awkwardly tossed the stake to Buffy. She caught it with both hands. When she held it up to admire it, everyone leaned in to have a closer look.

“Where’d you get the silver?” Lorne ventured.

A wan smile quirked on Oz’s lips. “Best not to ask those kinds of questions,” he said.

“It’s bloody brilliant, Head Wound,” William said.

Anjelica blushed. She tucked her short hair behind her ears.

“It’s more than that,” Buffy whispered, testing the weight of the stake by balancing it in her palm. “It’s evolution.”

MK turned to Giles. She plucked a stack of wrinkled pages from the entry hall table and pressed them into his hands.

Giles tugged his glasses down his nose to read the top page. “Wh-What is this?” he asked.

Frustrated, Andrew swiped the pages from Giles. “It’s email from other Slayers and Watchers around the world,” he said, crisply. “Reports. Queries. Detailed documentation. Rupert, you never check your inbox.”

“I have been a bit preoccupied,” he said. He looked at Faith, his expression suddenly grave. “Your school in New York. Your Watcher…”

“I know,” Faith said with a nod. “Priestess. We’ll talk.”

Giles nodded, knowing better than to press the subject. Everyone was restless now. They wanted to get out of the cramped entry hall and break away for the night.

“It’s okay, Mr. Giles,” Andrew said, looking over the top of the email pages. “Best thing about the World Wide Web: It’s world wide. We can put the word out. A call to arms. They’re waiting for orders.”

“Meanwhile,” Dawn said. “We’ll prepare to fight. And we will all be ready.”

Faith tipped a nod in Buffy’s direction. “All of us,” she said.

“All of us,” William agreed.

It was covenant repeated prayer-like by every person in the room. With these words, it was decided. They would strike at sunrise, spending one last night at home.


----- Original Message -----
From: Rupert Giles
To: Kyle Barriston
Date: 22 October 2004
Time: 3:04 p.m. GMT
Cc: VS Mailing List

Dear all,
No doubt you are facing difficult times. As Watchers we have witnessed many changes in recent weeks, and many of those near us have died in our constant fight. This message may not reach many of you. For some cities, we are sending this too late. For those of us who remain, we must take our stand. We must be ready to fight.

Draw all that you may from your resources. Leave nothing in reserve. Treat this as our final battle against the forces of darkness. Some of the survivors from the Slayer schools in London and New York have merged. We plan to strike at the head of the beast. If all goes well, we will take back the ground gained by the vampires. If it goes ill, you are the last hope for humanity.

May you be blessed in the final hours.
Sincerely,
Rupert Giles


After the Scoobies dispersed from the entry hall, Willow slipped without a word into the basement. Her excuse for doing this was to double check the wards on the house, but she already knew they were strong enough to withstand a better part of a direct onslaught from Hell. In truth, she was Avoidance Gal. She felt ashamed, sheepishly secreting herself in the basement. But it was better than a face-to-face with Oz.

Instead she swept the non-dusty floor. She tidied the already tidy altar. She mooshed the stuffing around in her gem-colored ornamental floor pillows so that they were all equally fluffy. Then, she sat down on the bottom step and hid her face in her arms. It was the first moment of stillness she had given herself since... she could not remember when. In that quiet handful of seconds, Willow realized that her whole body, her mind and her heart ached with an intensity that stifled her.

A sob broke inside her. She moaned to herself, feeling wretched. If Kennedy was here, she thought. But stopped herself. She felt the presence of someone watching her.

Willow raised her head.

And there was Oz, on the landing. She hadn’t even heard him open the basement door.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He made no move to leave. Which was what she wanted him to do.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. She tried to make her voice sound put out. She came off sounding whiny.

“I came with Faith,” he said.

“Oh, did you?” Willow said. She got to her feet. “And what is she doing here?”

“Came to find The Priestess,” he said simply. “Seen her?”

“Yes!” Willow said. As in, obviously.

Oz pressed his lips into the thinnest possible smile.
“Why are you all Smirky Pants? You don’t get to smirk,” Willow said.

“I’m not...”

“Yes, you are. Came to sneer at poor Willow, with her loop-holey magic that gets her friends almost killed and her house almost kablooey. Or maybe you’d like to poke fun at the fact that she’s outlived not one but two girlfriends in the last four years. Some powerful protector I’ve turned out to be...”

“Willow,” Oz said, raising his voice a decibel. “I would never. It’s me, okay? It’s Oz.”

Willow sat down hard. She batted tears away from her eyes, furiously.

Oz, taking his chances at getting zapped, took a place on the step next to her. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said. “I knew there was a chance, but I...”

“Kennedy wanted to stay,” Willow blurted. “In Brazil. She wanted to stay there. And I wanted to come here, after Buffy and Dawn were attacked in Rome. We had a Slayer school there, in Sao Paolo. Kennedy’s family is in Rio. She wanted to stay, and I made her come here.”

“And she died,” Oz said.

Willow buried her face against her knees. “I think, yes,” Willow said. Her words were muffled and tinged with bitterness. “I think Angel may have killed her.”

Oz stared at the back of Willow’s head, not sure about what to do or say. His instincts told him to reach for her, to comfort her. But brains held him back.

“There is so much death,” Willow sobbed. “We have lost so many. I don’t blame myself for Kennedy. I really don’t. But how can we stop all this death?” Willow raised her red-rimmed eyes to stare at him. “Is there any way to stop it?”

Instinct won out. Oz put an arm loosely around Willow’s shoulders. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Point is, we keep trying.”

It was an Oz thing – that economy of speech that allowed him to say so much with the fewest possible words. And it seemed to be exactly what Willow needed to hear.


“Okay, so the rules are simple,” Xander explained while dealing cards around the folding table in the game room to Lorne, Andrew, Dawn, Maya and Connor. “You play only like colors, unless you have a number card of a different color that matches the number of the card in play. If you don’t have the same color or number, you draw. And you keep drawing until you get what you need, or one of these nifty wild cards. Regarding Draw Twos and Draw Fours...”

They crowded into the cramped, somewhat fusty game room because, without admitting or even realizing he was doing so, Xander was avoiding the kitchen. Being observed by the spectral entity of Anya was troubling to the deepest unexplored center of his psyche. The only way to combat this, to his thinking, was constant motion and card games.

“I do know how to play UNO,” Connor said. He deftly swept the cards Xander had dealt him into his hand.

Xander had loaned the boy a pair of jeans and an asparagus green pullover, which perfectly matched Connor’s eyes. Connor’s feet had been too big for Xander’s shoes, so he still sported his California flip-flops.

“Oh,” Xander said, a little disappointed. “I thought you said you grew up in an alternate demon dimension.”

“I did,” Connor said. “But Wolfram & Hart gave me a family and implanted regular childhood memories in my brain after I was returned to this dimension. Therein lies many long evenings around a dinner table, drinking root beer floats and playing Skipbo, Trivial Pursuit, Risk and UNO with foster mom, foster dad and two pesky foster siblings.”

Dawn perked up across the table. “That’s just like me,” she said. “Except instead of root beer floats, it was banana splits and I had only one pesky sibling.”

Connor closed the fan of cards into his palm. “Wolfram & Hart lodged memories in your brain too?” he asked, somewhat incredulous.

Andrew studied Connor through slitted eyes. “Dawn was the Key,” he said. “Duh.”

Maya looked over her cards at Xander. “Key to what?” she asked.

Xander’s brow furrowed. “Um, inter-dimensional gateway thingie,” he said, fumbling over the words.

“I was ancient cosmic energy forged into a human being and sent to Buffy for protection from this skeazy hell bitch who sought to use me to open a portal between this world and her own,” Dawn said. “So, basically my whole childhood: elaborate fiction.”

Connor stared at Dawn with intensity so palpable the whole table could feel it.

“Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” he asked. He spoke to her as if they were the only ones in the room.

The tips of Dawn’s ears blushed bright pink, but she pretended to focus on her cards. “I guess so,” she said. “Sure.”

Xander flipped over the top card to start the game. “Green,” he declared. “Good color, green. Andrew, you start.”

Andrew skimmed his cards. Right away he had to draw. And draw again. Five cards later, he grumbled, “Who shuffled this deck, anyway?”

“It is weird though,” Dawn said. “Knowing that what you remember didn’t really happen. That you weren’t there, not really. Only you and everyone around you thinks you were, and that makes it so.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, leaning forward on his elbows. “My parents had this whole other life before me, and I know that. But to them, I am and always have been their oldest son. They don’t even know who my real dad is.”

“And I don’t even have a real dad,” Dawn said, excitedly. “How weird is that? It’s almost like I was reproduced by budding.”

“Like Spongebob,” Andrew said. He finally lay a green seven onto to the discard pile. Maya played a yellow seven.

“Ah,” Lorne said. “Don’t that just butter my muffin. Draw Two, Xander my man.”

Xander played a blue Draw Two on top of Lorne’s yellow one. “Ah, already the game takes a dirty turn. Draw Four,” he said to Connor. Connor absently drew four cards from the deck. Dawn played a blue Reverse.

“I guess we have a lot in common,” Dawn said. “More than we thought.”

“Yeah,” Connor answered. He had gone goofy during the short course of a card game, and everyone could see it.

“So, Connor,” Maya said. “If Angel is Spike’s grandsire, does that make you like his uncle or something?”

Connor blinked and resurfaced. “Huh,” he said. “Yeah, I guess so. Never really thought about it, though.”

“It’s your play, Wesley Crusher,” Andrew sulked.
Connor folded his cards up and placed them face down on the table.

“You wanna get some ice cream?” Connor asked.

Dawn stammered “What?” she said.

“I’m thinking bad idea,” Xander said. He laughed as though they could not possibly be serious.

“We have plenty of daylight,” Dawn said. She put her cards down and began heading for the door.

“We are only blocks from Haggen Daas,” Maya said.

“Not helping,” Xander said. He jumped in front of Dawn and Connor. Lorne was at his side in seconds, ready to bar their passage if necessary.

Dawn looked at him pleadingly. “We’ll only be gone half an hour. One hour, tops,” she said. “Please, Xander. World may end for us tomorrow. I could really go for a banana split right now.”

“Buffy would have a total spazz attack,” Andrew mumbled from his corner.

“We don’t have to tell her,” Maya said. “She should be sleeping now anyway.”

“So should you, Dawnie,” Lorne pointed out. “No offense, kiddo, but you’ve got circles big as the tires on a HUM-V under your eyes.”

“I’m bed bound, I promise. Full eight hours the moment we return,” Dawn said.

“Plus,” Connor put in, “It’s not like we’re defenseless. I can hold my own in a fight, and she is both the Slayer’s sister and a witch. We’ll be fine.”

Xander liked none of it. But he liked denying Dawn even less. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly. “But be back in one hour. Keep to crowded places. Don’t get separated. Take a cell phone and...”

“Don’t talk to strangers. Got it,” Dawn said. She pecked him on the cheek. She was simmering with excitement. “Thanks,” she added. She took Buffy’s suede jacket from the rack in the hall before she and Connor disappeared down the front steps.

Lorne, Xander and Maya lingered a while longer, before each dropped silently into their seats.
Andrew scowled at his cards.

“They’ll be fine,” Maya said, bright as a blue jay.

“Nothing more innocent than ice cream,” Lorne said, shrugging. “I should’ve put an order in for a pint of pistachio.”

“Yeah, but can we trust the guy?” Xander asked, returning to his cards.

“Want me to find a shotgun? Or, maybe vodka?” Lorne asked.

Maya’s gaze lingered on the hallway for a moment. “Nah. Connor’s a good sort,” she said. “We can trust him. Remember, he sent Willow that postcard…”

Andrew pushed away from the table, tossing his hand into the discard.

“Dawn doesn’t do dairy,” he growled. He stomped out of the game room and up the stairs to his room.
Maya looked from Xander to Lorne and back to the chair Andrew had vacated. She understood then what Lorne and Xander hadn’t pieced together yet.

“Oh,” she said. Her heart sank in sympathy for Andrew.

“Oh what?” Xander said.

Maya picked up her cards. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Whose turn was it?”


Buffy billowed a clean white sheet over the bed she shared with William. She could hear some of the others below, playing games around the kitchen table to ease their tension. Upstairs, Giles was talking strategy with William and the other Slayers. Buffy had been commanded to shower and then to sleep, in that order. Buffy had stubbornly objected, but now her tired limbs and troubled mind were grateful.

Buffy smoothed the fitted edge of the sheet around the mattress, loving the smooth, cool feel of it against the back of her hands. She inched along the bed, tucking the cloth as she went. The mundane mechanics of the task lulled her so much she didn’t realize Faith was there until she felt a snag of resistance from the other side of the bed.

Buffy raised her eyes to Faith’s. An odd sensation of deja vu slipped between them.

“You should let me,” Faith said, resuming her work on the top corner of the bed. “I mean, in your condition...”

Buffy scoffed. She yanked the sheet firmly down over the last corner and went for the top sheet. “I am ten weeks,” she said, indignant. “It’s not like I’m tottering off balance here. I’m not even showing.”

Faith grinned. She enjoyed watching Buffy sputter and hiss like a cat in a trashcan. “Yeah,” she agreed. “But it won’t be long.”

Buffy unfurled the top sheet. Faith took one corner and smoothed it into place.

“Spike looks good,” Faith said.

“H-he is,” Buffy said, not glancing up. “Hands off.”

Faith flinched. “I wouldn’t...” she began.

Buffy stammered, cursing her cross-ness. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. And I... I am really wigged, you know?”

Buffy straightened, finally bringing her eyes to meet Faith’s.

“You should be,” Faith said simply. “Got loads to lose.”

“Yeah,” Buffy whispered. She massaged the tiny jabs of pain in her lower back. She didn’t want to ask her next question, but it was hanging above them. It would do no good to just leave it.

Reading Buffy’s expression, Faith said, “You wanna know where Robin is.”

“Where is he?”

“Died in Haiti, rescuing a busload of boys from The Priestess,” Faith said. She was aiming at casual conversation with her tone, but wound up with thinly veiled rage. She kept her hands busy making the bed while she spoke. “Thing is, I told him not to come with. Told him he would slow me down. See, he got his arm all fouled up by this Berithi prick’s prank down in The Big Easy, and I said, ‘Wood, you’ll only get yourself dead if you come with me to Haiti.’ And guess what: that’s exactly what he did.” Faith paused. “That’s why I’m here.”

“There’s no guarantee she’ll be with Angel and Thellian at the Circle,” Buffy said. “She is a vampire, but that doesn’t necessarily mean...”

“She’s connected, B,” Faith said. “All juiced up on borrowed power.”

“And you think Amy could never get that powerful without someone backing her?” Buffy asked.

“Wolfram & Hart someone,” Faith said.

“Angel,” Buffy stated.

“That’s my guess, B. But hey, I have been wrong about the guy before,” Faith said. She folded back a few inches of the top sheet, then ran her hands over the seam to crease it. “There,” she said, stepping back, “All done.”

“I really...” Buffy began.

“Don’t,” Faith said quickly. “I heard it already. Everyone’s sorry. But don’t be. He died saving a bus full of kids. It’s hero stuff, man. I mean, they were kids.”
Her voice broke painfully in her throat.

Angel’s words replayed in Buffy’s mind. 'That’s the way all wars are fought,' he’d said. It made her sick inside.

Faith glanced at the doorway. “Hey, silly me,” she said. “It’s beddy-by time for Buffy.”

Buffy looked over her shoulder, following Faith’s eyes. William stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb.

“You two getting along?” he asked.

“We’re five by five,” Faith said.

“Good,” he said. “Rupert wondered where you got off to. He’s got more Priestess questions.”

Faith rolled her eyes skyward. “Duty calls,” she said. She clomped from the room, making sure to give William plenty of space.

After Faith had gone, William remained in the doorway as though he still needed an invitation to enter.

Buffy took a small step toward the bed. When she did, her toes brushed against the lacquered box beneath. The Scythe lay inside, dormant since its last use against the First in Sunnydale. Buffy knew that it was the one weapon she would take with her when they left in the morning. Her fingers itched to drag the case out right then to make sure it was still comfortably lethal.
Now was not the time. The bed was made. At some point Buffy was going to have to lie in it.



4:23 p.m.

The day had shaped up as fine as raspberry sherbet – bright slanting sun, crisp breeze blowing loads of yellow leaves into the gutters, the sharp scent of chimney smoke in their noses.

After a few blocks of quiet walking, Dawn said, “Maybe it’s not so bad as all that.”

Connor scanned the tree-lined sidewalks. A pair of women in knit jumpers trotted along, toting sacks of groceries. Several business-clad men and women, noses poked into papers, waited for the 3:30 lorry to Leicester Tube Station. There seemed to be about thirty or so normal folk milling about, looking into shop fronts and chatting on cell phones.

“It does seem safely ordinary,” Connor replied.

“In Sunnydale, it was mass exodus,” Dawn said. “Even the people at the power company left.”

“That bad, huh?” Connor said.

Dawn nodded. The tip of her nose had chapped in the constant wind. She was suddenly mortified that it would get all runny and drippy, and she would have to wipe it on the sleeve of Buffy’s suede jacket. In front of Connor. Except, in comparison to possible apocalypse, nasal drainage probably didn’t rate.

“So,” he said. “End of the world. Any regrets?”

“I never saw Coldplay in concert,” Dawn blurted. She shook her head. “How lame is that?”

“It’s not,” he said. “They put on a good show.”

“You saw them?” she shrilled.

Connor smiled. “In California. And in real time and space, too. Not Implanted Land.”

They walked along a few paces with Dawn apparently struck dumb with awe and envy.

“What about you?” Dawn asked, regaining her senses. “What do you regret?”

Connor stared down at her as they walked. He thought about it for awhile, then said, “Ask me later, okay?”

Dawn swore inwardly. Here he was walking around with the knowledge that his Dad was part of a conspiracy to destroy the world, and she was asking him questions right out of a teenager’s game of truth or dare. He was probably a locust swarm of wishes and regrets.

They kicked through piles of leaves at the next corner, then turned north. Haggen Daas was an actual restaurant on Leicester Square that served only ice cream cocktails. It was hugely touristy and best avoided by locals (which Dawn prided herself in being), but if you were going out for ice cream on the day before the last day of your life, it was worth the exception.

“So,” Connor said, working up his courage. “I thought you and Andrew had maybe something.”

Dawn balked. “No. Please. Like I would date a guy who keeps all of his important documentation in a 'Babylon 5' lunch box.” She paused. “You don’t, right?”

“I do have a 'Lone Wolf & Cub' pencil case that I bought on eBay,” he said. “Uh. It’s... not important.”

“Do you keep your passport and birth certificate in it?” she asked.

“No,” Connor said. “Just... pencils.”

“Do you know, he organizes his socks by theme?” Dawn ranted.

“Socks have themes?” Connor said.

“I know!” she shouted. “And he never wears red shirts. Do you know why he never wears red shirts?”

“I haven’t...”

“Because the ensigns on 'Star Trek' who wore red shirts always died,” Dawn said.

“But you two are friends,” Connor said.

“Sure, if you call it that,” Dawn said. “I mean, we were there together in Rome when these demons attacked us. We hid underground, and there was blood and dirt and the unforgettable scent of catacomb. Then when we came here, we were like the unstoppable duo. Like Superman and Robin.”

“That’s... Batman and Robin,” Connor said, wincing.

Dawn went on without hearing him. “We were like ‘Watchers of the World unite.’ Then he was dating a demon. And then he wasn’t. Then he kisses me. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, what is up with that? And he goes and hooks up with the demon again.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing between the two of you?” Connor asked, wishing he hadn’t.

“Just your average boiling hatred,” Dawn said. She stopped walking. “Make that confusion. No, wait. Make it just plain hurt.”

Dawn studied the cracks in the sidewalk. Connor moved toward her, but felt awkward. He didn’t know her well enough to offer a hug, and handshake seemed too stiff. He settled for simple proximity.
When Dawn raised her eyes again, they were full of tears.

“Why did he do that?” Dawn asked. “Why did he go and do a stupid thing like kiss me? We were friends., and the – bam – lips.”

Connor thought the answer was obvious. Saying it, though, opened an avenue to further awkwardness. Also, part of Connor, the selfish part, wanted to withhold that bit of evidence just in case, by some odd miracle, she felt the same way about Andrew. If Dawn was in love with him, Connor lost his chance. That was not a risk he wanted to take.

So he said, “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Dawn uttered a breathy laugh. “Complicated. Finally, I get to be complicated.”

Connor found himself staring at her again. This time, she stared back.

“Ice cream, right?” she said.

“Huh?” Her conversational course change rivaled her sister’s; it was a Summers’ family trait to always keep a guy guessing.

“The shop’s this way,” Dawn said, pointing. “Two blocks. We might have to get cones to go. It’s already so late.”

“Yep, ice cream,” Connor said. But it was on a list of the least important things in his mind just then, right up there with dental floss, life insurance and commuter mugs.

Connor’s heart suddenly surged with anger toward his Dad, and Buffy, and anyone else who couldn’t just leave the world well enough alone. All Connor could see was the world was ending, and it meant not having enough time to live out the normal life he wanted. It meant not getting to say goodbye to his foster family. It meant never seeing another football match in Reilly Stadium.

And it meant not having more time for getting to know her.



William came into the room. He closed the door behind him.

Buffy went to the closet. She opened it and stared inside, trying to remember why she had come to it in the first place. Seconds stretched around her so that everything seemed surreal and out of order.

“Buffy?” William said. He sounded a long way away.
She saw clothes in the closet. Shirts. Shoes. Coats. Spare bag of stakes. All of these things belonged, but were like pieces of separate jigsaw puzzles. She couldn’t pull them together.

“Pet?” William said.

Buffy shook her head to clear it.

“Did you guys decide anything in your meeting with Giles?” she asked.

She heard him take two small steps in her direction. “Only that Rupert is not on the list of names should we have a boy...”

“It’s a girl,” Buffy said quietly.

“How do y..?”

“I feel it,” she said. “Kind of a destiny thing.”

“A girl,” William mused.

“Turn off the light, will you?” she whispered, running her fingertips over the scratchy bandage Dawn had affixed to her temple. “It’s too bright in here.”

He did as she asked. When he turned back, she was standing right in front of him.

“You died again,” Buffy said.

He held his breath. “I did,” he said.

She thumped her fists hard against his chest.

“Hey...” he said. He brought his arms up to block her.
But she relented. “Stop that,” she said. “I need you. So stop it.”

“Well, I...” he began.

Buffy collapsed against him. He didn’t need to see tears to know she was finally crying. All of her invulnerability vanished when she was alone in the dark with him. He circled her with his arms, pulling her close.

“Wait,” she said, tugging away from him. She could barely see him in the feeble light that leaked through the whispery garbage bags that covered the windows.

“Wait? For what?” he said. He reached for her again.
“Would you kill me if it meant saving the w...?”

“No,” William interrupted.

“But it would mean we all die,” she said.

“Sod them all,” he said, his voice rough. “I’d let the world choke on its own ashes if you’re its asking price. Especially now. I’m no hero, Buffy. Not like you are. So, no. I’d not kill you. Even if it meant saving the world.”

Buffy clasped her hands together. She brought them to her lips, like in prayer.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

William put his arms around her hunched shoulders. He kissed her hair and held her until she was ready for them to rest.


5:50 p.m.
Dusk

Once Dawn and Connor had returned from their ice cream escapade, Willow placed a dampening spell on the Flat. It was a marvelously effective charm that not only sealed them safely inside the house, it prevented any sound from outside its walls from being heard. It also worked wonders against the bitter autumn draft that blew in from the sea, threatening to bring sleet before sunrise.

Buffy and William were asleep. At least, everyone assumed such. Still, to be on the safe side, the Scoobies gathered in the basement with Lorne and Oz posted at the kitchen table as lookout. Faith perched on the first landing of the basement stairs, studying the Scoobies from behind what she hoped was a mask of disinterest. They bickered and nagged and disputed what their next step should be. Frankly, Faith thought they were all whiny at this point, but she cut them some slack. They’d been ridden hard. Now it was time to make the tough choices, and not one of them could push a strong enough argument to get it done.

Willow, Xander and Giles stood at the core of the gang. Xander brought down a ladderback chair from the kitchen for Giles to sit in, but instead he stood behind it, using the top rung as a crutch. Sweat sheened Giles’ high forehead and wisps of gray sprinkled his chestnut hair. Even after a shower, a shave and a fresh set of clothes, he looked as though he had aged ten years in the last month.

Dawn and Andrew were standing as well, forming a loose semi-circle around Giles. Faith saw Dawn sway a few times; the girl was exhausted yet she refused to give up her side of the argument.

Maya and the two Slayer girls sat together on a clutch of jewel tone pillows near the back of the basement. They watched the whole discussion without comment. They reminded Faith of women who watched public executions in foreign countries as though attendance was something you had to do as a matter of public service.

The only one who had yet to weigh an opinion was Connor. Faith watched him with strained anticipation. He leaned in the corner, glowering in ways reminiscent of Angel. Faith noted how he watched the others. Definitely the outsider wanting in. She got that, more than he might guess.

“I hate this!” Dawn shouted suddenly, tearing Faith’s attention away from Connor. “I hate that we’re down here making decisions behind Buffy’s back. And I hate that we’re hiding out in a basement while the fight for the world goes on beyond our door. And we’re getting nowhere here, just going around and around in circles and I’m dizzy just thinking about it.”

Xander shot a questioning look at Willow. When she merely shrugged in response, he turned to Giles for answers.

Giles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I, too, am much aggrieved that we’re here, making these plans,” he said. It was so formal, Faith guessed it had to be rehearsed. Even Giles wasn’t that stiff. “But it must be done. We have to formulate a course of action that will keep Buffy here, and safe.”

Andrew’s hand shot into the air. “Um, and just what decisions have we made without our Picard, Commander Riker? None. Nada. Zippo,” he said.

“We cannot let Buffy go into this battle,” Giles snapped.
The room was silent under the weight of this proclamation.

Xander sucked in his cheeks, then blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Great,” he said. “Excellent. Except, how are you gonna keep her here?”

“That’s what we’re here to decide,” Willow said. “I figure if we get Spike on board...”

Faith uttered a derisive chuckle. She said, “You mean you don’t already?”

Since she’d been quiet till then, her remark garnered everyone’s attention. She soaked it up like a sponge. Faith slid from her place on the stairs, landing firmly and with as much noise as possible on the concrete below.

From the back of the room, MK. said, “He doesn’t know we’re down here. We figured it best to hone the details before getting him to sign on.”

“Plus, you heard him earlier,” Willow said. “He doesn’t want her near the Circle…”

“It is in his best interest after all,” Giles broke in. He blinked his eyes as though he’d just gotten grit in them. “Keeping them... safe,” he finished.

Faith was shaking her head. “Lemme just get my head around this,” she said. “You’re going into battle? Sans Buffy?”

Willow looked at Faith as though she were a very small, very slow child. “She’s pregnant. And Angel wants her dead. He wants the blood of her child. You think he can get it without going through her? So, as I was saying...” Willow went on.

“We need the big board,” Andrew said ruefully. “Maybe we should vote. I could tally the votes.”

Willow went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “I figure we need transportation. Something big yet safe. Taking separate cars could lead to trouble once we’re out of the city. We’ll also need weapons, which Anjelica has already gotten a big leap on...”

“Willow, just slow down, okay?” Xander said. “We all saw the slitted throat of Spike. None of us doubt what Angel’s capable of,” Xander said. “It’s just... We can’t possibly think of making this decision without her.”

“Xander, don’t be an imbecile,” Giles said tartly. “Thellian and Angel will have gathered their forces at the Circle come sunrise. They will be waiting for us and they will be ready. And the one thing they need is Buffy...”

“You’re right,” Faith said. She took her time, slowly circling the group. She came to rest opposite Giles. “You know it is so sweet, your playing the doting Granddad. But you are miles from the mark, Rupert.”
Giles drew himself a little taller to match her stance. “I don’t see how you...” he began.

“Look. Guys,” Faith said, cutting across him, talking hard and fast, “Thing is, you’re up against a thousand year old prophecy that calls for the blood of a Slayer’s kid. Buffy turns up with child, and you’re all acting like you’re obligated to keep her out of this round? I mean, come on! The fact that Spike’s the Dad only adds cred to the theory that maybe there are bigger and badder forces at work here.”

Faith scanned the grim faced lot of them. They were frightened, but they were listening. Which was good, because Faith knew – deep down in her blood she knew – this time, she had it right.

“Not to mention Angel’s part in the prophecy,” Faith continued. “Vampire with a soul ringing some bells here? This has been coming for years; you can’t play surprised. So, yeah, this guy Thellian’s got the drop. I say we give him a run for his money. ’Cause what he really wants is to put Buffy on the Circle while Angel has that skanky demon blade in his hands.”

Faith caught her breath and ran her restless hands through her hair. This was the part of leadership she both hated and loved. She had to say all the difficult things, but she got to be a bitch at the same time. Which, when she thought about it, was more fun than most people would admit to themselves.

“So,” Andrew ventured, all timid-voiced. “Until then Buffy’s safe?”

“Yeah,” Faith said. “Because if she dies before Angel’s had his way with her...”

Dawn’s face whitened. Maya blinked as if slapped. Xander’s good eye squinted to the size of a watermelon seed. And she wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard Andrew whimper.

Giles put his hands out to grip the top rung of the ladderback chair. “No one will touch her,” he finished weakly.

“Except to bring her to the Circle,” Willow said.

“Which is where we come in,” Faith said. “We get to play human shield.”

Connor stepped forward into the circle, taking a place beside Dawn. “We make it so that Buffy gets the knife,” he said, finally speaking up. “She gets the D’Ganti, instead of him.”

Faith nodded. Connor met her eyes briefly, but then he looked away. She still couldn’t tell which side he would play for, blood being thicker and all that. But he seemed for the moment to be with them.

“Good,” she said. “That’s good. Now, we’ll still need to gather weapons and some sort of super-sized SUV is in order, but lay off keeping Buffy out of the loop. She’s in this. She knows it. So does Spike. They’ve accepted that. We’d be damned fools not to do the same.”





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