Disclaimer: I sadly do not own any of the characters. They are all the wonderful creations from the wacky mind of Joss Whedon, and I am only taking advantage of my love of the show to play with them for a little while

Spoilers: Takes place during Buffy Season 7, immediately after “Lies My Parents Told Me” (before Faith’s return), so it covers most of the Buffy series.

Dedicated: To Effie, who was one of my first inspirations to ever attempt to write fanfiction and whose friendship and support has helped to challenge me and keep me writing.


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“One day men will look back and say I gave birth to the Twentieth Century.”
-Jack the Ripper

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It was dark, the deep impenetrable ebony of some forgotten tomb. He blinked a few times in the blackness, uncertain if his eyes were even open. He lay on his back on the damp, musty cot he had become accustom to, staring upward at what he believed to be the ceiling. Again he heard the faint scratching noises that had awakened him. He lay motionless, holding his breath, listening intently, but again he heard only silence. Shaking his head, he let out a low sigh, and sat up. It was starting to get to him. After 2 and half years of imprisonment in his concrete hell, it was all starting to take its toll. He ran his hands through his disheveled, greasy hair and exhaled again. How he hated being human, being weak and powerless.

Again he heard the scratching and he rose, feeling his way towards the front of his room, towards the doorway. He stood on tiptoes, groping in the darkness with his fingers until he found the dirt smeared window. He pressed his body against the cold metal of the door and peered as hard as he could into the dark corridor beyond. The hallway wasn’t quite as dark as his cell but still he could scarcely make out the wall only a few feet across from his door. Suddenly something darker seemed to move before his eyes. He sucked in a quick breath, his pulse racing, as he pushed himself away from the door and staggered back towards his cot. What was that thing?

Fear gripped him as he dropped to the side of his cot, scrambling behind it, pushing his body as far against the back wall as he could. He could hear the scratching outside his door now, slow, steady, and metallic. He swallowed hard, his hands groping at the wall around him, searching for a loose piece of concrete, anything to defend himself with. Slowly he heard the lock on his door release and with a low creak the door swung in towards him. Three tall dark forms stood in the doorway, staring in at him.

“What, what do you want?” he breathed, his heart in his throat as they moved towards him, hands gripping his shoulders lifting him to his feet. He struggled against them until he felt the cold touch of a blade against his throat. Without a sound he allowed them to take him from his cell.

Quietly the three figures led him down the hallway, passed doors and rooms he was all too familiar with. As they moved forward he became suddenly aware of just how pervasive the blackness and silence was. Places that should have been lit were as black as his own cell had been. Where were all the guards? Suddenly he got his answer as he stumbled over something thick and heavy on the ground.

He fell hard on his bare hands, slamming his knees into the rock floor, his head hitting the side of the wall beside him. For a moment he wasn’t sure which way was up, the taste of blood warm and metallic in his mouth. He reached out a hand to push himself up but he touched something warm and sticky instead. He reached forward with his other hand and found it touching something soft and pliable. Moving his finger tips forward tentatively, he suddenly realized that he was touching a man’s face, a dead man’s face, and recoiled in horror, pushing his body back against the wall. Again the three figures reached down and lifted him to his feet and once again he struggled against them, his instincts to flee kicking. But once again they convinced him he had no other choice as another blade pressed carefully against the skin of is cheek.

He was being dragged forward again through the darkness, through the silence. He wanted to struggle, to fight, but he had been locked away for too long and he could feel his will to live slipping away. Bowing his head he resigned himself to the fate he was sure awaited him, a fate that ended with the biting slice of a blade.

Finally he saw the first hints of light seeping through the bars on the large metal doors before him. For a moment he was confused as he was dragged closer and closer towards the doors. It couldn’t be, could it? His captors were releasing him from his prison, from his hell? And before he could let the idea settle in he was standing outside on the course dirt of the Nevada desert. He squinted in the sudden brightness, his pupils retreating desperately from the harsh pale light of the moon. Glaring against the light, he tried to take in the forms of his captors, but their faces were hidden in the deep shadows of the red hoods they wore. In fact they were completely shrouded in hooded red robes, like monks of some forgotten mystical cult. He shivered as he tried to focus on the one to his left, his body weak from years of captivity and torture, his eyes searing from the soft light of the moon.

They dragged him for several more yards before lifting him roughly into the back of a truck, covered by a greasy black tarp. Two of the captors followed him in, one securing his hands behind his back, the other securing the tarp behind them. He dropped heavily to his side, his head banging against the metal floor of the truck, sending a cloud of acrid dust up into his face, filling his nostrils and burning his eyes. He coughed hard, gasping for air, before he was retched upward, a course piece of cloth shoved over his head. He cried out and shook his head violently trying to thwart the attack but with his hands bound he was helpless, and soon was dropped heavily back to the floor of the truck. As the engine started he found to his surprise a stream of fresh air pouring in through two tiny air holes cut into the fabric, and despite his uncertain situation he took pleasure the dusty smell of the Nevada night.

As the truck jolted forward he closed his eyes a smile dancing ever so slightly across his lips. At the moment he didn’t care who his captors were or where they were taking him. He was free again, free at last. Ethan Rayne was back in the world of the living.


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The loud squealing of brakes woke him from his sleep. For a moment he was confused of where he was, the rough fabric pressing into his eyes, his nose, his lips. How long had he been wearing this new mask? It felt like forever, but at most it could have only been a few days. Licking his cracked and dried lips, he winced in pain as he rolled onto his stomach, his arms aching from being pinned behind his back for so long. As the last remains of sleep began to lift from his mind, he tried to focus him on figuring out where the hell he was. He had slept so much in the last few days; first during the initial truck ride out of the military base, then a half hour in the hold of some chartered cargo plane where he was allowed to eat his only meal, a bag of stale pretzels and a warm juice box. There had been a brief stay in some run-down motel somewhere along the west coast, at least that’s what he could guess from the bits and pieces of conversations or radio broadcasts he heard from passer Byers whenever he was moved about. His best guess was that they were in California somewhere but to be honest they could be in Mexico. He had been so happy to escape from the Nevada base but now his new prison was starting to wear on his last nerve.

The sound of the tarp being pulled back caused him to roll quickly onto his back and start pushing himself deeper into the truck with his feet. Every time they came for him could be his last moments alive, and he intended to stretch them out as long as possible. But all to quickly he felt the iron grip of several pairs of hands, lifting him, and he was carried, despite his best protests, out of the truck and dropped roughly on his feet. With a knife blade pressed against the small of his back he was marched forward. The world around him was quiet, the occasional call of a bird, the soft crunching of leaves and twigs beneath his feet the only sounds he heard. Soon he felt the toe of his shoe bump into a step of some kind and he was moved up a few small stairs and through a doorway.

The smell of fermentation was strong in the air and he frowned, confused. Where could he possibly be? Suddenly hands grabbed his shoulders stopping him. He could hear the sound of something heavy and wooden being dragged across the floor, and before he knew what was happening he was being pushed down into a chair. Slowly he felt the ropes that had been cutting into his wrists for so long being untied, as the hood was removed from his head. He blinked for a few seconds in the dimly lit room before him, his hands rubbing instinctively at his swore and bloodied wrists. To his surprise he found himself sitting in the middle of a large store room of a winery, rack after rack of bottles resting against the walls surrounding him.

“Welcome friend,” a gentile southern voice called out to him from the shadows. Ethan glared into the darkness as the figure of a man, a preacher moved towards him.

“You,” Ethan whispered in awe, his voice tinged with fear.

“Ah, I see you are a man of faith, my son,” the preacher continued with a smirk. “You recognize the prophet before he speaks his message.”

Ethan swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. “You were the one that freed me?”

“Now we couldn’t have one of Her favorite mortals locked away when the fun is just starting, now could we,” he smiled broadly, extending his hand out into the shadows behind him. Slowly, ever so slowly the figure of a young woman moved forward. Ethan’s eyes widened, hatred seething just below the surface as he stared at the face of his enemy.

“Why my little Puck, you disapprove of my current form?” the young woman teased, her voice cold and full of malice. “Good, it is that hatred I am counting on.”

“What is it you want from me?” Ethan glared.

“Want, wanting is the path that leads to hell, my son. No we don’t want anything from you, rather we want to give you something instead,” the preacher moved slowly around the young girl in a circle, his eyes moving over her with reverence and lust.

“And what would this gift be?” Ethan licked his dry lips, raising and eyebrow at the odd pair that stood before him.

“Why vengeance of course, vengeance on the ones who imprisoned you,” the younger man stopped circling and stared Ethan straight in the eyes. “Vengeance is the sword of the righteous, and there is a little girl who desperately needs to learn this holy lesson.” He smirked down at Ethan and then back at the young woman.

“Don’t you want your vengeance Ethan? Don’t you want to watch this body suffer and all her friends suffer just like you suffered?” the young woman moved towards him seductively, her hands reaching out and caressing his face.

He nodded, his eyes transfixed on hers.

“I can give you your vengeance, Ethan,” she leaned in, her lips inches from his ear. “What do you say?”

Ethan turned his head slightly towards her face, her lips inches from his own. Looking up into her eyes he replied with a smile, “Where can I find the slayer?”


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©2004





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