As the slayer, she was used to bad dreams – demons and phantasms that visited her at night, threatening her and her loved ones – daring to send her carefully ordered world crashing into chaos.

These dreams, she could accept. Nightmares were nothing more than a reflection of the dangers she faced on a daily basis.

What she hated, what disturbed her sleep and left her unsettled, were the pretty dreams – dreams in which everything was as it should be – where her mother hadn't died, where demons were nothing more than fairy tale monsters, and vampires didn't exist outside of Bram Stoker's novel and late night B movies.

The problem with these dreams was not so much in the dreaming as in the waking. For upon waking she once again was forced to deal with – nothing, for everything, anything that mattered was gone – and yet she was there, and she had to go on.

"Another bad dream, luv?" Spike broke her self-indulgent reverie.

"I told you not to call me that." She bristled and turned away from him.

"You can't punish me forever, y'know." He put on a false display of bravado, pacing the cold, stone floor of his crypt. "Sooner or later you're gonna hafta start trusting me again. After all . . ." He ran a finger down her collarbone and then threatened to tug away the blanket she had tucked protectively around her shoulders. "I'm all you've got left."

"Go to Hell!" She jumped from her seat like a loaded spring. Fists and feet fueled by nothing more than her passionate anger, and lacking any of her carefully honed finesse, flailed against him like a late summer hailstorm.

"Easy, luv." He grabbed her arms, but she still struggled against him kicking and threatening to bite him. "We're on the same side, remember."

She wrenched her arms free, but didn't try to fight him anymore. "We were never on the same side, Spike. You're only working with me because you don't have any choice. Stop trying to pretend it's something else."

He rolled his eyes, having heard this refrain more times than he could count. "If that's what helps you get to sleep at night, Slayer," he called after her as she walked away, and into the sunlight. "Just remember who it is that's keeping your bed cold."

* * * * *

- PART I -
THICKENING OF FEAR

He'd come back only to try to talk to Buffy. They'd gone too far. He'd gone too far – lost control – and he would do anything to fix things – to make her understand – to make her accept him. For if there was one thing that was certain in his world right now, it was that Buffy had to be a part of it, and he'd do whatever it took.

He let himself into the house, and stopped, sensing almost immediately that something was very wrong. It was too quiet; it didn't feel right. When he looked back on that day, though, the thing that would stand out the most to him would be the blood.

He was a vampire; he was used to blood. This, though, this had been different. It had been wrong.

The house had smelled of Tara's blood.

He bolted upstairs, in a panic, and on reaching the master bedroom, he saw it.

Tara was supine in her lover's arms, the red spot on her blouse growing with every second that ticked by. Willow's eyes were blind with confusion and grief, and dark with power; her face was empty of any other emotion but raw pain. As she screamed, it sounded as if the very fabric of the universe was being torn open.

He thought about ducking slowly out – turning tail and running away – and would've done just that, but she'd seen him.

"Spike!!" She pointed at him, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. "Help me! Save her! Do something??" It was not a request, but a demand.

"I can't . . . I don't . . ." He stared at her, dumb and helpless, scared for both of them.

She stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears. Still, she wouldn't listen to his protests. "She can't die! Save her!"

"Red, I . . . I don't know what . . . I don't think I can." He knew one way, but he wasn't about to raise the possibility. It was too much, too extreme.

Somehow, she'd seen though, known where his mind had gone – somehow, she'd been able to read his thoughts. "You’ve turned someone before to keep them from dying." She spoke slowly, seemingly as surprised as he by the knowledge that she'd unwittingly stolen from him.

"Red, no." He took a step back toward the door. "The Slayer . . . my chip . . . I can't."

"She's dying. . ." Willow's voice broke, and she collapsed over Tara. He took another step backward, and wound up jostling the collection of perfume bottles on the top of their dresser. The noise made her look up, pinning him in place with her eyes.

"SAVE HER!!" A shadow passed in front of the window, darkening her red hair into a deep auburn as she yelled at him. A chill worked up his spine, and he shivered.

What Willow hadn't realized or had chosen to ignore when she'd momentarily tuned into his thoughts was that it had played out with disastrous results. He'd turned, and then been forced to stake, his own mother. Now, he was being asked to do it again. He had little doubt that the results would not be any better. In fact, he could almost guarantee it would be much, much worse.

"Willow . . ." he used her name, something he rarely did, in an attempt to reach her – to reason with her. "You don't know what you're asking! Buffy . . . "

"Buffy's not here right now," Willow answered with deliberate calm, and he shivered again.

"Don't mean she won't stake me when she finds out," he reasoned.

"You're afraid," Willow spoke as though the realization was something profound to her.

"Of her, yeah!" Spike was flip.

"Fear . . . " Willow repeated. "Of course . . ."

The fireball seemed to come out of nowhere, singeing the doorframe right next to him. He looked at the wood and sucked in his breath. Damn scary witch.

He looked around the room for something, anything, that would provide him with the means to escape the situation. Briefly, he wondered why saving his own skin and currying favor with Buffy seemed to be such mutually exclusive goals.

"DO IT!" She ordered as a new fireball formed on her palm.

He took a step closer to her, trying to reach that part of her that he knew still existed – the part that had been hardwired to believe that vampires are bad and must be killed, the part that valued Buffy's friendship, the part that hadn't been corrupted with a lust for power and magic that drove all reason and understanding down.

"Willow, listen to me . . ."

"I'm done listening . . ." The fireball rose off her palm and began to spin madly. Then seemingly of its own volition, it hit him square in the chest.

He screamed and threw himself to the ground writhing and beating at the flames that licked at his clothing and threatened to burn him alive right there in Willow and Tara's bedroom. Eventually, the flames were gone, but smoke continued to rise from his chest, and he waved it away, trying not to whimper in pain and fear.

"Save her," Willow said it again, her voice empty of emotion.

He knew, as desperate and power-drunk as she was, that Willow would not hesitate to kill him where he stood. The fireball was just a warning shot. Instinct for self preservation won over all the conflicting emotions he was experiencing. Better to face possible death later at Buffy's hands, than certain death now at Willow's all-too-powerful hands.

He slowly made his way into the room; his eyes were drawn again to the large bloodstain on Tara's chest. Wondering whether it might not be too late, he slipped into his game face and sank his fangs into her neck – mentally bracing for the pain he knew his chip would bring.

It never came.

Instead, as he drained the remnants of her life's blood from her body, he felt a rush. His body began to hum with the power – the earth magic – that had been such a part of the Wiccan's life. At the same time, his mind raced with the knowledge that he might once again be able to feed with impunity. He drank greedily, like a starving man being offered respite from a fast. It was over all too soon, and he had to fight from smacking his lips when he withdrew.

Willow watched him taking note of every action – every movement – every sound. He felt naked in front of her; the knowledge that she'd somehow managed to read his mind haunted him. She'd know if this didn't work; she'd kill him.

Keeping his back to her, as though that would somehow offer a level of protection, Spike pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and sliced open a vein at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. He raised Tara to it, letting gravity assist as the blood trickled past her lips and down her throat. He felt, rather than saw, a tiny shudder pass through her, and then it was done.

Willow grabbed him by the neck, her nails sinking like claws into the already bloody wound. "Did it work?"

"Yeah, it worked. . ." He staunched the cut with his hand, and then began to lap up the blood from his fingers. He was slightly gratified to see her turn away with thinly disguised disgust.

"How long?" she asked, her eyes never leaving Tara's seemingly dead body.

"Sundown," he answered, studying the carpet's nap with apparent interest.

He stood then and started to walk toward the door, but she stopped him – a flick of her wrist, and a binding spell paralyzed him where he stood. "You'll wait with me. Don't want you running off and telling anyone. They might try to take Tara from me, and I'm not going to lose her again."

"Right. . ." he said it slowly, still paralyzed, studying her like a zoo animal would its captor – always wondering whether the next encounter was going to bring punishment or reward, and always looking for a way out.

Another flick, and she released him. He skittered backward away from her, palms up in submission. He wouldn't break any of her rules.

He spent the next several hours pacing – staying far enough away from the window that the sun couldn't harm him, but close enough that he could measure its progress as it sank slowly through the sky toward the horizon. He paid the same cautious attention to Willow, remaining out of reach, though he know that she could reach him with her magic, but not so far away that she'd suspect him of trying to flee.

The bullet hole was still in the window, and in his mind's eye he traced the path it had taken, from the garden, through the window, into Tara. The only thing unclear to him was who had pulled the trigger – or why. Not that it mattered anymore. He had much bigger worries.

In the distance he heard sirens, and could only presume they had something to do with the person who had shot Tara. Dawn came home from school – announcing her presence with a slam of the front door and a bellowed, "I'm home!! Anybody here??" but with another smooth flick of her wrist from across the room, Willow quickly shut and locked the master bedroom door.

"Uh-uhh . . ." Willow shook her head as he began to open his mouth, and he noted a glazed, distant look in her eyes. She was as mad as Drusilla – but smarter, scarier, and stronger. She looked at him again and added, "You don't want me to have to do anything drastic like zipping your lips, do you?"

He sank to the ground next to the door, defeated. Where was Buffy?

* * * * *
The hospital.

Again.

Xander felt as though the better part of his formative years had been spent in hospital waiting rooms. He'd grown attuned to the rhythms of the emergency room, the way the action crescendoed into a frenetic code blue before falling back into the steady hum of business as usual. He knew the impassioned, frantic, uncontrolled grief that accompanied a relative being told their loved one had died. He could sense the screams that came from a place so deep that there was actually no sound to them.

It was all part of life on the Hellmouth.

He began to distract himself by studying the building's construction – trying to ascertain how many layers of cinderblock had gone into the walls and whether they met California's minimal earthquake construction code or had been exempted.

"Are you the next of kin?"

His ruminations interrupted, the question caught him off guard, and he stared blankly at the charge nurse. "Huh?"

"I need to speak with Miss Summers' next of kin. Is that you?"

The antiseptic smell of the hospital and the dull hum of the background noise pressed in against his consciousness like something real; he could almost anticipate another code blue being called. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and spoke, "Her dad's in L.A. She's got a younger sister . . . here." He opened his eyes to look at the nurse, and added because he felt he had to, "Buffy – Buffy's afraid of hospitals."

"It'll be okay . . ." the nurse put a hand on his shoulder in a way that made him question the truth in that statement and then changed the subject suddenly. "Do you know her father's number?"

Too many questions. Too much to think about. This wasn't fair. He wasn't the smart one. He wasn't supposed to be making the decisions. How had this happened?

He gripped the edges of the chair and again concentrated on the cinderblocks, hoping that if that part of his brain worked, the rest would follow.

"Let me call Dawn." Dawn would know. He swallowed hard and tried to push back the fear and nausea that rose from his stomach to his throat. Dawn trusted him, and he was about to betray that, for no reason other than that he didn't know Buffy's father's phone number.

When he got to the phone, his fingers dialed another number instead.

"Good afternoon, the Magic Box. What can we sell you today?"

"Anya? It's Xander." His heart was racing in anticipation of the frosty reception he knew she'd give him.

"Xander . . ." She was even colder than he'd expected, and he counted it as a minor miracle that she hadn't yet hung up on him. "Are you calling to beg me to take you back? Because you're wasting your time if you are. I don't want anything to do with you. I've moved on; I'm over you."

"That's not why I'm calling," he abruptly forestalled any argument.

"Oh . . ." Her confusion carried through the phone wire.

"Buffy's in the hospital," he broke the news in a rush. "I need to get in touch with her dad. Does Giles have the number there, maybe?"

Xander was met with silence on the other end of the line, and then, "What do you mean she's in the hospital?" Anya's voice was small, as though a little girl rather than a grown woman with several lifetimes of experience was asking the question. "I didn't think Slayers were supposed to get hurt – not hospital hurt."

"Warren shot her," Xander broke the news as simply and directly as he knew how, and was pained to realize that this would be neither the first, nor the last time he was going to have to do so today.

The news seemed to gain strength in the telling, and he gripped the receiver and repeated, his voice breaking with emotion "He shot her."

"She's going to die; isn't she?" Anya asked.

Xander didn't answer, and Anya took his silence as agreement. "She is going to die, and then Willow will try to resurrect her, and she'll be weird and depressed, and this isn't good . . ." she trailed off.

"Anya? The number," he reminded her.

"Hold on . . ." He heard a thunk of the receiver being placed against the counter, and then, in the background, shuffling papers.

"Here it is . . ." She was back. "The number is 310 . . ." He carefully wrote the digits down on his palm, concentrating on their form – making each number with grade-school precision – so that he wouldn't have to concentrate on anything else.

"Xander?" Anya asked after having relayed the number, "Do you want me to come down there? Maybe wait with you . . ."

The question caught him off guard, and it took him a moment before he answered. "No, you should stay there try . . . try to find Giles."

"Right," Anya answered. "Giles will want to know."

"Anya," Xander whispered before she hung up the phone. "Be careful."

"You too," she answered so quietly he thought he may have imagined it.

Code Blue. Code Blue. The computerized voice droned in the background, and he prayed silently that it didn't have anything to do with Buffy.

- PART II -
DENIES THE MEMORY OF THE ACTS

Tara came to with a yawn and stretch. To the casual observer, it would've looked as though she'd woken from a late afternoon nap – except for the giant crimson bloodstain that still soaked the front of her blouse.

She looked around in confusion, her face rapidly morphing between vamp and human as she wrestled with the conflicting feelings and impulses that were now coursing through her as the demon began to make itself comfortable in its new human shell.

Her eyes settled on her Wiccan lover. "Willow? Willow, what's going on?" She again stretched, and as she did so, settled into vamp face. "I'm hungry."

"She's hungry." Willow echoed. "What are we supposed to do?"

Spike glanced around the room lazily, weighing his tactical options and trying to understand the shifting power balance that had come with Tara's reawakening. "I'd say you need to find her someone to eat," he answered bluntly. "And pray the Slayer doesn't find you both first."

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," Tara spoke – her voice more brittle than he'd remembered. "Can we ever have a conversation that doesn't involve Buffy?"

Willow flinched at Tara's harsh words. "Of course, Baby. Of course . . . we'll just go out and find something for you to eat, and then we'll figure the rest of it out."

"Why do we have to go out?" Tara had shed her shirt and bra, and was rifling through the closet for something clean. Spike tried to look away, though she seemed either oblivious to or unconcerned by his presence.

It could've been a conversation they had on any other night – a couple trying to decide whether to go to a restaurant or get delivery – except that one of them was a newly risen vampire, and the other the most powerful witch he knew.

"We don't," Willow answered, still desperately trying to please her, "I just thought that you'd want to . . ." she searched for words. "Feed."

Tara slid a new blouse off the hanger and began buttoning it, and for a moment, Spike wondered whether she had heard Willow. The expression on her face when she turned around made it clear that she had. She wasn't Tara any more, but an animal, driven by pure instinct, doing what the demon inside her was driven to do.

She moved toward Willow, her eyes tinged yellow, her voice almost a half octave deeper, her stutter gone. "Oh, I want to feed . . . and I think you look delicious."

Willow started, but didn't struggle, as Tara's fangs sank into her neck. It was as though she'd known it was coming, and as she settled back a mixture of pleasure, pain, and relief on her features, the moment held Spike's attention. The bloodlust coupled with lust was captivating. Then his instinct for self-preservation won out over his voyeuristic impulses, and he bolted from the room.

He ducked into Dawn's bedroom, and saw her sitting on the bed, silent tears streaming down her face. "Spike?" she whimpered. "Spike, what's going on – where is everyone?"

"Not now, 'bite sized," he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her forcefully up from the bed. "Grab some clothes; we gotta get out of here!"

"Oww, Spike, you're hurting me!" she yelped, and then repeated a little with confusion and even greater fear, "You're hurting me."

"Yeah, think the chip's on the blink . . ." he began to explain and then stopped. "Look, we've got bigger problems than that. Get some clothes, I'll leave a note for your big sis, and I'll tell you the whole sodding story when we get back to my place."

Dawn crossed her arms defiantly. "How do I know you're not gonna eat me?"

"What??" Spike sputtered.

"Your chip's not working. How do I know you're not trying to lure me back to your crypt so you can eat me?" Dawn asked this as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

"Because Buffy would have my undead ass in a sling if she knew I was even thinking about touching your pretty little neck. That's why."

"That's right," Dawn poked him in the chest, directly over his heart for emphasis, "so don't you be getting any ideas."

As Spike muttered a general epithet regarding all Summers women, Dawn grabbed a change of clothes, then handed him a notepad. He hastily scrawled a note, and then put it in an envelope with Buffy's name in bold print and tacked it to the door. He only hoped it would serve as warning enough.

* * * * *

"You turned Tara!?" Dawn took two steps back from him and started searching the crypt for something with which to defend herself. "Buffy is so gonna stake you."

And not just for that . . . Spike thought. To Dawn, he only said, "I know . . . she needs to understand though – there were exigent circumstances."

"Been watching Law & Order reruns again?" She relaxed slightly seeing Spike's very genuine contrition.

"It's on every single bleedin' channel!" he whined.

Dawn jumped up to take a seat on one of the sarcophagi. "You know Buffy's not really an 'exigent circumstances' kinda girl."

"I know . . ." he sighed and sat next to her. "You think it'll count for anything that I saved you?"

"Maybe she'll thank you before she stakes you," Dawn answered with irony.

"I should be so lucky," he muttered.

Dawn's brow wrinkled. Even with Sunnydale's abnormally high death rate, it was hard to be prepared for the death of a friend. At the same time, neither of them were who they used to be – and Dawn had enough firsthand experience with vampires to know that. They were already dead, and nothing was going to bring them back.

"Maybe you could be the one to kill them," she suggested with a reassuring pat on his leg.

"Tara maybe," he mused, "But Teen Witch is scary strong – I don' know that I can take 'er."

Dawn pondered his words for a moment, and then smirked. "She's not going to wake up until tomorrow, right? And anyways, I know where she gets her power."

"Rack?" Spike asked, having already heard the rumors, and then repeated before she could answer, "Rack . . . of course." With an excited glint in his eye, he smiled for the first time that evening. Then, pointing an authoritarian finger at Dawn, he ordered, "Stay there."

"Oh no," she countered, jumping from her perch on the sarcophagus. "I'm comin' with you."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Look now, Polly Pocket, I don't have the time to watch you. Tara's a big bad now, and I'm not gonna let you risk your pretty little neck just so's your big sis can kill me twice."

"I can take care of myself." She threw her shoulders back and tossed her hair in an attempt to look more mature than she was. "Buffy was already killing vampires when she was my age."

"Oh bollocks!" Spike knew there was no way he was going to win this argument. "Fine, then, but don' make me regret this."

"I won't!" Dawn assured him and strutted out of the crypt after him, her chin still held high.

* * * * *

"Charge paddles to 350!" the ER physician called. "Clear."

Buffy watched from above as defibrillator paddles were inserted into her open chest cavity, and again as her body jumped in response to the jolt of electricity. It stung, and she felt an odd pulling sensation.

"Again!" the doctor called. "Clear!"

The prickling, pulling sensation grew stronger, and she wanted to cry out – surprised when her throat proved too tight to allow her to do so. And then it all disappeared into a void of blackness and pain.

"We've got a pulse," the doctor announced.

* * * * *

Everything seemed louder to Tara without the added white noise that came from the thrum of her pulse behind her ears.

It wasn't something that she noticed when she was alive, but she missed it now that she was dead; its absence was deafening.

Willow was on the floor where she'd left her, the blood on her throat just starting to congeal. Tara traced the outline of the wound with a light fingertip and drew some more of the blood to her mouth and sucked it off her finger. Willow had a sweetness – like a fruity wine – underlying the bitter, metallic taste of her blood. She had power, too; there was an almost intoxicating potency to her lover's blood – more than she'd ever realized when they were alive. She laughed, harshly, at the fool she'd been before – trying to get Willow to stop using her magic. That would never happen now. The two of them, together, they could own this town.

She laughed again. It was going to be fun. If Spike asked nicely, she might even let him join in.

It was time to move, though – before the others came back. She paced, confused; the oppressive silence in her head was keeping her from thinking clearly. Where could they go? She looked down again at Willow's still body. Of course!

Rack.

She should have thought of it sooner.

The majicks surrounding his den would hide them for as long as they needed, and as an added benefit, there was probably another meal or two to be found there.

She picked her lover's body off the floor, and headed out into the night.

* * * * *

"It's around here somewhere!" Dawn's voice had reached the painfully high pitch that came with frustration. "She's taken me here before!"

She rounded the corner of another alley, and began desperately feeling along the cinderblock walls. "It's gotta be here. It's gotta!"

She rounded another ally, Spike just behind her, and was startled by someone on the other side. "Tara!" she exclaimed and fought the initial impulse to shrink back.

"Dawn." Tara seemed to smile, and Dawn wondered whether it was just a trick of light that her canine teeth seemed longer, sharper than they had been. "You really shouldn't be out right now. You could . . ." at that Tara's face transformed into a sinister reflection of itself, "get hurt."

"I'm not alone," Dawn replied without moving. Her voice quaked, and she mentally cursed the betrayal of her fear.

"I'm with her," Spike stepped from around the corner. In one swift move, he pushed Dawn aside, hissing, "run, Niblet – run!!" and then turned to face Tara.

"Spike," Tara sidled toward him. "You wouldn't kill me now, would you? After all . . ." she took a step closer, and he could almost see the absence of pulse under her skin in the dim streetlight. "You made me."

He was frozen – watching her, and she continued to move. With lithe, sinuous motions, she worked her way slowly in his direction until she was only a hairsbredth away him. "I didn't think so," she whispered, running one long nail along the line of his neck with enough force to reopen the healing wound from which she'd drunk only hours before. Then, with a quick, cat-like flick of her tongue, she lapped up the few blood droplets that seeped from it. "You're too sweet."

He could only stand there, paralyzed with fear and confusion, as she slipped back into the darkness, as fleeting and ephemeral as a shadow.

She was so different – so unlike the quiet, reserved Tara he'd known. The constant pressing knowledge that he was the being responsible for having made her that way both pleased and sickened him.

* * * * *

Red. Hot and red, the light filtered through her eyelids. She tried to turn away from it, but found she couldn't. She started to take a deep breath but found she couldn't do that either. She felt like she was gagging, choking, and tried desperately, again, to breathe.

Around her, there were sirens, bells, whistles – noise – too much noise. She shuddered, still choking, and forced her eyes open in spite of the pain.

She was met with stark white – such a severe contrast to the red that had been surrounding her only moments earlier that she shut her eyes to drive out its brilliance. Curiosity and a need to know what was happening to her drove her to open them again. White. White sheets. White walls. White tape holding tubes in her arms. White fluorescent lights shining down on her from the white acoustical tiles of the ceiling.

She was in a hospital.

That very knowledge only served to increase the pain in her chest, and the tightness in her throat. She didn't belong in a hospital. She tried to scream – to make that clear to anyone that would hear her, but she only gagged and choked around the tube in her throat, while the cacophony of the incessant bells and whistles grew louder.

"Oh, you're awake." A woman – also in brilliant white – entered the room and spoke to her. "You should really be resting. You've had a very close call. I'm gonna give you something to help you go back to sleep." She drew a needle out of her pocket and slipped it into a port leading to one of the tubes in her arm.

She tried to fight the narcotic, but it was a fruitless battle – as too many of her more recent ones had been, and soon her vision began to blur, and red slowly winning out over white until there was nothing but blackness.

- PART III -
THERE'S SOMETHING IN MY BLOOD

He remained in the alley long after Tara had run away. The cut on his neck stung, and he reached up to run a finger over it. At the rough motion, the sting flared up to a slow burn, and then ebbed to a tingling itch. He again licked the blood from his fingers – and then spat disgusted with himself. He didn't even know who he was anymore. Preoccupied with Buffy, castrated by his chip, reduced to drinking pig's blood – or worse, his own -- he needed a change.

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted back to Dawn – wandering the streets of Sunnydale alone – and the promise he'd made to Buffy. He growled, pushing the thought from his mind and strode off, determined, in the direction opposite that which she'd run. Dawn, Buffy, and the whole bloody lot of them were no longer his concern – in fact, the sooner he could force himself to forget them, the better he'd be.

First, though, he'd stop for a drink.

"Did you hear?" A demon grabbed Spike by the arm as soon as he entered Willy's bar.

"Try not to hear much of anythin' if I can help it," he answered. "Man could get into trouble if he knows too much."

"You'll hear this one sooner or later," the demon answered, a long, forked tongue coming out to lick his wide, black lips. "Human over there," he gestured over his shoulder in the general direction of the bar, "claims he shot the Slayer."

If Spike's heart still beat, it would've stopped at that very moment. As it was, he found himself thankful that his lack of a heartbeat left him immune to shock and vertigo. His sense of foreboding was amplified by his absolute certainty in the veracity of the demon's news. Rypognaq demons can't lie.

He looked in the direction the demon was pointing, and saw a solitary figure crouched on a barstool nursing a wine cooler. He recognized him almost immediately.

Spike didn't even pause to contemplate what his next step would be. He pushed the 450 pound demon out of the way and strode over to Warren. Pulling him from the barstool by the collar of his shirt, Spike held him several inches off the ground and glared at him silently.

Spike's nose wrinkled in disgust as the contents of the other man's bladder trickled onto the top of his Doc Martens, but he remained silent.

Warren filled the silence. "You c-can't hurt me," he stammered. "Y-you've g-got a ch-ch-chip, and you c-can't hurt me w-w-w-without h-hurting yourself."

"If I were you, I wouldn't be puttin' that theory to the test just yet, Robot Boy," Spike slipped into gameface as he spoke. All he wanted to do was hurt him – as badly as he'd hurt Buffy. He would've done it even with the chip's punishment. That the chip seemed to no longer function was only icing on his cake.

Warren paled further. "Th-this is a safe haven. Y-you can't touch me here."

Spike pulled the other man a little bit closer. "Wanna bet?"

"What do you want with me?" It came out several octaves higher than his normal voice.

"I want to know what the bloody hell you did to Buffy, you sodding git! Did you shoot her?"

"Yes . . ." Warren squeaked.

"What about the witch?" Spike twisted the collar of Warren's shirt, threatening to cut off the circulation above his neck.

"What witch?" He was crying now, and his cowardice only served to further fuel Spike's anger.

"Tara – Willow's girlfriend. She got shot, too."

"She got shot? Oh, God – I didn't mean to. I just meant to kill Buffy."

The world seemed to stop at that moment, and the bar fell silent, all the patrons watching to see what Spike would do next.

For his part, Spike found himself filled with a sense of sudden calm and purpose. Buffy had been shot. Buffy was dead. And he was going to return the favor.

"It was an accident?" Spike asked again by way of confirmation.

"Yeah . . ." Warren nodded enthusiastically.

"You didn't mean to do it?" He repeated his voice calm, soft, reassuring.

Warren again nodded, the power of speech seemingly beyond him at the moment.

"Oops!" he whispered and twisted Warren's neck until it broke. "My mistake." He dropped Warren's lifeless body to the floor and strode from the bar without looking back. His chip never fired.

As he walked the streets of Sunnydale, the same three truths echoed through his mind. Tara's a vampire. Buffy's dead. My chip doesn't work. It should've been a time for celebration. He no longer had to worry about Buffy's reaction to Tara, and better still, Buffy's entirely edible, and completely helpless little sister was back at his crypt waiting for him.

Maybe he wouldn't leave town so quickly after all.

People passed him, seemingly oblivious to the danger that he now posed to them. He now had the power to make any one of them his next meal, and yet he couldn't bring himself to eat them. He told himself that he just wasn't hungry – if you deny a man food long enough, he no longer has an appetite no matter how hungry he may be.

He knew, though, that he was deluding himself. Buffy, the Hellmouth – it'd done something to him. With a roar he turned and drove a fist into the nearest wall, roaring again in frustration as he pulled it back and noting the knuckles were already bruised and bloody.

His frustration and confusion disoriented him, and he stopped dead in his tracks, not knowing whether to move forward, or backward, and not entirely sure which way either was. In the end, some primal instinct drove him back home – to the seclusion, safety, and sanctity of his crypt.

To Dawn and the promise he'd made to a woman that was no longer even alive.

* * * * *

Dawn was sleeping when he arrived. Curled up on the hard stone sarcophagus one hand fisted under her chin, it looked almost as though she'd fallen to sleep right there waiting for him. Which, he realized upon reflection was probably exactly what had happened.

He watched her for a while; her mouth was pursed into a tiny rosebud, her chest rising and falling with every breath. He wanted her, wanted to consume her in every sense of the word, and yet, all he could do was stand there and watch her. He sighed, reflexively, and strode across the room. If he couldn't eat her, and couldn't fuck her, he may as well wake her up.

"Hey," he touched gently on the shoulder, wanting to rouse her without scaring her. "Hey!" He tried again, this time shaking her slightly.

"Oh. . ." she blinked, and looked up at him. "Spike. Hi. What time is it?"

"'lo," he answered glumly, ignoring her question, and sat next to her.

"What happened? Did you kill Tara?" she asked, excitement and something akin to bloodlust glistening in her eyes.

"Not yet," Spike replied, his disappointment etched on every feature.

"Don't worry," she tried to lift his spirits. "My sister's probably lookin' for her, too." She spoke with such certainty that Spike couldn't look at her. "I stopped by the house on the way back and she wasn't there, so that's probably where she is, out lookin' for Tara . . ."

"'bit," Spike interrupted.

"What?" Dawn looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"Buffy . . . your sister's been shot."

"Spike that's not funny!" She paled and her voice shook.

"She was shot when Tara was shot. Warren shot them both." Spike informed her, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezing as though that would diffuse the magnitude of the news.

"Liar!!" She jumped off the sarcophagus and began pummeling him with her fists. "You're a liar!"

He let her hit him until she didn't have the energy to do so anymore, and she collapsed against him crying, sniffling, and hiccupping. He awkwardly patted her back trying to soothe her. "Shhhhh . . . I know . . . shhhh . . . it'll be okay . . . shhh." He tried to convince her though he himself was unconvinced.

There was a part of him that hated himself at that moment, for being such a pansy ass as to comfort her. There was a part of him that hated himself for being the monster that broke the news to her in the first place. He didn't know which part of himself he hated more.

* * * * *

The transition from sleeping to waking was not as painful the second time. The hum, a constant buzzing, was the first thing she noticed. The electrically driven machinery was everywhere – the machinery that was monitoring her vital signs, the machinery that was breathing for her, the machinery that was cleaning the air, the machinery that was keeping the room lit as bright as day.

She felt herself quickly growing mesmerized by the constant whooshing thumps of the respirator, and forgot she was no longer dreaming.

The tube down her throat made her gag, and she began to cough again, trying to expel it.

"Awake?" It was someone different. She turned her head to look in the direction of the voice – and saw a man in a white lab coat, making notes in her chart.

Buffy nodded, and gestured to the tube in her throat begging wordlessly to have it removed.

"You're Miss Summers," the doctor pronounced – ignoring her frantic hand signals, and instead shining a penlight into her eyes.

She nodded, her eyes tearing at the intensity of the light.

"Good, good," the doctor nodded. "I'm Doctor Davis – we're gonna do what we can to get you out of here. Can you move your toes for me?"

Buffy complied, her frustration growing, and again motioned to the breathing tube. "Fine, then; you're healing just like we expected." He nodded in satisfaction. "How about sitting up? We'll get the tube out, and then get you out of here."

Buffy attempted to comply, moving slowly as the room swam around her. She gripped the bar on the side of her bed and trained her eyes on a random spot on the wall across from her until the feeling abated.

"Good . . . good girl. Now, cough for me." As he spoke, he wrapped one hand around the chest tube. She coughed, and he pulled. She gagged, and he pulled again. The tube came out, and he quickly dropped it to the floor.

Exhausted, Buffy lay back on the bed.

"Not now!" Dr. Davis scolded her. She felt him slide his arms underneath her – lifting her from the bed and transferring her to a gurney. In the back of her mind, she wondered why she hadn't noticed him bring it in with him.

He buckled the straps around her, and she stiffened against their confinement. She opened her mouth to argue – to scream – to protest – but instead succumbed to the blackness that once again pressed in on her from all sides.

- PART IV -
THE DETAILS AND THE FACTS

Tara's stomach rumbled again, and she cursed herself and her inability to feed. Willow had been easy, willing prey. Rack, high on stolen power, had been unsatisfying – his blood bitter, like poison. She couldn't finish him. Unfortunately, the rest of Sunnydale's citizens weren't nearly as complicit as her lover and a strung-out majick junkie had been; they'd all gotten away. She now found herself walking along the paths of UC Sunnydale, willing the universe to provide her with anything – a drunken frat boy, an absentminded professor, an overly trusting freshman – so that she could feed.

As if in an answer to her wish, a young woman rounded the corner from the opposite direction.

"Excuse me!" Tara called out to her, and she stopped. "I just transferred here, and I'm a little lost. Can you tell me how to get to Old Hall?"

"Old Hall?" the other woman repeated, running closer to Tara so they wouldn't have to shout. "Sure it's just . . ." The sentence was cut off as Tara sank her fangs into her neck. The blood made a gurgling noise in her throat as though she was choking.

She didn't even try to hide the body. Bloodlust and hunger sated, she wanted nothing more than to go back to her hideaway and sleep – with Willow at her side.

* * * * * *

Buffy groaned. A giant weight was pressing down on her from above, and she fought back against its invisible crush. She'd been fighting this foe for days, winning some battles and losing others. She was tired, and she wished the light would come back so she could see what she was fighting.

She wished that she could find a way to untie her arms, too. It would be so much easier. If she could just move her arms, her hands, her feet – or use any of the tools on which she'd come to rely. She could only struggle, thrashing her entire body in an attempt to dislodge it. Tired, she decided she'd let it win this time, and save her strength for a later battle.

* * * * *

The sunrise gave him an excuse to stay inside – to hide – to temporarily forget all that had taken place the day before. Tara, like he, would be driven back indoors. Willow would not yet have risen.

Dawn was still wrapped in his arms, snoring softly, congested from all the crying she'd done the night before. He hadn't been able to bring himself to move – as afraid of what would happen if he did as he was of what would happen if he didn't. He knew he should wake her now, if only for the appearance of telling her she had to go to school, but he knew it would also be pointless.

So he let her sleep. He wondered briefly what a terrible place the world must be that this scared teenager found his arms to be the best refuge.

She stirred at that point. Waking, and looking up at him with eyes that still seemed preternaturally large, she asked, "Spike?"

It was a single question, both frightened and hopeful, and filled with the shared sorrow of the previous night. There could be only one answer, "Yeah, 'bit," he said brushing his palm over her tangled hair, "I'm still here."

* * * * *

It was Anya who woke him. Sound asleep in the waiting room chair, he'd had no idea how much time had passed.

Abruptly, with a clipped, "You need to get up now," she shook him awake, and stood, impatiently, in front of him until he brought his bleary eyes to focus on her.

"Wha – Anya?" Confused, he finally asked, "What time is it? What are you doing here?"

"It's 2:30 on Friday afternoon. I came to get you to tell you that you can't sleep here anymore and also that Buffy is missing."

He blinked hard, trying to figure how he could have been so unaware of the passage of time, and then quickly realized that was the less important issue. "What do you mean Buffy's missing?"

"I went to look at her before I woke you up. She's not in her room. You told me the doctors said they saved her life, so she should be in her room. Only the nurses are saying she disappeared and they're looking for her." Anya explained with her simplistic logic.

Xander paled, and clenched and unclenched his fists. "I guess you're right, we should leave – see if anyone else knows what's going on."

* * * * *

"You should eat something," Spike spoke softly to Dawn who was currently filling page after page of a composition book with a tightly cramped pattern of lines and blobs. "When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

"Not hungry," she answered not looking up from the notebook. Over her shoulder, he could see the design looping back over itself although nothing touched or even intersected.

"You have to be hungry," he countered. "Look, it doesn't even have to be real food – I'll get us a Bloomin' Onion or a pizza or something, but I'm not gonna let you starve. You're too skinny already."

"Not hungry," she repeated, her pen still moving wildly over the paper.

"Fine," he sighed. "But I'm not gonna eat either."

The awkward attempt at adolescent psychology failed, and as his stomach rumbled he again cursed the iron will of the Summers women.

* * * * *

"What?" Anya looked up from the register, desperation and anxiety carved into every feature. She was looking for reassurance, and he was going to fail her – again. He was always surprised at how she could be so womanly in some ways, and so purely innocent and childlike in others.

"They're all gone," he said, sinking defeated into one of the chairs. "Willow, Tara, Dawn, Buffy – I can't find any of them."

"What do you mean they're gone?" she asked, confused. "People just don't disappear, Xander – not unless, well, unless they've been transported into an alternate dimension, or well, there was that time that Buffy was zapped with that ray, but, this is wrong. People aren't supposed to just disappear."

"I checked the hospital again. The security guards have looked over the video tape from when the nurse last took her vitals to half an hour later when they noticed her missing. There's nothing. The police are looking, too," he told her, and then, sinking even further back into the chair, he shook his head, in shock and disbelief, his voice breaking, "there was so much blood."

She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "It'll be okay," she told him, moving closer to embrace him from behind, and rest her head atop his, "it'll be okay."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

They both jumped at the comment and turned to see Willow in the doorway, her hand still on the bell to keep it from ringing. She was dressed in black, her hair hanging limply around her face, and Xander noted with a shiver, she was very much a vampire.

"Willow," Anya was the first to speak. "We thought you were dead."

"A reasonable conclusion . . ." She let go of the bell, and then forced the door shut behind her with a flick of her wrist. "But, as they say, rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated." She had continued to move forward as she was speaking, and Xander felt as though he were experiencing déjà vu. Something told him, however, that in this case, it wasn't an alternate dimension Willow; this was the real thing.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Xander couldn't help but stare. The stark contrast between her skin and her hair, and the deep red lip color she'd chosen to wear was striking even as he kept reminding himself of how evil she was.

"I dunno," she answered languidly. He sat still, mesmerized, even as she now stood directly behind him and began to run her hand teasingly down his arm. "I thought I might pick up a few books."

He fought to keep from tensing under her touch. This was wrong.

Willow was a vampire.

She was a vampire, and she was evil.

She was vampire, and she was evil, and she was in the store.

She was a vampire, and she was evil, and she was in the store, and she was going to kill them.

"S-sure thing, Wil'. Whatever you want!" He knew that she could sense his fear. She was the one in the position of power, and his only hope was that they would be of more use to her alive than dead. Maybe that would allow them the time to get out of this mess.

Anya hadn't spoken yet. She sat across the table, pale and wide-eyed. He could tell, though, by the set of her jaw, that she, too, was not yet ready to give up. He took a chance. "Anya knows the store best. Why don't you tell her what you want, and she'll go get it for you. You and I can stay here and . . . talk. I'm sure there's a lot you want to fill me in on."

"Xander . . ." Anya started to protest. With a sharp glance and a barely imperceptible shake of his head, he cut her off.

"Black arts," Willow demanded.

Anya again opened her mouth to protest and then, after another sharp look from Xander, stopped. Instead, with an uncertain edge to her voice and artificial smile, she said, "Of course!" Watching over her shoulder with every step, she moved to the upper level of the store.

Willow took Anya's seat across the table from Xander. A half smile playing at the corner of her lips, she unabashedly surveyed him. "Xander Harris, what am I going to do with you? I don't need sex – well, not from you, and I don't need any minions – I'm powerful enough on my own, but you amuse me. I think I'd like to keep you around – maybe a pet."

"Th-that's good!" It came out as a yelp, and he again cursed what he perceived as his cowardice.

"Of course, Anya's going to have to die." She stated it simply, without any hint of emotion. "She'll just get jealous, and I can't have her in my way."

He looked up to the loft where Anya was still perusing the collection of books, his heart racing as he tried to find a way to buy her time. Again he cursed both himself and the situation. This was wrong. Willow – the smart one – was now plotting against him as his enemy. Buffy – the strong one – felled by a bullet and vanished from the hospital.

Heart was not going to get him out of this mess, but heart was all he had. "ANYA!!" He screamed it so loudly that even Willow flinched. "Get OUT of here!!"

The books fell to the floor with a crash, and he could hear the glass break as she dove through an upstairs window. Willow flew from her chair, reacting only with enough time to slap him, hard, across the face. His cheek stung and tears welled up in his eyes.

He looked up at her, his courage bolstered by that minor victory. Willow's eyes, angry and yellow, stared down at him. "That was not funny."

"No," he replied, defiantly, "I can't say that it was."

She turned her back on him, as though already bored by the exchange, "I'm going to have to go get my own books now."

He watched her back as she ascended. It was over. She didn't care if he left. Knocking the chair over in his haste, he flew from the store.

* * * * *

When she woke up again it wasn't white, but a yellow – filtered sunlight through gauzy curtains. There was a tree outside – and a crocheted canopy on her bed. She had absolutely no idea where she was.

Beeping. There was still beeping. And tubes. There was an IV in her arm. She sat up, and ripped the tube from her arm, barely noticing the sting of the adhesive tape. A tiny spot of blood welled up where the needle had been and she brushed it away.

The beeping grew faster, and she turned to see a heart monitor resting atop the heavy oak bedside table.

"You're up." The voice came from the open door way. It was the man from the hospital – Dr. Davis – only she was beginning to think he wasn't really a doctor.

"Who are you?" Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears – harsh, strained, hoarse.

"Buffy . . ." The voice came from the shadows, but she didn't wonder to whom it belonged. She would've known the warm, learned, British accent anywhere.

"Giles?" She felt tears running down her face, and brushed them quickly away. "Giles, what's going on?"

She saw Dr. Davis step aside to admit him, and he was soon at her bedside, wrapping her in his arms. "Dear God, Buffy, you really need to stop doing this."

"Doing what, Giles?" she asked, confusion fueling her anger. "I don't even know what happened." Her voice grew stronger as she used it. "I was with Warren, and then . . ." She paused and looked down at her chest, noticing for the first time the row of stitches emerging from the neckline of her pajama top. "He shot me . . ." As the realization passed through her, Buffy shivered in spite of the warmth of the room.

Giles remained stoic, silent. There was nothing he could do or say that would serve to reassure her.

She pulled away from him, gingerly angling her body to face him. "What happened? Where am I? How did you get here? Where's Dawn?" Her panic grew with each question, and the heart monitor, began to let out an alarm, to indicate a dangerous acceleration in the Slayer's heartbeat.

"Shhh. Please try to stay calm," Giles attempted to soothe her. "You're not going to do anyone any good if you don't get better first. Please try to relax."

"You relax!" Buffy angrily ripped the electrodes from her body, daring both Dr. Davis and Giles, with a glance, to stop her. "You still haven't told me what I'm doing here! Or," she added, pointing to Dr. Davis, "who that guy is. I'm beginning to suspect he's not a doctor."

"I am a doctor, Buffy," he said, entering the room for the first time, to shut off the still blaring monitor. "I'm also a Watcher."

"You don't sound British." It was the only argument she could come up with.

"Not all watchers are from England," Giles told her, "And Dr. Davis is also a powerful warlock. You're still in California. The Council has moved you to one of our safe houses, so you can rest and heal without the added questions that would come from the Slayer's accelerated healing. Dr. Davis will supplement modern medicine with some of his majicks."

She wanted to argue. This wasn't right – and yet, all she could say was, "I suppose it's better than a hospital." Grudgingly, she added, "Thank you."

Giles cleared his throat – and Buffy looked up at him. Not meeting her eye, but instead keeping his focus trained at some point outside the window, he stated simply, "Your sister's missing."

Buffy sucked in her breath and shook her head, "No. . ."

"Buffy . . ." he spoke her name softly, but it still had a sharp edge of warning to it

When she looked up, he added "Willow and Tara are also missing."

She stiffened, but something told her this wasn't the worst of it. Giles continued, not waiting for her reaction. "There was a lot of blood at your house when the police went there – not just yours."

"Warren?" she asked, no longer caring that the tears were falling freely.

Giles didn't answer her question. Instead, as though he hadn't heard her, he continued with his dispassionate recitation of the facts, "Someone saw a vampire that looks a lot like Spike kill Warren at Willy's bar the other night."

"Spike couldn't . . ." she began, and then stopped herself, the memory of her last encounter with the vampire in question filling her with a white hot rage. Spike could. Spike had.

"I'll kill him. And if he's done anything to my sister, I'll kill him twice." She threw the covers back, ready to leap from the bed, until Giles' firm hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Not yet," he attempted to reason with her. "You're not strong enough yet."

"I'm the Slayer," she argued, "I heal quick." She tried to push him aside, and realized he was right. She didn't even have the strength to do that.

"Not that quick," Dr. Davis had joined Giles at her bedside. "But we can speed the process a little. Here," he handed her a mug of a deep brown liquid that smelled like a mixture of peppermint tea and jaegermeister. "Drink this."

She wrinkled her nose, but complied – she'd do anything if it meant she might be well enough to do kill Spike.

* * * * *
TBC . . .

- PART V -
I CAN'T REALLY HEAR YOU

Anya was at his apartment, curled in his bed, when he got back. He hadn't expected to see her there, but it hadn't come as a surprise either. She'd lived there until recently, and she did still have a key. He hadn't accepted it when she'd tried to return it.

What he hadn't expected, however, was that she would kiss him.

Her lips were as lush, warm, and inviting as he'd remembered. He'd only been dreaming about them every day since he left her at the altar.

"Anya . . ." he gasped, after she'd finally pulled away only long enough to breathe.

"You saved my life," she told him, simply. "Thank you."

She kissed him again, and tried to pull him back toward the bed, but he stopped her. "We can't keep doing this every time you get scared."

"Why not?" she asked with her childlike simplicity. "It makes me feel better."

"It makes me feel worse," he countered.

She blinked. "This is about me; not you. Why does sex have to be so complicated, anyway? Why can't it just be about two people enjoying the comfort of each other's naked bodies and hard, moist, soft parts that fit together well?"

Xander sat, hard, on the bed, defeated. A beautiful woman was all but throwing herself at him with an offer of no-strings-attached sex. He was an idiot. "You've got me there."

He kissed her again, then, the back of his mind still hoping that maybe she would realize this was something more – a chance to pick up where they'd both so unfortunately dropped off. He slid a hand inside her blouse, under the hooks of her bra, tentatively trying to unfasten it.

The doorbell rang.

She leapt away from him as though she'd been burned. Her lipstick smudged, her hair and clothes astray, there was no question of what they'd been doing. There was no reason for them to feel guilty either, and yet, she wouldn't meet his eyes as he slowly moved to answer it.

"Giles!"

Maybe there was a reason to feel guilty.

"Mr. Harris." He stepped past Xander without waiting for an invitation. "Noticing Anya on the bed, he added, "Oh, Anya, good."

"Giles," Anya's voice sounded hoarse. "I wasn't about to have sex with Xander."

Giles removed his glasses, and mumbled, "That's . . . that's quite alright, not really any of my business whether you were . . . or, uh . . . not."

"Giles, thank God you're here, everything's screwed up. I don't know where Buffy is, and Willow's a vampire."

Xander had seen Giles unsettled before, but he'd never seen him scared. This news made him pale, and he reached over and gripped the back of Xander's kitchen chair for support.

"Are you sure?" was all he could ask.

"I saw her, too," Anya verified. "She came to the shop looking for books on dark magic. I think she was going to eat us. Xander saved my life."

Mutely, Xander nodded, noting Giles knuckles turn white as he gripped the chair back tighter.

Slowly Giles let out a breath. "We have Buffy at a safe house outside of San Diego. I suggest you two come with me until we can figure out what we're going to do next." He paused, and then hesitantly asked. "Have either of you seen Dawn?"

They both shook their heads. Giles let out another stream of air. Anya had come up behind Xander and reached for his hand, in a small voice she asked, "Does this mean Dawn's a vampire, too?"

"God, I hope not," was all Giles said.

* * * * *

Spike had had enough. Having filled every page of the notebook, Dawn had resorted to now drawing the same endless patterns all over her arms, and when she ran out of skin, then began to blacken each nail precisely with the ballpoint pen.

She still hadn't eating anything, and was speaking only in monosyllables when he tried to talk to her.

Enough was enough. He snatched the pen from her hand and broke it roughly in two, throwing the pieces to the floor at her feet.

"Hey!" she screamed both angry and startled.

"Get up," he ordered. When she didn't comply, he grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her from the couch. "I said get up."

"Stop it," she squealed. "You're hurting me."

"Don't care; get up." She blinked tears from her eyes, but didn't resist.

"Good –" He nodded. "Now go get your coat. You 'n' me are going out, and you're gonna eat."

"I said . . ." she again began to protest.

"Don't care; not listenin'. An' if I hafta, I'll hold you down 'n' force feed ya'. You're gonna eat tonight."

She sniffed and swallowed, fighting back tears. Knowing that arguing with him was useless, turned to go get her jacket.

* * * * *

It was a long, silent car ride between Sunnydale and San Diego. Giles kept both hands firmly on the wheel, his eyes trained firmly on the horizon. The radio was tuned to NPR, and Xander found himself growing steadily more interested in "Talk of the Nation."

Every so often, Giles would open his mouth as though to say something, and then, as though thinking better, would close it again.

Anya, tactless as always, finally cut to the chase, "We're going to die, aren't we?"

"Anya – shhhh!!" Xander tried to hush her before she got carried away.

"I need to know, Xander," she argued. "I have to prepare myself for something like this." Covertly in a half whisper, she added, "I have to know whether I need to have sex with you again."

Giles clutched the wheel tighter, and through the floor of the car, Xander could feel the road rushing by even faster.

"Anya . . " Xander drew her name out, both trying to calm her and buy time. He picked her hand up, threading her fingers through his. "I promise you that we won't die without having sex again. Okay?" He squeezed her hand, and fought the impulse to kiss it, before dropping it.

"Fine," she agreed, sounding less than convinced. "I still can't believe Buffy was so stupid to get herself shot."

"Anya!" Giles snapped, and Xander could feel the car speed up a little further. "Could you kindly shut up?!" The car lurched forward again, and from over the seat, Xander could see the speedometer top 80.

She opened her mouth to say something, and Xander shook his head. Not now.

* * * * *

"Okay, Snack Pack . . ." Spike waved his hand along the shops dotting Sunnydale's main street. "What'll it be? Ice cream? Muffins? Pizza?"

"Whatever," Dawn mumbled. She ran the toe of her shoe along a crack in the sidewalk and refused to meet his eyes."

"Hey!" He placed a hand under her chin and tilted it back up. "Look at me."

She did, and he could she was straining to suppress her emotions. "Your not the first kid to lose a big sis, but I made a promise to Buffy a long time ago to look after ya', 'n' I'm gonna keep it, okay? You're not alone."

Dawn sniffed, and nodded. With a half smile she asked, "Can I have a Frappuccino?"

"Caffeine'll stunt your growth," he said almost by habit.

"I'm already taller than –" she looked back down at the ground, having caught herself, "Buffy was."

"Okay--" He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in what he told himself was a friendly gesture. "Just this once."

Bluesy folk music drifted through the doors of the Starbucks. The yellow-shaded lamps and scent of freshly cooked baked goods further adding to the artificially warm ambiance. Dawn walked to the counter and ordered with such poise that he had a feeling this wasn't the first trip she'd made to the coffee shop. It was, however, the first sanctioned trip.

Sitting at the table, he traced the checkerboard of squares that had been inlaid on the top. Like pieces in a game, they were being knocked off one-by-one. Tara was dead, and that was his fault. Willow was dead, and that was his fault, too. Buffy was dead, and while he hadn't pulled the trigger, he'd sure as hell put her in the path of the bullet.

He looked again at Dawn. The key's energy still present in every molecule of her body – but beyond that, she was still something special. He'd do anything to ensure she stayed that way.

"I'm sorry," she said, noting the single cup in her hand as though for the first time. "Did you want something, too?"

"No!" he said, with more force than he'd intended. "No, I'm fine for now."

"'Kay," she replied, and as her lips pursed around the straw, he again allowed himself to become preoccupied with the checkerboard patterns.

* * * * *

The gravel crunched under the tires of Giles' car. Anya had fallen asleep against Xander's shoulder, and he shook her gently awake. "An? Anya? Hey, we're here."

She blinked, confusion furrowing her forehead. "I was sleeping on you."

"It's okay," he said. "It's been a rough few days."

"No." She frowned. "I shouldn't've been sleeping on you. I still haven't been able to figure out how I feel about you."

"Anya . . ." he cut her off with a pointed look at Giles.

"Does he still want me to shut up?" Anya asked. "I'm sure I was quiet the entire time I was sleeping." She paused only briefly in thought, and then added, with a touch of venom, "Unless, of course, I was snoring."

Xander didn't comment, instead, he reached for the bags. "Why don't we just go inside? You can figure out how you feel about me, and let me know in the morning."

"Fine," she sulked. "It sure was a lot easier to hate you for leaving me at the altar before you saved me life. Now all the sex feelings are coming back, and I don't know if it's because I still love you or only because I'm scared."

Giles was unlocking the door, but gave no appearance of having heard them. Xander didn't find it necessary to let her know that there were certain things that didn't need to be disclosed in mixed company.

* * * * *

She was sitting on an overstuffed couch just inside the door. There was a fire going, but she instead had chosen to wrap herself in a blanket, denying herself it's warmth.

Her hair was matted and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her lips were chapped, and he could still see some residue from the tape that had held the breathing tube in place.

He wanted to weep, but whether from relief that she was alive, or pity at the state that she'd been reduced to, he was uncertain. He held back, as though she was an illusion that would disappear upon acknowledgment.
"Buffy . . ." he said in quiet awe.

She didn't look at him, instead, her penetrating eyes were pinned on Giles. "You didn't find her."

"No . . ." he said, and shook his head. Xander watched, quietly impressed, at Giles ability to not only meet, but hold, her eyes. The quiet anger that burned behind them scared him. Buffy had changed, and Xander wasn't sure it was for the better.

"Buffy . . ." Giles continued to meet her eyes as he addressed her. "Willow's been turned, too. She threatened Anya and Xander at The Magic Box."

Buffy didn't move. She continued to regard Giles with the same blank, dispassionate stare, and Xander thought she would have reacted the same way if Giles had told her that there was a forty-percent chance of rain tomorrow.

"I see," was all she said. "I guess I'm going to have to kill her, too." She looked away after that, turning all her attention to the fire, and Xander got the distinct impression that they'd just been dismissed.

"I told you," Anya hissed as they ascended the stairs. "I told you she'd come back different."

Xander couldn't argue with that. Something had happened to Buffy. Something more than being shot. Something more than losing her Willow and Tara. Something more than not knowing where Dawn was. He didn't even want to imagine what it was.

* * * * *

He had wanted to steal a bed while they were out. He was tired of sleeping on the floor and Dawn deserved more than the couch. Dawn had talked him out of it – arguing that even if they had the capacity to move two mattresses, they'd look rather conspicuous. He couldn't argue against her shop-lifting expertise.

Now, though, watching her sleep, wrapped in a crocheted afghan Clem had provided, he again was struck by the need to do well by her. He'd hot wire a damn delivery truck if he had to, but Dawn was going to have a bed.

Leaving her there, he stole from the crypt. If he remembered correctly, the sporting goods store had air mattresses, and she should be safe for a while. He'd pick up some mattresses, and while he was out, he'd see about finding something to eat. Something fresh he amended, and smirked. He'd almost forgotten that the chip wasn't working anymore.

"That's right!" he announced to the world at large, as he swaggered through the graveyard. "I'm back. I'm William the bleedin' Bloody! I'm gonna own this town."

"Are you?" Willow was suddenly in his path, yellow eyes glinting in the half-moonlight like a cat's. She was wearing leather, he realized. A tightly laced bodice revealed more cleavage than he'd realized she had.

"Yeah!" he affirmed with more certainty than he felt. "You have other plans?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her head in mock thought. "I do," she finally said with a smirk. "Come here --" She beckoned with a crook of her finger. Against his will, he began to walk toward her.

"I'll tell you a secret." She smiled predatorily. "What do you think, little boy, do you want to know my secret."

Another wave of her hand, and he was nodding. He felt ill, the pure evil manifest before him, coupled with the utter lack of control of his own body frightened him more than he imagined possible. "I thought so," she said slowly. "The secret is that Tara and I are going to own this town. But," she added, "if you're a good boy, I might keep you around. Xander was a disobedient puppy, but I think you'll work out."

He wanted to spit in her face, but he couldn't. Still under her thrall, the dark magic wrapped around him like a vise, he wouldn't be able to move unless she allowed it. He wanted to contradict her. He was the bad man; he was evil; she wasn't even a glimmer in her mother's eyes when he was killing Slayers. But it was a lie. The Judge had seen through him -- had said he and Dru still had the taint of humanity on them – and now Willow also knew the truth.

"That's right," she said, and he realized her voice was in his head. She'd never opened her mouth this time. "You're nothing next to me." She waved her hand a final time, and he collapsed, his muscles weakened from the constant strain against her control. "I have to go find Tara now. She's going to find us something fresh to eat."

As she walked away, he no longer saw Willow, but his mother. Standing there – the look of abject disapproval written on her face the same way it had been on Willow's. On everyone's face – judging him. He tried to will her away, but she stayed here, the tight bun making her features even sharper. He shook his head to try to will the hallucination away, but she only grew stronger.

He reached out to touch her, but she stepped back, taunting him. "Silly boy, you killed me years ago. You're gonna have to kill her, too, you know. You have to kill all of them. You can't do anything right – always destroying everything you create – no wonder you never made another one after me."

She leaned forward, and planted a gentle, ice-cold kiss on his cheek. "I'll be back, but it's not quite time yet." Then, she was gone. Swallowing hard, he blinked again. It had been an hallucination. It had to have been. He was hungry; he was exhausted; that was all.

He pulled himself upright using a gravestone as support. No matter how much of an evil bitch his mother was, she was right about one thing – he had to find a way to kill them. It was the only way he could keep Dawn safe. It was the only way he could reclaim this town. It was the only way he could be sure they wouldn't turn around and dust him first. And to do that, he was going to need a plan – a plan and supplies.

Yelling a final, "Oh yeah? Just you wait!!" in the direction toward which Willow had long since disappeared, Spike again strode off in search of some air mattresses.

* * * * *

"I saw Spike tonight," Willow announced. Tara was seated between her legs while her lover slowly brushed her hair.

"Oh?" Tara asked, turning to look at her. "How is Daddy?"

"I don't think he likes us anymore," Willow set the hairbrush aside, and reached inside Tara's bodice, to cup her breast and tease her nipple to a stiff peak. "I had to teach him who was boss."

Tara sighed, leaning harder into Willow's hands, "Silly boy. He should know better."

"He'll learn--" Willow smiled, pulling Tara down onto the rug, and leaning on top of her. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to kill him."

Running a finger over the scar from Spike's bite, she smiled and added, "Not right away, of course, it'll be more fun if we make him suffer and beg a bit. They're so cute when they beg."

Tara's eyes flickered with a combination of lust and bloodlust. "Enough talking," she decried, and then leaned up to kiss Willow, effectively quieting her.

* * * * *

Dawn was awake when he returned. Sitting on the couch, still wrapped in the afghan, she turned on him the minute he entered.

"Where were you?" she demanded.

"Out," he announced, dropping the boxes on the floor.

"You left me here alone," she accused. He noticed for the first time that her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes puffy. She'd been crying. She'd been scared.

He wanted to hit her – knock some sense into her. And he could, he realized. He could hit her, and nothing would happen. A competing part of him, told him he needed to apologize – to comfort her – to reassure her it wouldn't happen again.

Paralyzed with indecision, all he could do was point at one of the boxes and say, "I wanted to get you a bed."

"Oh," she said – not even looking at the box.

It wasn't good enough. With a sigh, he said, "Look, Dawn, I'm sorry. I jus' – I didn' wanna wake you up."

"What if Tara had come?" she asked. "What if . . ."

"Willow 'n' Tara were too busy tryin' to teach me a lesson," he countered without further explanation. Then, with sincerity, he added, "I'm not gonna let anythin' happen to you, bit. Even if they hafta kill me."

"Thank you," she said, with a hug, and he awkwardly patted her back in return.

Damn Summers women always got him by the short hairs.

- PART VI –
IT'S TOO MUCH AND IT'S NO GOOD

Buffy watched the oatmeal slide off her spoon and plop back into the bowl. She hadn't had an appetite since she'd been shot, but Dr. Davis insisted she needed to eat to get her strength back, and so, she ate.

That didn't mean, however, she enjoyed it.

Xander and Anya sat on the opposite end of the table. They ate with relish, going to great lengths to study her when they thought she wasn't looking. She sprinkled some more brown sugar over the oatmeal and took a hesitant bite. "What did Willow do?"

They both jumped, staring at her from their end of the table. Xander swallowed hard, and then took a sip of milk. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Giles said last night that she attacked you at the magic shop. What did she do?"

"She wanted books," Xander said. "Dark majicks. She said she'd kill anyone who tried to stop her."

"She didn't kill Xander, though," Anya announced proudly. "He saved my life."

"How'd you defeat her?" Buffy asked, unimpressed. Like a battle-wearied general, all she cared about was tactics – measuring the opponent's strength and trying to find a way to overpower it.

"I didn't," Xander admitted. "She lost interest."

Buffy made a monosyllabic noise of understanding and returned to her oatmeal. She'd also lost interest; there wasn't any tactical information to be gained.

She was tired. Tired of fighting losing battles. Tired of being given the world only to have it taken away. Tired of worrying. Tired.

* * * * *

The blood in his refrigerator had started to congeal, he realized with dismay. Of course, he'd forgotten to eat last night after running into Willow. He swirled the red mess around in the container and decided he wasn't that desperate.

"What'samatter?" It came out like a single word.

"Nothin'!" He hurriedly shoved the container back into the refrigerator and slammed the door.

Her eyes widened with growing comprehension, and her mouth rounded into a tiny 'O'. "You're hungry," she said, and then, her hands on her hips, asked, "When'd you eat last?"

"What's this?" he asked. "I'm the one s'posed to be takin' care o' you."

Dawn took his hand, and led him back to the couch. "I think we both need a little takin' care of." She stood before him, scrutinizing him carefully. "You need to eat."

"Well, I'd love go right out and pick myself up a pint of O negative," he said, "but in case you forgot, the sun's up – catchin' fire tends to kill my appetite pretty quickly."

"I'll get it," she said, as though it was the easiest, most logical thing in the world. "Which blood bank do you prefer?"

"Now, you wait just a bloody minute," he stood to argue with her, and his stomach growled.

"What was that?" she asked with a smirk. "I couldn’t hear you over the noise of your stomach."

"Sunnydale Red Cross," he finally said, defeated.

"I know right where that is," she smiled brightly. "I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

* * * * *

Anya tucked her legs up under her on the couch. Xander started to sit next to her, and then, after a brief moment's hesitation, instead sat in a wing chair facing her.

Her eyes were focused somewhere inward – someplace he'd never been able to reach. He felt as though he ought to say something to her – reassure her in some way, but he couldn't find how.

"When we go back . . ." he finally began after clearing his throat. "Maybe you could stay at my apartment."

She didn't say anything, though he could tell be the way her jaw tightened, that she'd heard him. "Safety in numbers," he continued qualifying the offer so as to make it clear that he didn't expect any more from her.

She blinked, turning her gaze to him, and said only, "When we go back?"

He paused, as confused by her confusion as by anything else. "Yeah," he affirmed with a swallow, "at some point, we're gonna have to."

"I don't understand," Anya said, again. "Why did we leave Sunnydale if we're only going to go back there? I like it here." Looking around, she added. "This house is very pretty."

"This was never a long-term thing; we're only here until Buffy gets better," Xander explained. "We needed a safe place to stay while we come up with a plan to fight . . ." he paused. "Fight . . . Willow."

Willow. He still struggled with the idea that the vampire who'd threatened Anya, who'd wanted to make him a pet, was Willow. Willow.

"So we're hiding?" Anya refocused the conversation.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "We're strategizing," he corrected. "Hiding means we don't have any idea what we're going to do."

"We don't," Anya countered, "not really."

"We'll come up with something," he smiled with false hope. Turning, he saw Buffy standing just inside the doorway. Not knowing how long she'd been there, he asked, pointedly, "Won't we?"

"Sure," she said, blankly. "I'm going to kill them."

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Anya had paled, her eyes wide; she turned to Xander in question.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You're thinking that's a plan that's woefully short on contingencies." Without waiting for her to confirm, he continued, "That's where Giles and Doctor Davis will come in. They're Watchers, and I'm sure they'll be able to flesh the plan out into something workable."

Anya shook her head. "I'm thinking we're doomed," she said. "So, I'm wondering if we can have sex now."

Xander looked around. Giles and the doctor were in the library. He didn't know where Buffy was. It wasn't as though there was a chance of being discovered. It wasn't as though anyone would care. It wasn't as though he didn't want to.

Except. "Here? Now?" he asked, "This isn't even our house."

"You no longer find me attractive?" she asked, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. "It's because I'm a demon again,; isn't it?"

"No! Oh, you are . . .plenty attractive – really, just – no complaints here!"

"Then why don't you want to have sex with me?" she asked, pain and confusion etched in the lines of her brow.

He again mentally chided himself. There weren't many women who would keep offering, and yet he was beginning to lose track of the number of times he'd turned her down in the past few days.

"I do," he finally answered. Then, looking furtively around whispered, "let's go."

* * * * *

The brightly lit, clean interior of the Sunnydale Red Cross reminded Dawn more of a day care center than a blood bank. She took a deep breath, smiled brightly, and walked toward the reception desk – her plan taking shape with each step.

Yawning, she leaned against the counter as though she needed all the support it could offer. "I'm Dawn Sum . . . Sumner – I'm supposed to start today."

The receptionist blinked and looked up at her, "I'm sorry? Who did you say you were?"

"Dawn Sumner . . . Sunnydale High School . . ." Dawn didn't have to work hard to affect an air of boredom and resentment. "Senior volunteer service. They assigned me here." She yawned again and cracked her gum.

The receptionist's obvious confusion grew. "I don't think I . . ." She began to shuffle the papers and move stacks over the desk. "They must not have . . ." Shaking her head, she stood. "Just wait here. I need to go check on something in the back.

"No prob," Dawn said, tracing patterns in the tiles with the toe of her shoe.

As soon the woman had turned her back, Dawn stood, fully alert. Scanning the room, she took note of each person and their role. The blood bags were rarely left unattended. Each phlebotomist carefully watched the flow from donor to bag, and each bag was labeled and carefully stored packed away – its location stored on computer with a bar code.

She was going to have to get into the storage room. Fortunately, they were all too busy watching the blood to watch her. Picking up a clipboard and pen, and then leaning back against the reception desk to slip the keyring into her pocket, she pretended to study the intake questionnaire as she very carefully wandered in the direction of the storage room. No one could fault her for being lost on her first day as a volunteer, now could they?

It took three different keys to find the one to unlock the refrigerator, and her heart-rate sped up with each failed attempt. There was no hiding her deliberation now, and she only hoped to get in, grab a few blood bags, and get out before anyone had a chance to question where the new volunteer had come from – or had gone.

The next key worked, and she quickly ducked in. She studied the shelves of blood with fascination before quickly slipping two packs inside her hoodie and zipping it closed. She'd made sure her jacket was large enough that no one should notice.

Halfway there! She took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Into the very large, very intimidating, and very unamused face of a Sunnydale Police Officer.

"Hi . . ." She offered him a half-hearted smile as her heart sank.

Hi," he said in return. "I think you should come with me, but –" he unzipped her jacket and removed the two blood bags, "these can stay here."

She numbly allowed herself to be handcuffed and led to the cruiser.

* * * * *

The shadows cast by the sunlight filtered through the deep red curtains in Rack's lair made the row of pale bodies chained to the wall look much healthier than they were. Lazily Willow rolled over to study them. "We're gonna have to get some more today. I don't think they're gonna last much longer."

"Okay . . ." Tara stretched, her tongue darting over her lips like a cat's. "Not right away though, okay? I'm still tired from last night."

"It's not my fault you're insatiable!" Willow playfully nipped at her, and then looked back at the window. "We have to wait for the sun to go down anyway." She pouted then, "Stupid sun – always gets in the way of all my fun. I should just majick it away."

"So do it," Tara said, and ran a hand down Willow's hip. "You can control the weather, right?"

Willow placed a hand over Tara's stilling it in place against her skin. Edging closer, so that their heads were facing each other on the same pillow she asked, "What did you say?"

"I said," Tara whispered, her mouth tantalizingly close to Willow's, "you can control the weather, can't you?"

"I thought that's what you said," Willow answered in the same breathy whisper. Leaning mere inches closer, she kissed her, deeply – not waiting for an invitation, she thrust her tongue inward, her hands gripped Tara's supple body, moving downward from waist to hips. Her mouth followed suit as she kissed the cleft of her collar bone, her breastbone, the white flesh of her breast. She nursed around the nipple, never actually suckling, and then made her way downward, teasing Tara's navel, and translucent skin at the jointure of her thighs, again, never actually paying attention to what lay between them.

Tara writhed and squirmed – arching her body and trying to direct Willow to her clit. Until, at last, she was there. Gently tonguing at first, and then at Tara's encouragement, harder. Tara came – unabashedly, completely – and Willow continued. Her tongue made soft circles, and long probing strokes and Tara thought she might explode from the intensity of it – and in a rush beyond what she'd known possible she came again.

Only then, did Willow pull away – smiling up at her with the self satisfaction of what she'd done. Tara could only look back at her, blankly, gasping, as she returned to her senses.

"Wil-low," she gasped. "You . . . that . . ."

"You deserved it," Willow stroked Tara's still trembling hip. "You gave me such a brilliant idea." She sat up, her self-satisfied smile growing wider, "I'm going to make a spell that lets us hunt during the day.

Jumping from the bed, she looked at the men still chained against the wall as though she was only seeing them for the first time. "What are they still doing here?" she asked. "I'm tired of them." With a wave of her hand, they were gone.

* * * * *

The hard plastic chair was growing increasingly uncomfortable. She shifted, ever so slightly, in an attempt to ease the aches and stiffness that were slowly spreading through her legs and back.

It had been more than an hour since she'd given the detective her name, age, and address. He'd ordered her to wait there.

So, she waited. Handcuffed to the chair, she didn't have much choice. She thought about Spike. How long could vampires go without food anyway? She hadn't seen him eat since she'd been with him, and that was several days ago.

She thought about the look the cop gave her at the blood bank – as though she were the most freakishly abnormal person he'd ever seen. She thought about her sister – back in the heaven she'd been pulled from earlier this year. Could Buffy see her now? What was she thinking?

She was so confused. She wished that somehow someone would just tell her what she needed to do.

At that moment the door opened, and, for a moment, she wished she could retract her earlier wish. "Giles!"

Forgetting where she was, she started to move toward him, and was immediately stopped by the handcuffs holding her fast to the chair. Instead, she looked shamefacedly at the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Giles give a nod to the detective, who then knelt and unlocked her bonds. "We're releasing you into Mr. Giles' custody," he said with no further preamble. "Apparently there've been a lot of people looking for you."

Standing, she kept her eyes trained on the floor. Still unable to look up, she mumbled a quiet, "thank you," and allowed Giles to take her by the elbow and lead her from the building.

Giles, too, was silent as he directed her to his car, and then, held the door and closed it after her. Only after he'd climbed in next to her, and started the engine, did he ask, "Who were you stealing for?"

"What?" The question caught her off guard.

"You were trying to steal blood. You obviously didn't need it yourself. Who were you stealing it for?" His hands were steady on the wheel and his eyes were deliberately trained straight ahead.

"Spike," she said simply, and with no further explanation.

"Did he threaten or hurt you in any way?" Giles asked with deliberate calm.

"No!" Dawn protested immediately. "He never did anything!"

With a sharp pull on the wheel, Giles pulled the car off onto the shoulder, kicking up gravel in the process. He turned then, looking at her with both fury and confusion, "Then why in the bloody hell were you stealing blood for the vampire that turned Tara? When your sister finds out she'll . . ." He shook his head, sadly, his anger already burning out and replaced with a sad disapproval. "I don't know what Buffy will do."

Dawn looked back up at him, trembling, tears tracing tracks down her cheeks. "Buffy's alive?"

* * * * *

TBC

-PART VII-
AFTER THE SILENCE HAS RETURNED


Giles looked down at Dawn, suddenly more aware than ever of the marked contrast between the sisters. Dawn was now the same age Buffy had been when he first met her. Whereas Buffy had been as headstrong as she was physically strong, Dawn was, in all regards a lot more fragile.

Having only a supernaturally imposed set of memories and life experiences from which to draw, and having a big sister who quite literally fought all her battles for her, it was no wonder to Giles that Dawn often found herself in over her head. Especially when everything on which she thought she could rely was taken from her, not once, but apparently, twice.

"Yes, Dawn," Giles lay a hand on hers in sympathy. "Buffy's alive, and I do think she'll be quite pleased to learn you are as well."

"She's alive," Dawn repeated, and then began to giggle. "That's fucking fantastic!!"

Reflexively, he opened his mouth to chide her on her choice of adjectives, and then changed his mind. Instead he said, "She's been very worried about you."

"Spike took good care of me," she said with reflexive defensiveness.

"Sending you off to pinch blood," Giles countered, "is hardly my idea of a responsible guardian."

Dawn's eyes flashed, as she turned to him. "You don't understand!" Before he could ask for clarification, she added, "He was starving."

Giles sighed, defeated, and silently returned his attention to the road. He wasn't going to argue with her. He couldn't. With his chip apparently not working, Spike very easily could've eaten Dawn, but didn't. He felt as though he was trying to put the pieces of more than one puzzle together, and the lack of clarity was threatening to give him a headache.

"We'll talk about it more after we get back to the house," he finally said, and then felt the need to ask, "How long since you've had any real food? Do you want to stop for something?"

"No," she offered the single syllable and no more, then, like him, turned her full attention to the empty road ahead.

* * * * *

The disembodied voice floated menacingly from the television, "It's 10 PM; do you know where your children are?"

He threw the remote at the screen. He had no idea where Dawn was. He had no idea whether she was even alive. All he knew for sure was that it was long past dark, and if she wasn't dead, she soon would be.

And it would be all his fault.

He looked back to the camping gear still thrown haphazardly against the wall. Inflatable mattresses taunted him – permanent reminders of the idealistic ponce he had only so recently been. Who had he been kidding, thinking he'd be the one to take care of Buffy's little sis, when no one else could?

He was good for nothing more than fighting and destruction, and that's what he was going to do. He kicked the boxes aside with an angry growl, and reached for the other bag. From it, he removed a crossbow and arrows. Examining the equipment, he suppressed an involuntary shudder.

"Don't turn into a sissy on me now." The voice chilled him more than the lethality of the cross-bow, and he turned to again see his mother. Standing with her arms folded, there was a stern line of disapproval etched between her brows. "You know you've got to go through with this. It's the only way."

With steady hands, he loaded an arrow into the crossbow and pulled it back until it clicked securely into place. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he turned and aimed the weapon directly at her heart.

She laughed. The bitter, angry sound reverberated throughout the stone walls of his crypt. "You can't kill me, silly boy! I'm not real."

Before he could react, she was gone. Instead it was Willow – décolletage spilling out from the top of a leather bodice, standing next to him, her mouth inches from his ear. "I'm your worst nightmare."

Then she, too, was gone, and he was alone. He sank to the floor, cold sweat pouring down his back.

It's just hunger, he told himself. I'm hungry and I'm hallucinating.

His mother was dead. He'd dusted her long ago. If she hadn't haunted him at the time, there'd be no reason for her to start now.

Willow, well, she may be scary, and powerful, and just as crackers as Drusilla, but she had the same weaknesses as any other vampire, and it was about time someone put her in her place.

His courage grew as he continued to rationalize, and he looked back down at the crossbow in his hands. It was time to put it to use.

* * * * *

The crunch of the tires against the gravel driveway woke her, and she looked around, startled and frightened. Seeing Giles next to her only added to the panic she felt, as though he'd caught her in some misdeed. Which, she realized upon reflection, he had.

Her sense of impending doom only increased upon the realization that her sister was inside. Best to get it over with.

"We're here?" she asked, the conflicting excitement and fear still coursing through her in equal measure.

"We're here," Giles confirmed with a level of ambivalence that seemed to match her own. "Dawn," he added, "I think it's important for you to realize Buffy's been through a lot. She was lucky to survive -- and then learning what Spike did, and not knowing where you were. . ."

"Don't expect her to be happy to see me; got it!" she finished for him, and unbuckled her seatbelt as her earlier uncertainty quickly gave way to anger and resentment.

"It's not like that, Dawn –" Giles tried to explain.

She turned to him, grey eyes flashing. "She's a grown-up, Giles. You don't need to make excuses for her." Opening the car door, she climbed out, effectively ending the conversation.

* * * * *

The cemetery was quiet, devoid not only of the less supernatural forms of wildlife, but also vampires and demons. Still, he walked among the gravestones and larger monuments, crossbow hanging at his side, his thumb at the ready on the safety so that he could fire at a moment's notice.

A soft breeze kicked up the tree leaves, and he turned suddenly only to realize he was aiming at nothing. Nothing.

He lowered the crossbow, flipping the safety back into place with his thumb.

Nothing.

He reached the boundaries of the cemetery, and hoisted himself over the fence. As he pulled himself over, his stomach growled.

It was getting harder to ignore his hunger. He could feel it now on a cellular level – muscles struggling to keep up with the movement he demanded of them as he jumped to the other side of the fence, he stumbled.

Turning the corner in the direction of Sunnydale proper, he tripped over a broken chunk of sidewalk, and threw his arms out awkwardly to steady himself as his head swam.

“Disgusting,” he heard someone mutter to his companion, their footsteps growing faster as they rushed past him. “Drunk this early in the evening.”

He flared up in anger, but had no rebuttal. Instead he kept heading toward the city.

He passed The Bronze, more out of habit than plan. The thrum of the bass and scent of hope rode on the cool evening air and settled like a balm on his soul. Drawing comfort from the familiar he stepped inside.

Children, all of them, chasing the bread and circuses of a tribal drumbeat and cheap alcohol, blissfully ignorant of increasing danger that lay right outside the doors.

“See something you like?”

He jumped, as Willow’s breathy voice rushed across his ears and her chin settled on his shoulder. She raked her nails down the front of his chest and he cursed the fact that his nipple had reflexively risen at the contact.

“How does it feel?” she asked, “knowing that your chip doesn’t work – that you could have any of them?”

“My chip works jus’ fine,” he countered, irritated.

“That’s not what I heard,” her hands had snaked into the waistband of his jeans, and begun to knead the sensitive skin on either side of his hips. “There’s a barroom full of demons that said they saw you kill Warren.”

She pinched him, sharply, and pulled her hands back. Then drawing a circle in the air, directed him to turn and face her. She studied him, her brows knit in concentration, as though he were an ancient texts the secrets of which could be unlocked if only she applied enough effort.

“What are you, Spike? What battle are you fighting?” She pursed her lips and said, “I’m not even sure you know, do you?” Then she clapped, releasing him from her thrall. “No matter now, but you’d better decide soon, and when it comes down to it, you’d better hope you’re on the winning team.”

She started to walk away, and then turned back, for one last word, adding, “Pity I’m gay. I could’ve had a lot of fun with you.”

He left shortly after her, the nostalgic allure of the nightclub forever tainted. He continued to head deeper into town. Rounding another corner, he stopped in his tracks. Ten feet in front of him, honey blonde hair danced across narrow shoulders leaving a trace of jojoba and goat’s milk in its wake. Drawing on energy he hadn’t even been aware he still possessed, he sprinted forward.

“Buffy!!” he caught up with her and gripped her shoulder.

She turned, confusion and fear both playing across her features, and he stepped back as through she’d burned him.

“Oh,” he apologized immediately. “I thought you were someone else.”

“S’okay!” She began to step forward already having put the encounter out of her mind.

“No matter.” He stopped her again with a hand to her shoulder, at the same time settling into game face. “You’ll do just fine.”

It was a rush – her blood rushed across his tongue in a delicious mixture of tastes – sweet, bitter, metallic. It was a primitive instinct – feeding, suckling from the gash in her neck, he reflexively swallowed, and felt the warmth of the liquid trace its way down his gullet and into his stomach.

Damn! It felt good to be undead.

She fought him – pointlessly, her strength ebbing as the blood flowed from her body and into his. Her perfume, her hair – it was Buffy but not – and it only served to fuel his hunger. His clench on her neck tightened, and he spat out a chunk of flesh.

Too much.

He’d gone too far.

But it was too good to stop now.

Blood continued to pour from the wound in her jugular and he drank it all, until he was long past sated, until she had no more to give.

And then he dropped her. Stepping backwards, and tripping over his own feet, he turned and ran blindly. He couldn’t be there any more.

* * * * *

“I want to train today,” she announced at the table, her expression resolute, her muscles already tensing in anticipation of the workout she was going to give them.

"Buffy, are you sure that's . . ." Giles began, stopping when she pinned him with an angry glare. "Wise?" he finished, in spite of her unvoiced threats.

Unconsciously, Buffy's hand drifted to the red scar peeking above the neckline of her shirt. Dr. Davis had removed her stitches several days earlier, stunned in spite of his knowledge of a Slayer's powers, at how quickly she'd healed.

"I'm fine," she answered, her jaw clenched, and then turned in the direction of the doctor-cum-watcher, as though daring him to contradict her.

He didn't. "I think it'll be okay," he said – emotionlessly. "Buffy's really had an amazing recovery.

Giles again trained his gaze in Buffy's direction. "Good," she said, not looking at him, and picking up a forkful of scrambled eggs. "I'll get changed and start warming up after breakfast."

* * * * *

The gym was a converted shed in the backyard. She threw the doors open, and reached blindly for a lightswitch. Weaponry hung on the back wall adjacent to rows of paper targets. A punching bag and speed bag were in the opposite corner. Mats and a pommel horse were stacked just inside the door.

She wanted to do everything at once. Like a child at Christmas with toys spread out around a tree, every option looked better than the one before it. She approached the speed bag first, throwing a few careful punches and settling quickly into it's rhythm of rebounds.

Soon, however, that bored her, and she moved onto the weapons. Taking a heavy sword in hand, she began to swing it experimentally. Cutting swaths through the air, precision and control growing with each movement as she thrust, parried, and stabbed at her imaginary opponent. Swords had always struck her as an antiquated relic with little utility against the modern vampire.
Today, the sword was hers. Unused muscles grew achy then fluid as she rehearsed the movements she learned in a library what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Finally, she couldn't do anymore, and dropped the heavy metal to the ground with a clatter, bending at the waist to catch her breath, and wipe away the sweat.

"Buffy . . ." It was Dr. Davis. She looked up at him without a word, as she began to roll the kinks out of her shoulders.

"I think you've had enough for today; don't you?"

She opened her mouth to protest, and stopped, realizing that in spite of her best intentions she was drained. "I guess," she admitted reluctantly, and bent to pick up the sword, returning it to it's place among the other weapons.

"They'll still be here tomorrow," he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder to lead her out.

"I know," she answered, though she didn't sound fully convinced.

"Who were you fighting in there, anyway?" he asked. "You were in your own world."

She answered with a sharpness born of defensiveness. "No one!"

He didn't question her further, and she was grateful. He didn't need to know that every time she swung the sword, it was Spike whom she was decapitating in her mind, that every punch she threw was aimed at Willow, and that every time she pushed herself she was hoping to die as much as she hoped to live. That she couldn’t even stand the sight of her sister, because it was easier to give up and stop fighting when Dawn was gone, but now that she was here, she had to try to stay alive.

* * * * *

Ice cold fingers traveled up his thigh to his groin, leaving a trail of goosebumps as the fine hairs sprang to life in their wake. "Buffy . . ." he breathed, his subconscious filling in the gaps between his sleeping and waking state, admitting that he missed her in ways he couldn't always allow.

"Wrong, lover!" He felt a small hand gripping his balls, and a shudder of pleasure mixed with pain ran through him as sharp nails began to rake the tender skin of his scrotum.

This wasn't a dream. His hands immediately shot downward to protect himself just as his eyes flew open.

"Buffy used to do that for you?" Willow smirked. "How sweet!"

He scrambled to the other side of his bed, realizing too late that he'd put more distance between himself and his precious crossbow.

Willow was in his crypt! Willow had touched his . . . his . . . He looked again down at his penis, the erection already waning as fear took over.

"'S none of yer business," he mumbled, and then asked. "What t'hell do you want?"

"I heard a girl died the other night,” she mentioned casually. When Spike didn’t answer, Willow added, “I heard she was sucked dry, too.”

“So?” He leaned against the wall, feeling slightly nauseated. He didn’t mean it. It was an accident. He was hungry. Excuses ran through his head, even as he tried to remind himself that really, he was a demon, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Vampires eat people.

“You don’t know anything about it?”

Willow’s presence seemed to fill the room, and he knew she already knew the answer. Still, he wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of his answer. “Nuthin’.”

“Pity,” she said with a pointed look at his crotch. “I thought you might have finally grown some balls.”

And she was gone. Had she even been there? He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

-PART VIII-WE'LL HAVE TO TRY AGAIN

Like a soldier preparing for battle, she went through each day with regimented detachment. Eat, train, eat, rest, train, eat, sleep.

The others were there – on the periphery – watching, whispering, never really a part of her life, but never fully removed either.

She made no effort to change that. There was no point. She let herself love before – Angel, her mother, Willow, Tara – and where had that gotten her? She wouldn't have to mourn if she didn't let herself care.

She was reaching for an orange at the center of the table when another hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. Looking up, she saw Xander watching her, and narrowed her eyes in warning. "Let go."

"No." His eyes were deep and inscrutable, and the lack of any underlying fear or uncertainty gave her pause.

"I said, 'let go'."

The others had stopped eating, all eyes on the altercation.

"Not until you show Giles your hands." His voice matched hers for determination, and her tactical mind began to run through the possibilities. She couldn't fight Xander, but she couldn't let him dictate the terms either.

She saw both watchers – Giles and Dr. Davis – moving with forced nonchalance, each ready to step in and intervene.

Giles spoke first. "Xander, let go of her," and just as Buffy shot him a triumphant glance, added, "Buffy, your hands."

Trapped, she held them out, feeling a twinge of shame as Giles pulled them closer, her bruised, scraped knuckles bared to scrutiny for all assembled. "What's this?"

"Scraped my knuckles," she answered, refusing to meet his eyes. "Gloves aren't broken in yet."

"The gloves are fine," Giles said a hard edge in his voice. "How long are you training?"

"Dunno," Buffy mumbled, "an hour or two, maybe."

Xander snorted, and everyone at the table turned to look at him. "Try four or five."

"Nobody asked you," Buffy's voice was as hard edged as Giles' had been, her rage a finely honed weapon, but the emotion also blinded her, causing her to swing at anything in her path.

"Y'know, I think I should probably go . . . study . . . or something," Dawn announced and cleared her plate. "Xander, Anya, do you think you could help me?"

"Sure thing!" For the first time in his life, Xander was excited by the prospect of schoolwork. "Whadaya say, Anya, do you want to help Dawn study?"

Anya's brow furrowed. "I want to stay here. The fight hasn't even gotten interesting. No one's talking in loud voices yet."

"Anya," Xander's voice took on a somewhat desperate quality. The tension had gotten to be more than he could stand, and the flight or fight reflex had gone from fight straight into flight. He moved to her side to adopt a stage whisper. "This is one of those politeness things I'm always trying to teach you. We don't sit around and watch people have disagreements."

"Sure we do!" she countered. "I see them every day on Jerry Springer and Maury Povich."

"Yes, and my parents watch that sort of programming," he said, "and we've often talked about how we don't want to be anything like my parents. Now let's give these nice people some privacy." He took her by the elbow and led her from the room.

* * * * *

Being a vampire did have some advantages. For example, one could spend the night on the hard, cold, stone floor of a crypt and wake up without any aching muscles.

Which is exactly how it had happened. He'd stayed crouched on the floor long after Willow had departed – convinced she would come back, he was irrationally afraid to move, to do anything that would allow him to be too comfortable lest his guard fall.

It was hard to believe that this vampire, this witch, this supremely evil being was Willow – there was nothing of her left but the physical appearance and even that was changing – her hair grown darker, her clothes tighter and more revealing.

He let his mind continue to ruminate over the differences until he fell asleep, his mind filled not only with Willow's face, but those of all the other women he'd let down – his mother, Dru, Buffy, Dawn . . . He was glad Buffy was dead; she wouldn't have to know that he hadn't been able to keep his promise to look out for Dawn.

Maybe it would be easier to let Willow kill him.

* * * * *

"Buffy you can't do this to yourself." Giles' voice was soft and yet insistent. "It's not going to do anyone any good.

"Do what to myself?" she hissed. "Train? Fight? Live up to my calling? I'm a Slayer – fighting is all I'm good for."

Dr. Davis spoke, "You're not going to be able to fight at all if you keep up at this pace. How long do you think you'll last in a bare-knuckle fight against a vamp with your hands the way they are?"

"I only need to be able to last long enough to stake him," she countered. She was beyond logic, beyond reason, driven by pure hatred and bloodlust.

Still, the second Watcher felt he had to try. "That may be, but there's more than one. Are you going to be able to take on all three?"

"I've taken on three before, but I won't have to," she said. "Spike's not exactly known for his ability to play well with others."

Neither Giles nor Dr. Davis said anything. "And I'll bring weapons," she continued, "a flame thrower if need be."

They still continued to watch her – their stoic, impassive faces a stark contrast to the deep rage that was bubbling just under her surface. "I'm ready to fight," she told them, filling the empty silence. I need to fight. I can't hide here forever."

"A week," Dr. Davis finally answered. "Just a week to come up with a more specific plan than 'a flamethrower.' Let's get some people out there to do some reconnaissance, and get a better idea of what's going on. And then, you have my word, Buffy, we'll go back."

"Maybe Giles hasn't told you," she began, her fists clenched in her lap. "I don't answer to the Council of Watchers anymore. I'm going to wait because I want to get stronger. If you break your word, I go back without you."

She stood, her very posture an open threat. "I'm going to train now. I promise not to punch anything."

* * * * *

"She's messed up again, isn't she?" Dawn asked. She was on her stomach, picking at the crocheted details on the crazy quilt that covered the bed.

"She's been through a lot," Xander answered noncommitally.

"And you think I haven't!!?" Dawn shrieked, alligator tears streaming down her cheeks, and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I've been living in a crypt. I thought my sister was dead. I was arrested for trying to steal blood from the Red Cross.”

"Everyone's worried about Buffy," Dawn continued. "How's she feeling? How's she handling the stress? How's she going to get through this? Nobody remembers that Buffy's not the only one affected by what goes on in Buffy's world."

"Neither are you!" Anya said with a force that surprised even her. "Xander lost his best friend. I almost got eaten. We all have to deal with this, but you and Buffy – you're both the same – all you can think about is yourselves, and then you're determined to make everyone else hurt as much as you do, and what you don't see is that we're all hurting already – just in different ways."

Anya sniffed, and leaned into the supportive hand that Xander put on her shoulder. "We'll all hurting," she repeated. "So stop acting like nobody sees it." Anya stood and walked out of the room, and after a sympathetic glance over his shoulder, Xander followed. Dawn picked up a pillow, and drove an angry fist into the down. She hated Buffy for who she was, but she hated herself more.

* * * * *

When he'd been fighting for his life, she was always there, ready to take it from him at any moment. Now, that he was ready to surrender – mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, she was nowhere to be found.

He'd been out every night for the past week and a half – unarmed, vulnerable an easy target, and there had been nothing. Tonight, he was out again, and it looked again, as though his death wish was going to go unanswered.

"I'm here, you bitch!" he called to the cemetery at large. "Just come kill me already!"

Buffy stepped out of the shadows. "I thought you'd never ask."

TBC