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The police said anyone else would have run away.
When Tara was eight-years-old she saved another little girl’s life. She’d been walking home from school alone because Billy had been forced to do a detention. Normally she would have stayed and waited with her brother, but Tara would have had to miss her favorite television program. As an adult she couldn’t even recall what the show had been, maybe a re-run of Danger Mouse or Scooby Doo.

She had been grateful for the chilly, autumn rain because it had given her an excuse to take out her red and black-dotted, ladybug umbrella. She liked to spin the umbrella while she walked and pretend it was flying above her head. Tara was half way home when she saw it; a strange man had hold of her neighbor, Gemma, by the sleeve of her bright, yellow raincoat. Gemma was struggling against his grasp and crying so hard her words were reduced to gibberish. Gemma’s long, blonde hair was hanging in damp strings; a thick strand stuck against her freckled cheek. One of Gemma’s blue rubber boots was lying in a puddle on its side and she was kicking at the man with her bare foot, her wet sock hanging limply off her toe.

Before she even knew what was going on, Tara was running toward them, her satchel in her hand.

“You let her go!” Tara screamed.

She charged at the man, smacking at his hand. He had thin, brown hair, glasses and wore a denim jacket. His double chin wobbled a bit when Tara hit him and he had a gut poking over the top of his jeans barely covered by his red t-shirt. He seemed so old to her then, but later the police told her he was only twenty-two.

“She’s my daughter,” the man shouted, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

“No, s,s,she’s not!” Tara shouted back, then wacked him again with her bag.

Tara grabbed Gemma’s other hand and gave a yank, sending both girls tumbling to the shining pavement. The stranger lunged toward them and entirely by accident Tara landed a lucky blow to his jaw with her bent knee, slamming his teeth closed on his tongue. Blood was trailing out of his mouth as he pushed himself up onto his haunches. Tara and Gemma scrambled away from his outstretched fists.

The girls ran hand in hand until they got to the safety of Tara’s house. Her mother, Anne, had dried the girls’ with warm towels and then phoned the police.

Strangely, by the time Anne made the call, the man had already turned himself in and confessed that he’d done some very bad things to more than one little girl. Anne would never tell Tara what, even when she was a grown woman. He’d planned on hurting Gemma until Tara stopped him. In his madness he thought Tara was an avenging angel, taking the form of the people he’d harmed the most. It was the only thing that made sense, he’d said; how else could a little girl possess so much strength?

**

Tara had been able to twist her wrists out of the zip ties without having to use her own blood as a lubricant. She would have done it, but the soul spell had lent her body greater resilience and power. The plastic broke before her skin did. Once her wrists were free, she unfastened the ball gag and spat it out. The vile thing was causing a slick of drool to slide down her cheek; Tara couldn’t be rid of it fast enough. She muttered a spell to snap her ankle restraints and then she was mounting the steps. When she heard the gun shot, Tara ran even faster, hoping to reach Buffy in time. In time for what, she didn’t know, but she could still sense the other girl’s aura which mean that she wasn't dead yet.

The smart thing would have been to run in the other direction, to assume Wesley had started with Buffy and was moving on to his next victim. Part of her knew that even as Tara ran headlong into the bathroom, led by the scent of blood.

The sight of Wesley’s corpse was repulsive; his skull had been hollowed out leaving nothing but a dripping cavern. The white tub was overflowing with red, and she could see tendrils of golden hair floating to the surface of the water. She slipped on the wet, white tiled floor and careened into the side of the bath, bruising her shins. Tara plunged her hands into the offal-filled fluid and pulled out Buffy’s body, struggling and splashing as she dragged Buffy’s stiff form over the lip of the tub. Buffy landed on the floor with a moist slap, looking almost like a newborn covered in afterbirth. Wesley's effluvia clung to Buffy's hair and made a red web on her skin. Buffy's green eyes were open and staring straight ahead, but Tara could feel her soul still hovering above her body.

Tara began chest compressions on Buffy’s sternum, sending a ripple through her blue-tinged flesh. Tara tilted her chin back and pinched Buffy's nose. She molded her lips to Buffy’s and blew into her mouth. As Tara moved to press Buffy’s heart back into motion, the slayer sputtered, coughing up tainted water. Whatever Wesley had used to incapacitate Buffy was still causing her problems. The other girl was immobile, but at least she was breathing on her own again. Tara hugged her and then ran into her bedroom to find her clothes.

Tara wondered what Wesley had done to her friend in the hour when they were alone, but she couldn’t think of that now. Buffy needed her and Billy did, too. She would carry her brother to the Citroen. They always kept the car packed now in case they had to run and there was a blanket in the back seat. They could cover Billy when the sun came up, there was almost two hundred dollars hidden in a compartment in the glove box. That would be enough to buy a sliver of distance.

Tara ran back into the bathroom with Buffy’s blue, flannel robe in her hands. She knelt beside her prone friend. For the first time she thought the word, sister. Buffy was going to be her sister, Tara thought with a smile. She looked into the slayer’s eyes.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Buffy didn’t move for a moment, then slowly, her eyes closed. Just as slowly they opened again.

“I’ll lift you and slide the robe underneath,” Tara said.

She eased her arm underneath Buffy’s torso. She pulled her up and quickly slipped her heavy limbs through the arms of the robe, then tied it shut. Tara arrayed the fabric to preserve Buffy’s modesty and then dragged the other girl out of the bathroom. As they were going past the pile of Wesley's clothes, Tara paused. She looked into Buffy's face.

“Be right back,” she said, and set the other girl down.

Tara dashed to the mound of castoffs and rifled through them until she found Wesley's wallet. She gasped when she opened the black, leather billfold and found twenty-four crisp five-hundred dollar euro bills beside a photograph of Buffy. She plucked the money out and stuck it in her bra, being that her skirt had no pockets, and returned to her friend.

“Alright, let's get you downstairs,” Tara said.

Gratitude was glowing in Buffy's eyes. Tara found she could carry the other girl much more easily than she had her brother and she'd managed to get Buffy into the passenger side of the car with very little trouble. Tara ran back inside, her skin buzzing from tension, black specs floating in the corners of her vision because her heart was beating so very, very fast. For a second, Tara wasn't sure what to do; she stood in the middle of their living room staring at Billy's slack face. She would have to carry him even though he was out cold and Tara wasn't sure how long that would take. The first time seemed to last an eternity and there had to be more Council members coming, why else would Wesley have bound her and Billy knowing he was going to kill himself unless more were coming to clean up the mess? Unless Wesley hadn't killed himself and a sniper from outside had done it but that didn't make any sense because the invisible assassin hadn't taken a shot at her or Buffy and she was forgetting something, something very important.

Blood.

There was a thermos of pig's blood in the fridge for Billy that she needed to take in case they didn't run into any butcher shops. Tara hopped on one foot, then spun around and ran into the kitchen. She took out the red, plaid thermos from the fridge; she filled it with blood every day in case of emergencies and today was an emergency. She looked at the plate of cookies she'd baked, debated grabbing them, then realized she was being completely irrational. Tara dashed back into the living room and knelt beside Billy. It was difficult pulling him into a sitting position so that she could band her arms around his torso. His head lolled to the side and his face looked so stony, so dead.

Tara reminded herself he hadn't any need for breath. When she shifted his weight, one of his hands smacked loudly against the carpeted floor and Tara wondered if she was hurting him. The handle of the thermos dug into her fingers as she eased herself to a standing position while carrying Billy's weight. Once she began dragging him out of the house, it got a little easier, but as they made their way down the stairs, they took a tumble. Billy landed on the bottom, cushioning the fall, and his head landed hard against the paving stone of the front walk. Tara was lying on top of him as she felt the back of his skull, threading her fingers through his hair. It was mercifully dry, but there was already a goose egg forming. Billy's expression hadn't changed; at least he didn't feel it, Tara thought. She rolled off of him and sat beside her brother, trying to pull him into her lap.

“Don't you look scrumptious?”

Tara looked up in shock. There was a man standing in front of her wearing a dirt-caked, three piece suit, except he wasn't a man at all. His forehead was bubbled and his mouth was filled with jagged teeth.

The vampire lunged at Tara before she could initiate a protection spell. As the creature's hand clasped Tara's neck it stopped and then melted into a pile of dust. When the vapor settled, Tara could see Buffy standing there trembling in her blue bath robe, a stake in her hand.

“Let's go,” Buffy said, her voice hoarse and low.

**

Percy, Reginald and Lionel had done a sweep of the location three times, but there was no sign of Tara McClay or Buffy Summers. The ashes in front of the house indicated that the vampire had been dusted; that was probably Price's first action. It was unclear what Wesley been trying to accomplish in the bath tub. The way the clothing had been discarded seemed to reveal some intimacy between the slayer and her former Watcher. Perhaps the girl had seduced him and then committed the murder while he was...unawares. The black-clad SWAT team returned to the kitchen where Mr. Travers was eating a chocolate chip cookie. Mr. Travers was in his mid-sixties. He was short and rotund, with a bearded face that resembled an owl. Unlike his team, which was dressed in Kevlar armor, Mr. Travers wore a brown, tweed suit.

“Whomever baked these put raisins in them as well as the chocolate pieces. It's really quite marvelous,” he said.

Percy scratched his elbow and set the machine gun in his hand down on the counter. He snagged a cookie, took a bite and then nodded in agreement. Reginald and Lionel just looked at their superior with boredom. They were both too concerned with their physiques, being that they were often out in the field, to eat cookies. The extra calories might slow them down and get them killed. Travers rarely had to worry about such concerns, Lionel thought, bitterly.

“The women are gone. How should we proceed?” Reginald asked.

Mr. Travers smiled at them with his mouth still full. Then he brushed the crumbs out of his beard and swallowed his last bite.

“Buffy Anne Summers is dead. Another slayer rose in Brazil two hours ago. Her name is Antigone Esquillero and, unlike our previous slayer, she's been groomed for her post since birth. If the witch had successfully been able to resurrect Miss Summers through magical means, we are fairly certain Miss Esquillero's powers would have disappeared in turn. No one has performed a successful resurrection spell after the individual has been dead for more than an hour. Therefore, the search for Buffy Summers is over as is the hunt for Tara McClay. Without her sibling or her potential part in bringing Miss Summers back from the dead, Miss McClay is worthless to the council. There's no need to pursue her further,” Travers said.

Quentin Travers went in for his third cookie, knowing that he would likely regret the indulgence, but too pleased with himself to resist. He took a bite and sighed happily.

“Quite marvelous, indeed,” Travers said.

**

Spike woke up in a dark room, flanked by a warm body. He smelled Buffy and heard her soft, even breathing; her heart beating. The last thing he remembered was Buffy about to speak, cicadas, cookies and wet grass. Then he was falling; somehow he’d begun falling in the front yard of their rented house and landed in this bed. Spike opened his eyes and looked down at Buffy nestled beneath his arm. She was wearing the pink and white pajamas she’d packed in the emergency bag. Her hair was still wet and freshly washed, woven into a French braid. Tara’s scent lingered on Buffy’s hair; his sister must have braided it for her.
Spike stroked Buffy’s cheek. She swatted at his hand.

“No tickle fingers,” she moaned.

“Where are we, love?” Spike asked.

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him. A smile spread across her face.

“Oh, you’re finally awake, we were so scared,” she said.

“Where’s Tara?” Spike asked.

“She’s in the adjacent room. They connect through the bathroom. It’s like a sitcom from the eighties,” Buffy said.

“What happened?”

Buffy bit her lower lip and slid her hand under Spike’s black t-shirt. She strummed her fingers against his stomach.

“We survived,” she said.





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