Chapter 19:  Cute D'état

Andrew peered anxiously into the gloom of the quarantine tent.  A few yards past its crinkled plastic veneer, a huge dark shape was stirring ever so slowly, like a beached whale struggling to breathe.

It was a little past three already, and Andrew had just lost a staring contest with a puddle of mashed potatoes back in the Council infirmary.  He still felt queasy, but found his legs just couldn’t sit still.  He’d decided to nurse his wandering bug with a quick tour of the new facility.  Everything was much, much cooler, now, full of curvy white furniture and super slick track-lighting and big plasma screen TVs.  It was like walking around inside a giant i-Pod!  He made a point of nodding at all the new faces he saw along the way.  Most of them seemed to be doctors, and, in Andrew's dangerous line of work, it seemed like a good idea to be on friendly terms with a few.

The tent was set up in a big empty room, the door to which had a bunch of scary X-Files-looking warning signs printed all over it, but Andrew had learned that these were almost always the best doors to open, especially when somebody forgot to lock them.  Either way, it didn't seem like the kind of place tough enough to hold a super big Hell Demon for very long. Then again, maybe that wasn’t the problem.  Maybe, like him, Melvin the Monster just couldn’t think of any particular place to go.

“Uh, hey there, bro-ski,” Andrew finally said.  “Sleep okay?”

The shape just lurched sideways and moaned.  It reminded him of Warren that morning after he had one too many Fuzzy Navels.

“So,” Andrew persevered. “I guess we’re all safe now, huh?  You know… Yaaaay?”

Strangely, it was Andrew's own voice that answered him, except more sarcastic. "I guess were all safe now, huh?" it said.

"Hey! That's pretty good.  You should have, like, a show or something."

“I’m not talking to you, dude,” rumbled Melvin in his regular, grouchy tone.

“Oh. Um, why not?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

This question, unfortunately, was all too familiar.  It seemed to Andrew like people were always asking him if he was kidding, but he got the feeling they usually didn’t want him to answer.  It was more of a rhetorical question, sort of like ‘Hey Andrew, are you really that much of a super idiot jerkface?’  Or ‘Hey Andrew, why don’t you just go away somewhere and die you big, fat, stupid loser-head?’  But, of course, Andrew usually went ahead and answered anyway, and that would just make everyone even madder than usual.

“No,” he answered anyway.

“Holy stripper Christmas! ” roared Melvin, even madder than usual. “Hey, lemme ask you something, kid.  How did you do it?  How is it even possible?  Do they pass out spellbooks at the local Mickey D’s now? Free ‘Bind of Galgamek’ with every Happy Meal?!”

“It was a Barnes and Noble, actually…”

“Shut up!” bellowed the beast.  “Shut your little monkey pukehole and just fix it already!”

“Oh, yeah,” said Andrew.  “Heh. Funny you should mention that, really. It looks like we may have run into an eeny, teeny snag on the whole ‘let’s send Melvin back to Hell’ front.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I can’t do it.  For one thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Andrew mused thoughtfully, “I mean, I’m no expert or anything.  But I’m pretty sure you can’t leave until you finish doing your, you know.  Your thing. ”

The monster’s silhouette twisted sharply.  “What are you smoking, guy?  I already did my thing.  Or was that some other two-ton Overlord of Darkness getting his ass shot off?! ”

“Right!  No!  I mean, yes!  That was... that was great stuff.  It’s just the whole, you know, binding spell thingee.  I think I might’ve maybe messed something up… a little.”

“No way!” Melvin boomed.  “Really? I’m shocked!  Shocked, I tell ya!”  The big blobby shape was pulsating now, and something told Andrew that the demon might be getting a little aggravated.  He stole a quick glance at the door behind him, just to make sure it was still there.

But the monster just sighed, and sunk into a silent, sullen pile, and, for a moment, the conversation felt like it was over.  Again, this was all-too familiar terrain. In the movies, it seemed like people would constantly end conversations with something friendly like ‘peace-out’ or ‘Yo, catch you on the flip, g-money.’  But in real life, Andrew found that it was incredibly rare for people to let him know when they were done chatting with him.  Mostly they’d just stop talking all of the sudden, and then ignore him until he walked away.

Still, Melvin seemed so sad (for a blood-drinking disciple of Satan, at least) and Andrew suspected that some of that was maybe even partially his fault.  “Well, why do you want to go?” he asked.

The beast’s silhouette remained frozen, as though Melvin was lost in deep, deep thought. “What do you mean?”

Instinctively, Andrew crept closer to the tent.  “To Hell, I mean” he said.  “Why do you want to go back to Hell?”

There was a big, crazy noise, like a hornet nest full of grenades and saxaphones.  The plastic bubble of the tent flared out like a giant popcorn bag, and Andrew suddenly felt gusts of intense heat leaping off its surface, singeing his eyelashes.

In a flash, one of Melvin’s smaller heads slammed flush against the plastic barrier, the shark like face straining at the surface.  A pair of silvery lips peeled back, uncovered two saw blades encircling a ragged, briny hole.  The voice that wafted out of it was craggy and worm-choked, like old water echoing through a tomb.

“We are the orphans of eternity, ” it said. “Since the dawn of ages we have feasted from the pig troughs of your miserable species. Gaily, we butcher your daughters in their cribs, and burn your sons to dust.”

Andrew’s stomach was dancing the Boston Shuffle down in his bladder again.  “I suh-see. Now, when you say guh-gaily…”

The head’s rotted jaws gaped wide.  Six black eels slithered out, hungrily tracing the outline of Andrew's ashen face across the plastic.

“Solace! Solace in the putrid hollows of the ten thousand hells. Solace, in the pit of Baal’s ulcerous womb.  Solace in that fallen realm of cannibal mothers and faggot saints, where the burning winds die and the seas fill with the infected sewage of a million murdered whores!  Solace in the raped and boiled loins of the strangled, screamingBLLAAAARGGggghhh-chahukahukahuk…Ughh!  Pardon me, pardon me...”

The writhing, snapping nightmare withdrew into the darkness, like a shy finger abandoning a knee. “Happens every now and then,” Melvin said.

“Uh…”

“Sort of like a sneeze, I guess.”

“God… bless… you?”

“Pffft!  Yeah, like that’ll happen,” Melvin snorted.  “Sorry, man. What was the question, again?”

***

Does it have to be the library? he wondered.

Rupert strolled slowly up the aisle, pausing once to neaten a shelf.  The section he’d wandered into was mainly composed of newer reference books; heavy on theory, light on practice.  Most of the truly powerful enchantments were located in the northern wing, locked tight with a barrier spell courtesy of the Nevada Three.  The trio of Wiccans had proved competent replacements for Willow Rosenberg, if not especially creative or talented ones.  They were disciplined, at the very least. Discipline was one skill the redheaded Witch never could quite master; now, it was possibly too late.

And too late for you, too, old man, he thought. But does it have to be the library?

He rested his palm on a thick red spine with gold stitching. The title glowered down at him like an old headmaster:

Lucifer’s Jest:
Un-Life, Para-Life and Other Fallen States of Man

by Quentin R. Travers

It was misfiled, he realized.  He knew the tome well, one of the few items he’d loaned out from his personal archive.  Rupert was given it to read during his very first year as a Watcher.  It was a rite of passage at the time.  Of course, much of the information was hopelessly outdated now, and the format was perhaps a bit too conservative for the internet generation.  But once upon a time, it had served as a salvation for a certain confused, angry young man, a lifeline thrown in a boiling sea.  He opened to the introduction, absently selecting a random passage:

Yet, we continue to pose the eternal question: 'What is Life?
For the academic, the answer is often straightforward. To the physicist, life is a series of electrical charges, measurable through time and comprised of unique paths that are finitely predictable. To the biologist, it is a democracy of organs, whom together chart a course towards sustenance and sex. To the theologian, life is but a waking dream; a shared hallucination that reveals the moral arrangement of our souls within the context of eternity.
The relative accuracy of these definitions should not concern the Watcher, however. If we must develop for ourselves a definition of life, perhaps it should likewise stem from the context of our own unique mission. In that light, “life” can most simply be described as a state of delayed death.
If this is our hypothesis, perhaps all 'un-life' is drained of its romance.  The enigmatic vampire can be reduced to a mechanical force, like gravity. Our enemy becomes less a supernatural bogeyman than an agent of universal efficiency, designed to hasten death’s delay...

“The butler did it,” mocked an all too familiar voice.

Rupert glowered at the vampire, who was slouching against “P-to-Pr” like a schoolyard bully.  Spike was holding a book as well, cracked midway open in one hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for a spell, you know?  Something to turn you all into toads. Although, in your case…”

Rupert snapped the book shut.  “No, Spike.  What are you doing here?”

Spike’s eyes widened.  “Take it you’re still not happy to see me, then, Rupes?”

The Watcher closed the distance menacingly, but cautiously. It had been a long time since he’d feared this particular vampire – since he’d physically feared him, at least.  Still, Spike was undoubtedly the most unpredictable creature he’d ever encountered, and had a well documented history of turning the tables when you least expected it.  “You may take it any way you want.   As long as you’ll do us the favor of taking it elsewhere.”

“Bold words,” Spike said, and casually resumed nosing through his spellbook.  “From a bloke in your position,” he added darkly.

“And what position is that?”

Spike nodded at something over the Watcher’s left shoulder.  Rupert turned in time to glimpse a black-suited stranger, hovering at the edge of the third floor rail.  A shaft of light glinted off the rifle in his hands.  “Congratulations.  Looks like you got yourself your very own Watcher these days, mate.”

Rupert gritted his teeth.  “Yes,” he admitted.  “I suppose I do.”

“Don’t suppose you have a plan to go along with it?”

“Actually, Spike, I have that as well. I’m giving up.”

“Ah, very inspirational.  Churchill would be proud…”

“A few minutes from now. I’m going to sit at that long table over there.  There’ll be a very polite meeting, much like a business luncheon.  I’ll be told that I’ve done some ‘good work,’ but that it’s time to move on and let the professionals handle things.  For Buffy and Xander’s sake, they’ll tell me that there’s ‘no hard feelings,’ and then they’ll send me on my merry way.  But as soon as I’m out of sight, all that will change.  I know far too much to be allowed to leave this place. I will be dead before I reach the front gates.”  Giles smiled bitterly at the reality of this last bit.  Saying it out loud did not help.

Spike scanned his face warily. “God, you're serious. Well, in that case, any last requests?  Someone in particular you’d like me to smother, maybe?”

“Actually, I do have one last request, Spike...”

Rupert studied the vampire’s earnest blue eyes. It was a strange experience to look into William the Bloody’s eyes.  Over the years, the Watcher had learned much about his enemies’ horrifying methods, but the human mask was always the most mysterious and deadly weapon in a vampire’s arsenal.  The most skillful among them could mimic a human so precisely that they became almost indistinguishable from their prey.  But for a trained observer, the average vampire’s eyes were almost always a dead give away.  They were a shark’s eyes, a doll’s dead eyes, and if you gazed into them long enough, you would surely meet the monster.

Not so with Spike.  The old fiend was a great many things, but average was never one of them. 

“Leave her,” Rupert said.

Spike glared back at him for a long moment, then softly shook his head. “Can’t.  Can’t do it.  It’s up to her, now.”

Rupert drew a deep breath. “I know," he said, "that you believe that.  But you have a will of your own. You’ve surely proven that much.”  This was a last ditch effort, one final charge unto the breach before the curtain fell.  Anger and threats hadn’t worked.  Neither had treachery and violence.  Now, at the very end, Rupert Giles would try understanding.  Reason.  And staring into that impeccable mask of his, he suddenly believed it might work.  He drew even closer, allowing Spike to feel his warm, living breath on his face, to listen to his heartbeat.  He wanted the vampire to be able to run that infamous little lie detector of his, to recognize the place from which he spoke.

“It’s the age difference, isn't it?” the creature jeered.  “You can’t blame the girl for robbin’ the cradle, mate. I’m adorable.”  But his eyes were focused, narrowing.  He was paying attention.

“There is something different about you, Spike,” Rupert continued.  “It's taken me all these years to see it, but I finally do. You are the most incredibly, impenetrably stupid vampire ever made.”

Spike stiffened visibly.  “Beg pardon?”

“No, I mean it. You may honestly be the most slow-witted being to ever prowl the face of the Earth.  My only guess is, you must have been at least as moronic in your human life.  Were you a banker, perhaps? Or a poet?”

“Now, wait just one bloody min-”

“You stayed away once. Stupid though you are, you know how this story of yours ends.  Deep down, you do.”

“I tried!”

“I know you did. Try harder.”

“Yeah, well, its not as easy as all that, is it?” Spike growled.  “Can't just shut it off like some bloody chip in your head!  You don’t know what it’s like…”

“I do,” Giles corrected him gently.  “He stole her in the night. Ripped her away. Remember?”

Spike started shaking his head again, trying to dismiss the gonging truth of it. “It could be different,” he explained.  “We’ll sort something out. Just need a bit of time is all.  Think things through…”

“Time won’t change a bloody thing,” said Rupert.  “Time will only make it worse. Look at her.”  He peered into the main hall.  Buffy sat quietly at the foot of the long study bench, arms folded, lost in dark thoughts.  “Look at her!” he demanded.

Reluctantly, the vampire did as he was told, his slotted eyes widening as he gazed at the girl, hypnotized by her beauty.

“How many years?” Rupert asked. “Fifty or sixty. Seventy, maybe.  Maybe.  She's strong, but not that strong. She will die…”

“I know tha-”

“She will die,” the Watcher repeated, trying to drive the point home.  “And what will you do with your eternity, then?”

Spike didn’t answer at first.  He just kept staring and softly shaking his head.  "What’s it to you, anyway?" he finally asked.  "I mean what do you care what I do, after she…”

He trailed off, unable to say it without imagining it.  The creature was starting to slip into the shadows again, feigning an aura of cool indifference.  Yet, Rupert could see the fact slowly dawning on him. William was a dullard, yes.  But not quite that dull.

“Ah, you see it, now, don’t you?”

“No,” Spike said, and swallowed something hard.  “No, you’re wrong. I’d never…”

“You will," Giles insisted.  "Not today, or tomorrow. Perhaps not for a very, very long time.  But, someday, you will do it. You will turn her.”

Spike was crying now, showing off his mask’s fine craftsmanship.  For the second time in Rupert’s life, he wondered if the demon had worn its human disguise for so long and so well that it had forgotten it was all a lie.  And, for the first time in his life, he was counting on it.  As he studied Spike’s eyes, he felt his  intuition screaming at him, kicking open a door.  The answer was suddenly so obvious.

“You’ve done it before,” he said, genuinely astonished by this fact. “Haven’t you?  Turned someone you loved?”

Horrified, the vampire shook its head in protest.  “No.   I... didn't mean to. Didn’t know. What I was doing…”

Rupert clasped the monster’s shoulder.  “I know,” he lied. “I believe you.”

“I was so young,” Spike gasped, his voice suddenly choked with tears. 

There was something tortured about the way the vampire used the word young, filling it with an unnerving stew of emotions both real and imagined.   Whatever else he was, Spike was surely a tortured beast.   And, though he was undeterred, a thing like pity stabbed at Rupert Giles.

“We’ve all made our mistakes,” he said, his mind drifting towards a small, black memory of his own.  “The only grace is, we sometimes learn from them, and get the opportunity to do the hard thing -- the right thing.”  He gently tugged Spike's shoulder, bringing him face to face once more.  “You can do the right thing. For her.”

Spike had stopped pretending to breathe, and the tears bled down his white cheeks like water over a fountain statue.  The seconds ticked by too slowly, and the Watcher was suddenly afraid he’d miscalculated, that he'd overplayed a weak card.

Then, incredibly, the monster began to nod.  “For her, yeah,” he said, and extended his hand.  Rupert took it, and for a strange moment they stood there like two Englishmen -- old hearth enemies sealing a gentlemanly pact.  He quietly prayed this would be enough.

When it was over, he left the vampire to his business of lurking about in the shadows.  Knowing Spike as he did, he assumed the bastard would find some way to wriggle out of this mess they were all in.  The old devil was more slippery than a bag of snakes, and seemed to have an endless supply of lives.

As for Rupert Giles, he only had one.  And, as gracefully as he could, he strode out to meet the end of it.

***

Does it have to be the library? she wondered.

It was a little sick, Buffy thought.  Not like it was some perfect replica or anything.  Thirty-foot vaulted ceilings yawned like elegant, frozen waves over the facility’s cavernous gothic wings.  The main hall stretched back fifty echoing yards, and sported four gleaming spiral staircases that rose from the marble floorings like the strands of God’s DNA.  There must have been thousands of books; maybe hundreds of thousands.  It was a far cry from the random scraps of paper that Giles had salvaged from the ruins of the old Quentin Travers regime, or even from the Council’s temporary Chicago digs.  It certainly looked nothing like the tiny state-funded book farm that had once served as the gang’s secret headquarters, all those years ago. Did Dawn even know about that place?  Did she ever go there? It was still so hard to remember.

‘And a child will lead them’, she mused.  Did the Bible say that? Or was it The Lion King?

There were times at night when she could close her eyes and just be back there again.  As usual, they’d all be sitting around the big table, pouring over a truckload of crappy old books.  Buffy would just sit there pretending to read, a totally bored buttkicker waiting for someone to point her in the direction of a butt.  Willow would get things going with an ‘Ooh, listen to this.’ Giles would say something British like, ‘How utterly fascinating,' and then he’d start droning on and on about something that wasn’t the least bit utterly fascinating, which Cordelia would find some delicate way to point out.  Around that time, Xander would stop daydreaming about Cordy’s legs long enough to say dorky thing number one ('Whoa, wait, whoa'), followed by your basic Lightning Round of half-baked plans that would make Wile E. Coyote look like Napoleon.

Crazy days.  Old days.

Gone days.

Willow was… What?  On vacation?  On Mars?  The witch’s absence was never more palpable.  Minus her adorable stutter, the whole scene was just unbearably drab and awful, even by British standards.  And Cordy was just dead, period.  Hunched in the long, stale angles of the archives, it almost felt like their funeral.

Buffy furtively studied the survivors.  Goofy, loveable Xander Harris looked like a man battling the shady side of fifty.  The good eye was half-closed, ringed with dark, purple gullies.  It was even worse than in Chicago.  No trace of boyishness remained in the clenched, stubbled jaw, and those cute little flecks of salt and pepper hair were quickly transforming into rivers of gray.  She wondered if that was an occupational hazard of monster-fighting, and made a mental note to beef up her Lady Clairol budget.

Xander hadn’t said much so far. He still seemed to be playing his cards close to his chest.  Being in charge of the Ipswich ‘Mouth had changed him. Leaders eventually learn to keep their mouths shut until they have all the facts, something she’d learned the hard way.  He drummed his fingers idly on the mahogany table.  The weird echoes of the room twisted the noise into a stampede of horses.

Giles busied himself by pretending not to notice.  She’d never seen him like this, looking so small, so unofficial.  He’d abandoned the Armani jacket for a flimsy nylon pullover that made him look a hundred years old.  Whatever he’d thought he would get out of this whole saving-the-world business was gone, now.  For the first time in a long time, she wondered what Rupert was like as a young man.  Minus the whole unavoidable “mystic destiny” thing, what exactly gets someone into the business of fighting monsters?

As if to answer, Xander started thrumping his fingers again. It was annoying, but no one was telling him to stop, and the likeliest candidate to do so was off in the shadows playing ‘Creature of Darkness’ again.  She tracked him through narrowed eyes as he loped down a length of dusty old books.

There was something intensely grrrr about the sight of him. There was the costume, for one thing.  Despite the lateness of the hour and the cozy, non-flammable setting, Spike had stubbornly refused to take it off.  Wearing it, he was still a suspicious, extraterrestrial shape, a thing less than real.  There had been nights in Rome when she longed to see that leather duster again, swinging clocklike as he swaggered through his crypt.  Spike’s clothes were the key to knowing him.  A pair of black bootheels clacking on sidewalks, a few irritating steps behind.  That lame necklace that was so 1979 it hurt.  They were all badges of slow change, evidence of a mind in search of a more human sort of belonging.  Maybe this was just the latest vampire fashion craze, a symbol that he’d moved on, yet again. Techno Bondage-Wear.  Post-Buffy Chic.

But, that kiss…

Buffy shook her head, feeling stupid again.  Personally, she’d welcomed her own wardrobe change.  Dawn had one of the Council’s snotty Slayer wannabes bring it to her in a rumpled paper bag.  Lime chiffon blouse?  Check. Black velveteen flares?  Check.  Clunky, open-toed, fuchsia Salt-Waters?  Yuck, but check.  She’d pulled the gear on in a ladies’ room the size of a small gymnasium, and then gazed begrudgingly into the mirror.  It would take a month’s worth of Mr. Bubble baths to wash off the past four days. Her skin looked, well, gross, especially around the eyes.  Her lips were cracked lips, her hair paper-dry and dandruffy. And at the corner of her mouth: a juicy pink zit.

Twenty six years old, she thought.

Ex drug addict. Part-time killer. Popping a zit in a London loo. Hopelessly in love with a soulless monster.

Quick!  Somebody call Cosmo!

On cue, a set of twin doors at the far end of the library swung wide. Dawn marched through them, flanked by a Hollywood entourage of black suited stiffs.  A cliché tough guy in a leather bomber brought up the rear, and after a moment Buffy recognized him as the man from the airfield who’d somehow managed to make Samantha “Take No Prisoners” Riley cry.

Kid sis’ entrance was dramatic, alright. Her gait reminded Buffy of one of those sirens from an 80’s Wall Street thriller: long strides, conservative but bold, with the knees crossing smoothly, almost hypnotically in front. It was the opposite of a 'model walk', oozing the kind of professional, fuck-you confidence that inspired the phrase “bitch on wheels.” Nude stockings glittered over a pair of sculpted, womanly legs. Slate pencil skirt, trimmed at mid thigh.  Cute silk jacket, buttoned once, and spread way, way, way too open at the chest.  Little sister, all grown up big.

Especially the chest part.

Dawn seized the chair at the head of the table, with her staff falling smoothly in place all around her.  The atmosphere was a little more intimidating than Buffy was used to.  For one thing, they had briefcases.   Xander and Willow never had any of those.  Oz had a guitar case, but it wasn’t really the same thing.  Giles studied them all resentfully.  Even Spike swung nearer from his perch in the shadows, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“Thank you all for waiting,” Dawn began.  “I know you must be pretty tired, so we’ll try to keep this brief…”

“Ah, the infamous we!” Giles sneered gleefully.  “Of course, Xander and I are well aware of their identities, my dear girl. But don’t you think your sister deserves to know what it is you’ve done?”

“What I’ve done?” Dawn repeated coldly, her eyes beading from one face to the next.  “Two years ago, a man - a man I knew and loved, a man I trusted like a father - sent me on a suicide mission. I was to infiltrate a rival supernatural intelligence organization known only as the Agency, detail its activities, its methods and its weaknesses, and prepare for the inevitable conflict of interests.”

“Yeah,” Xander chimed in.  “So what happened?  They offer you better dental, or something?”

“You could say that,” Dawn replied.  “Giles suspected that the Agency may one day attempt to stage a hostile takeover of the Council.  After carefully weighing the costs and benefits, I chose to facilitate that takeover.  That is what I’ve done.”

“What you’ve done is treason!” Giles snarled.  “You’re a traitor to this Council and to everything it stands for.”

“Stood for,” she corrected him.  “It’s you who betrayed us, Giles. The Watcher’s Council?  Did you really think that’s what you built here?” The young woman’s voice dropped an octave, her eyes narrowed to accusatory slits. “This place was a sick joke. A psycho factory that cranked out freakshows like Kennedy. Why do you think Willow left?  Or Xander, for that matter? After what happened in Sunnydale, you think his heart just went all aflutter at the idea of living on top of another Hellmouth?  Even Andrew eventually ran away screaming at the sight of your perfect little society, and that guy has no life whatsoever.”

Giles creaked backward into his chair, the heavy brow creasing slyly. “You can’t take this place. You don’t have the right.”

“Actually,” said Bomber Jacket Guy,“we do.”  His voice was thundering, authoritative, and tinted just a little bit Texan, like Yosemite Sam on steroids.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” boomed Bomber Man, matter-of-factly. “Approximately one hour ago, the shell corporation that funds the Council was charged under seventeen different international anti-terror statutes.  This entire facility and everythin’ in it is now under our direct legal auspices.  That includes every asset – the books, the computers, the chairs you’re sittin’ in.  Hell even that fancy little chip in your head, Mr. Giles.”

The Watcher stared at the man in amazement.  “Under whose authority?”

“Classified.”

“Classified by whom?”

“Also classified. You wanna try for three’sies?”

The Watcher’s cheeks flared a deep shade of purple. “And who, may I ask, are you? Or when I report you to the authorities, shall I simply tell them, 'sorry but that’s classified?'”

“No sir, not at all. My name is Frank Grange.  And if you’re goin' to the authorities, would you mind tellin’ me which?  See I run a Friday night poker game with most of the big ones, and I could let them know you’re coming.”  Grange rocked back in his chair amiably, looking like a cat who’d finally swallowed a long sought canary.

“Don’t you have anything to say, Xander?”  Giles asked. “Or are you just going to sit there.”

“I’m just going to sit here,” Xander shot back.  He turned to Grange, “Uh, I can still 'just sit here', right?”

“Oh, sure thing, son!” Grange bellowed back.  “In fact we were kinda hopin’ you would all hang around.  Despite what Miss Summers believes, we prefer to think of this whole thing as more of a merger than a takeover. Your assets, our assets…”

Xander smirked wryly.  “One big, happy pile of assets?”

“Where’s Faith,” Giles said.  “I demand to see Faith.”

“On your six, G-man.”  Everyone whirled to look. The raven-haired beauty was grinning down from a second floor terrace. “Couldn’t find any popcorn.  Are we havin’ fun yet?”  She threw Buffy a sharp wink. “Hey, welcome home, Bee. Lovin’ the shoes...”

Four thunderstruck seconds elapsed, and then Rupert Giles lost it. Peels of inappropriate laughter poured out of him, echoing across the library like a madhouse opera.  It was the sort of unbridled giggle-fit that only the truly hopeless could ever hope to master: condemned criminals, broke gamblers and Watchers who’d suddenly run out of stuff to watch.  Under other circumstances, it might have moved Buffy Summers to tears, but these weren’t ‘other circumstances.’

Everyone waited in stunned silence.  When he finally stopped, he grinned at Buffy.  “Well then. What’s it to be? Firing squad? The gallows? Might I at least get a blindfold…?”

It was Grange’s turn to chuckle now, a smoky rumbling sound that was weirdly cheerful given the question.  “Hell no,” he chortled.  “My God, Mr. Giles, you do have a rather high opinion of yourself, don’t you?  We rounded up the last of those ‘Eye’ fellas of yours this morning.  Those poor sons’o’guns even volunteered to have their implants surgically removed.  Good thing too.  All that brain zappin’ crap was probably gonna give them cancer, fer chrissakes!” After he said this, Grange seemed to reel himself in a bit, then, noting the bitterness written all over Rupert’s face.  “Not that it matters," he continued.  "The Watchernet satellite is being disabled as we speak, and the project has been shut down. Permanently. It’s just, you know, obsolete. And... weird.”

“You’re free to go, Giles,” Dawn said flatly, sorting through a stack of files.  “No one here will try to stop you.  But you do need to leave. That was always part of the deal.”  Buffy detected the tiniest crack in the girl’s velvety, Big Girl voice. It wasn’t much, but it was a sliver of... well, something.

Was it regret?

“It’s nothing personal,” Dawn added softly.

Giles ignored her.  He was still gazing serenely at Buffy and Xander, as though he lacked the physical strength to turn away, his eyes glittering with something rare and wet and long overdue.  “Well,” he said. “I suppose that, as they say, is that. ”

And it was.  Without another word, Rupert Giles, one of the last living remnants of the Ancient Order of Watchers, stood up, straightened his ill-fitting Harajuku Girls warm-up jacket, walked in a long straight line through a pair of heavy double doors, and shut them firmly behind.  There was a finality about the sound that Buffy couldn’t quite get over, and she wondered if this new world of hers would be even colder without him in it.

As if in response, Buffy sensed her vampire drawing nearer.  She hadn’t minded his distance until that very moment.  Spike was always growly, downright surly in any group setting.  He preferred to lurk in shadows, jump out from behind trees.   It was his nature.

She turned to glance at him, anyway, hoping to steal a sign or signal or something.  But the vamp’s eyes were fixated on Dawn now, the face a slack mixture of confusion and awe.  Xander was gaping at her too.  To be fair, it was hard not to.

It had been more than a year since she’d seen her pseudo-sister’s face, but it seemed like much longer. New angles jutted out in abstraction, making her appear almost supernaturally lean under the cool florescent light.  She looked hungry; not in a bloodsucking way or a double mocha fudge sundae way, but in the way Buffy often felt sliding off a high, lost in the mists of the dragon.

Mirrors were cruel fixtures in those days, and she avoided them like a vampire. But every now and then, Buffy would catch a glimpse – passing a storefront, maybe, or in the crooked corners of a ladies restroom on the Via Cortello.   There was real hunger there, an emptiness impossible to fill. Now, she saw it again in her sister who was not a sister or even from a mister, and it chilled Buffy to her very core.  Human or not, all at once Buffy realized that life had been an exceedingly brief and agonizing pageant for the Key, and that it had learned well from the experience.  Rupert Giles had misused and abandoned her.  It was only natural that he would be thrown under the bus.  In a moment of sheer and giddy dread, Buffy Summers wondered if she was next.

“What about us, Dawn?” she finally asked.  “Are we part of the deal too?”

The girl’s jaw hardened to glass.  “He’ll be safe,” she replied. “Now that he’s no threat, they’ll leave him alone.”

“She’s right,” Grange agreed, either misunderstanding or ignoring the implication.  “Our enemy sees Faith and her army as their primary obstacle, not ex-librarians.  Chances are he’s safer out there then he would be in here.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Xander observed.

“Okay, check this out,” Buffy snarled, rising to stage her own dramatic exit.  “I’m not going to pretend I know what’s been going on around here, and, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.  But Dawn Summers, if you’re thinking of running off to play war with this Tom Clancy reject, well then you’ve got another thing coming, missy!”

Instantly, the Slayer felt a dozen sets of puzzled eyes staring at her, and caught Dawn’s face turning three shades of red.

Holy crap, she thought. Did I really just say ‘missy?’

Grange leapt at the opportunity, ditching his sunglasses.  His eyes were dark and intelligent, and more youthful than she’d expected.  “I know what you’re thinkin’, Summers,” he said.  “Big, evil government guy, right?  Probably tryin’ to take over the damn world himself, just like Walsh.” The name snapped a tiny twig in Buffy’s head. “Yeah,” he added. “I knew her. Maggie was one of ours, once. So was Nancy Stark…”

Buffy gritted her teeth.  “Oh, gee thanks, that’s real comforting.”

“… and Kennedy was one of yours, right?  That don’t mean you throw out the baby with the bath water, now does it?”

Faith chimed down from her perch.  “Hear him out, Bee.  The man makes a whole lotta sense.”

“Thank you, Faith,” she shouted back, suddenly exasperated. “But, hey, forgive us if we don’t exactly trust your taste in men.”

“Oh, yeah, look who’s talkin’,” Faith scoffed, casting a sly glance at Spike. “Want me to read the scorecard out loud, babe?”

“Riley Finn is dead,” Grange boomed suddenly.

The last word reverberated through the library, through the table, the floor, through the past and the future and the bottom of Buffy’s spine.  The revelation was not a surprise, not by a long shot. Still, something long buried seemed to shudder in its grave.

Riley Finn is dead.

“How?” Buffy whispered.

“You know how!” Grange roared, and slammed a massive fist. “They murdered ’im.  Him and his whole goddamn team! Good men. And you know they won’t be the last.”

Buffy kept trying to concentrate, kneading the concept over in her mind, letting the teeth sink all the way in. And when they finally did, all she could feel was rage.

“Unless we stop ’em,” Grange added, so softly that it coaxed her to look up.

When she did, she saw an oddly familiar sight: a room of war-weary human faces.  Dawn and her entire entourage looked haggard, wrung dry from exhaustion, fear and doubt.  But they all were beaming hopefully at Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  And so, she realized, was Xander.

For one bright, shining moment, the world began to make sense again. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Her Calling was…

Well, 'calling'.

“Okay,” she said, nodding sullenly. “Whatever.  I’m in.”

“Same here,” said Xander, and seemed a little surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I mean what the heck. It’s time for payback, right?  Don’t care who’s signin’ the checks.”

A dozen faces lit up like candles, and the table erupted into rowdy applause.  Only Dawn seemed unmoved by this gesture, her face frozen in a polite, clinical mask. Grange himself clapped loudly, then leered into the shadows.  Spike was still looming wraithlike near the mouth of a stairwell, the vampire’s sultry blue eyes more impenetrable than ever.

“And how about you, my undead friend?” said Grange. “What do you say?”

“Sod off, usually,” Spike quipped. “But in this case, think I’ll just tell you to go shag yourself.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Save the world?” he scoffed. “Been there, done that. Trust me when I say, s’not what it's cracked up to be.”

And on that irascibly brief note, William the Bloody stomped off in the exact same direction as Rupert Giles had.  No glance, no nod. Not even one of those little thumb-and-finger ‘call me’ signs. Nada. Buffy felt her heart crashing down into the bottoms of her cheap, cheap shoes.  Spike kept walking, bootheels clacking away like a snare drum on the marble tiles.

“Wait,” she cried, the word dying in her throat.

“Done waiting,” an icy voice hollered back.  “Keep an eye on the brat for us, Slayer. Seems like a cheeky one, all told.”

And that was it.  Door.  Bang.  Slam.  Gone.

Again.

Grange waived a hand nonchalantly.  “Keep yer panties on, Summers,” he drawled.  “He ain’t goin’ far…”  He leaned leaned forward like he was about to tell a dirty joke, dark eyes flashing with something that was almost sinister.  “And if he does, he sure as hell ain’t goin’ alone. Trust me. We’ve been keeping an eye on that one for a long time, now.”

Join the club, mister, she thought.

Then, for some unknown reason, almost instinctively, she found herself scanning the balcony for Faith.

And, of course, she was gone too.

***

Stupid, plonking, ridiculous, ignorant, foolish, half-brained…

Spike measured his stride down the posh corridor.  The place looked like a reformatory for French debutantes.  He’d dined at a few of those in his day…

…ludicrous, witless, preposterous, buggering, blundering, bungling…

“Hey, Dead Zone! Where’s the fire?”

“Oh bloody perfect,” he said, not bothering to break stride.

“Aw, don’t be like that, babe,” she chirped.  “Don’t you remember all those good times we almost shared?”

Spike stopped dead in his tracks.  “I never liked you, you know.”

Faith batted her long eyelashes. The bird was dead sexy, like it or not.  There was something slithering around inside her that was just impossible to ignore. “Just wanted to welcome you back, is all,” she cooed.  “Bet it hasn’t been the warmest reception, so far.”  Leering, she began to stroke his arm.  “Ooh, nice duds, vampire. Where’d you get ‘em?”

“It’s a long story,” Spike grunted.  “Well, actually, no it’s not. I stole ‘em.”

“Really? Who from?”

“None of your business, pet,” he said, and jerked free. “Needless to say, not the sort of blokes you want to come ‘round collecting.  Which reminds me, you’d do well to send Andrew’s doggy back home right quick. I’m a bit familiar with that sort, and you do not want to see them when they get hungry.  Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Satisfied he’d put the stopper to it, he turned and stomped off again.

“So, where’re we goin’?” she asked, keeping pace.

“Right.  What part of ‘I dislike you intensely’ did you not understand?”

Faith spun him around sharply, her devil strength whistling through him like an electric charge.  A second hand shot southward, fingers scrambling roughly over his crotch.  “What part of ‘welcome back’ did you not understand?”

She pursed her red lips, hissing. The monster inside him roared to life.  He flung her to the ground, his teeth grinding like a gear. The stench of the blood in her veins filled him with a fresh wave of guilt.

“Relax tough guy,” Faith griped. “I was just kiddin’ around, Jeez!”

The monster was still roaring inside him, clawing at its cage. “Touch me again, and I’ll show you what a real 'tough guy'looks like, love.”

“Alright, already!”  She picked herself off the floor gingerly, stretched her back like a Bengal tigress. “ Just thought, as long as we’re stuck together we could have a little fun. But, hey, suit yourself.”

“What do you mean, 'stuck together'?”

“Sorry. Doctor’s orders, babe.  Gotta keep an eye on you. Make sure you keep outta trouble.”

He goggled at her in disbelief.  “Are you mad? You really think a ridiculous little Yank like you can keep up with a purebred Londoner? On his bloody home turf? ”  He laughed loudly for effect, but the truth was he didn’t find any part of this lass funny.  Not in the least.

“Hey, try me, hot stuff!  'Bout time the ‘big, bad wolf’ knew what it was like to have an annoying little pest for a shadow."  She cracked off a sadistic little grin. "Poetic justice, doncha think?”

Spike marched grimly on.  Night was falling fast, and if he hurried he could make the 5:45 shuttle to Chelsea.  He’d hit the girl up for a few quid, then.  Or maybe just hit her.  Buy a pack of smokes, change of clothes, bottle of Kentucky bourbon, cheap hotel room.   He’d drink it down in one go, then out the window, down to the underground again, east this time, as far east as east went.  Hit a pub or three.  ‘Nother room, ‘nother bottle.  Bit of sleep.  If he was lucky, maybe he’d even have a dream.  He missed those the most.

Then again, he wasn’t very lucky after all.  Fact was, he might never get past the 5:45 shuttle.  Or the quid, for that matter.

Well, that’s why they call it a plan, mate, he thought.  Best get on with it.

Going to be a very long life.