HELL FROZEN OVER

 

By Jeremy Patrick (jhaeman@hotmail.com)

 

 

 

 

 

CONTINUITY NOTE:  Portions of this story take place during Buffy’s junior year of high school, before the events described in the second-season episodes Surprise and Innocence, while other portions take place approximately two weeks after the end of the sixth season, but before Spike has regained his soul.

 

 

 

FIRST PROLOGUE:  FOUR YEARS, SIX MONTHS AGO

 

            The glass shattered on the tile floor, sending broken shards scattering as a small puddle of apple juice spread rapidly in all directions.

            “Damn it Katie!” Michael Tintsman yelled.  “Just . . . just go to your room!  And watch your feet."

            “Michael, calm down,” said Maggie Tintsman, watching Katie carefully pick her way across the tile floor, careful to avoid the merest drop of the juice.  When she saw Katie enter her bedroom and shut the door, she continued.  “She’s only six--she’ll get the hang of it.”

            Michael rubbed his eyes with his fingers and then swept his hands through his short buzz cut.  He loosened his tie before removing it completely and draping it over Katie’s now-empty chair.  In their small suburban house outside of Washington, D.C., it was hard to find real solitude when something got on your nerves.

            “I didn’t mean to yell,” said Michael, somewhat apologetically. “But it’s the second time this week.  I know she wants to be a big girl, but there’s nothing wrong with her drinking out of the plastic cups for a while longer.  And do you know what it would cost me to get this suit dry-cleaned if she would have spilled it on me?”

            Maggie ignored him and started sweeping up the wet pieces of glass into a small dustpan.  She was almost finished when the doorbell rang.

            “Finish your dinner, hon, I’ll see who it is,” she said.  The last few weeks had been stressful around the house, ever since Michael wrote a negative report on the performance capabilities of a proposed project, causing his employer, the Department of Defense, to halt its pre-production planning.  Although he did the right thing, most of Michael’s fellow employees saw it otherwise—they had worked for years to develop the project to where it was, and having it “killed” so close to final approval was galling.  It was one thing to work in a place where you didn’t get along with your co-workers; it was another thing entirely to work in a place where they actively despised you.

            Michael picked tentatively at his meatloaf.  It was just an hour after sundown.  Maybe he could take Katie out for an ice cream and cheer her up.  After all, he thought as he heard his wife invite somebody in, it really wasn’t her fault.  She’s just a kid, and kids always try to act more grown-up than they really are.

            Maggie poked her head in through the kitchen doorway.  He thought she was still as pretty as when he married her, even if middle-age had come for them both.  “Hon, it’s someone here to see you.  They said they work for one of your contractors.”  She paused and then  continued.  “I’ll go talk to Katie.”

            Michael pushed his plate away and draped his napkin over it.  It was highly unusual—and probably against Department regulations—for independent contractors to visit an employee outside of working hours.  If this is about the project, he thought while standing up, I’ll really give them a piece of my mind.

            On his living room couch sat two perfectly ordinary looking fellows in well-made three-piece suits, each with a briefcase and wearing dark sunglasses.  They sat stiffly, carefully eyeing  everything in the room.  They stood up as soon as he walked in.

            “Michael Tintsman?” queried one of the men.

            “Yes.”

            “We have a message for you.  ‘Next time, leave well enough alone.’”

            With that, each of the two men removed their sunglasses.  Suddenly their faces seemed to meld and contort—their foreheads became more prominent, their lips curled up into a snarl, and their teeth grew into fangs.  The flesh on their fingers pulled back, revealing sharp claws

            “Look at him,” said one of the visitors to his companion.  “He’s scared like a little girl.”

            The other one laughed and then reached forward and grabbed Michael by the collar with one hand and threw him across the room.  Michael sailed through the air, hitting the wall on the far side and landing splayed out on the floor.

            Maggie heard the commotion and came running into the room.  The other stranger grabbed her by the neck and lifted her into the air.  She gurgled and gasped, trying to free herself from his hand.  Her legs kept pumping, as if she were running through the air, but he held her firmly.  He shook her from side to side slowly, and within seconds the life ebbed out of her and she stopped kicking.  He threw her lifeless corpse on the floor, smiling the whole time.

            Michael was in a daze.  Lights and voices flashed all around him, but he couldn’t seem to make anything out.  He knew he was in danger, and that Maggie and Katie had to be protected.  He tried to raise himself off the floor, but it was as if steel weights were holding him down. “You sure we’re s’posed to leave him alive?” he heard a disembodied voice say.

            “Yeah.  Angel said to take care of anyone else but to leave him kicking.  That way he’d really get the message.”

            “I think there’s one left.”

            “Well, let’s get her.  I’m hungry.”

            Mercifully, Michael Tintsman blacked out completely before he could see what happened next.

 

 

 

SECOND PROLOGUE: THE PRESENT

 

Small whirlwinds of snow circled Castillo as he jumped the few feet separating the helicopter from the barren plain of ice and snow below.  He landed awkwardly and stumbled before regaining his feet.  A dozen yards a away, a small group of men stood near a small, open pit.  A large mining drill, now dangling icicles, and a few tents completed the scene.  In the middle of winter, Greenland was cold.  And here, far away from the few cities and military bases that spotted the land, it seemed like they were at the very tip of the world.

Castillo shouted to make himself heard over the waiting helicopter.  “Where is it?”

“Right over here, sir,” one of the men said.  His voice was muffled--everyone but Castillo was bundled up in thick winter clothing: snowsuits, boots, ski masks, and more.  They stood at attention, but their eyes darted constantly toward the helicopter, their only escape from the freezing cold.  “We didn’t touch it,” the man continued, “just like you said.”

Castillo walked over to the pit, limping slightly, and peered down into the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything.  “How far down?” he shouted.  He did not shiver, nor did the air condense around him as he spoke.

“About twenty feet.  We have ropes ready for you, sir.”

The men fitted Castillo securely into a harness and carefully lowered him down into the pit.  When he reached the bottom of it, Castillo removed the harness and turned on a strong flashlight.  He shone it around the pit, and the light came to rest on a small wooden chest, still partially buried in the snow and ice.  Castillo brushed his fingers along the top of it and felt the ancient runes and symbols which had been carved into it.

Could this really be it?  It seems so . . . simple . . . pathetic.  But it must be.  Everything is where Solasheyk said it would be. 

He pulled the harness back on and cradled the chest carefully as he was being lifted up.  The chest was light—it could have been empty, for all anyone knew.  But Castillo knew differently.  He smiled as he contemplated the chest’s contents.  What was inside that chest would make up for the past four years of torment and torture.

It’s a pity, really, that she has suffered so much already, without my involvement.  What I will do to her would be so much more painful if she were as happy as when I last saw her.  But I’ve been awaiting this.  Preparing, observing.  Soon it will all be over.  And then I will finally return to where I was before I even heard the name Buffy Summers.
               

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE: FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            “No, absolutely not,” said Joyce Summers, hoping she said it with conviction.  She poured herself another cup of coffee and waited for the inevitable to begin.

            “But Mom,” Buffy continued, “this is our junior year of high school.  Next year we’ll be seniors and then who knows what’s going to happen to us after graduation—Willow could go to M.I.T., Xander could go to . . . well, whatever school would take him.  The point is that this may be the last chance we’ll have to really be together and bond, away from high school and this one-coffee-bar town.  Don’t you remember what it was like when you were a teenager?”

            “But that’s what I’m saying,” said Joyce, hoping her weakening resolve wasn’t showing.  “Buffy, you’re not even seventeen.  A trip halfway across the country, to a strange place, for a whole weekend.  This isn’t like you’re going to a sleepover down the street.”

            “C’mon Mom, I’m a big girl, remember?  Willow and Xander will both be with me, so what could go wrong?  And besides, Willow checked this place out on the Internet—she said it’s listed as like one of the safest ski resorts in the country.”

A small lie—Willow had checked out the ski resort on the Internet, but reported only that she had trouble finding much on it besides the gorgeous pictures on the resort’s own site.  She kept talking, knowing that if she could keep it up just a little longer, her mother would cave.

“And really, how often do you win a free weekend of skiing, all expenses included?”  Buffy had been surprised at her luck when her name came up at the Sunnydale High drawing.  But it’s about damn time something good happened to me, she thought.  Even better, Willow had won a ticket as well.  The other two tickets were won by students they didn’t know very well, but that could be fixed.

“You’ve never even been skiing.  I don’t think you’ve ever seen snow except on television.  You might hate it,” said Joyce, with an abundance of parental concern.  “Is there even going to be any snow this time of year?”

“It’s the mountains.  It always snows, or they fake it, or something.  I’m not really sure.  But I’m sure it’ll be fun—kinda like ice skating, except different.  And hey, if it’s boring, I’ll just sit in the warm lodge and ogle all the guys while sipping on hot cocoa.”  They both smiled at this.

Joyce’s eyes sparkled—she had missed the obvious.  “Well anyway honey, I know you really want to go, but of course I can’t let you miss two days of school.  It’s simply impossible.”

“Got that covered,” Buffy replied, with a hint of triump in her voice.  She had found out about the resort yesterday, and had been strategizing since.  Sixteen-plus years of practice was starting to pay off.  “Friday is teacher in-service—only half a day of school.  Monday is fall break, no school.  We’ll leave at noon on Friday, spend Saturday and Sunday on the slopes, and Monday we’ll be back in plenty of time for school on Tuesday.”

Joyce chuckled to herself, realizing once again that her daughter had it all figured out.  If only Buffy would join the debating club or something and put her skills to good use . . .  Joyce still felt uneasy about letting her go.  Spending a summer with her father was one thing—at least Joyce knew that she was being looked after.  But a weekend without supervision, not even in the same state?  I guess I’m just going to have to get used it, she thought to herself.  Year after next  she’ll leave for college, and then who knows what.

“Okay.”

“Great I’ll—“
            “But I want to know who you’re going with, how you’re going to get there, and I want you to call me every night.”  No matter how old she got, Buffy would always be her little girl.

 

 

            “What’s the sitch?” asked Xander, as Buffy walked towards him and Willow.  They were sitting on the bench out in front of Sunnydale High, where they always met before school.  Around them, students milled about, dreading the first morning bell.  The excitement of the first few weeks of a new school year had already worn off, and all that was left to look forward to were months of endless exams, quizzes, and assignments until winter vacation finally came.

            “Mission accomplished,” replied Buffy.

            “Did you have to pull out the stake and holy water?” teased Willow.

            “Nope, just a lot of persuasion and maybe a little bit of guilt.”

            “Guilt is good.  Usually works with my parents too,” said Willow.

            “Not for me,” Xander put in.  “Then again, my folks disavow any responsibility for my existence.”  His thrift-store clothes and lopsided smile marked him out to other students as the prototypical slacker.

Willow and Buffy giggled.

            Buffy looked at Xander.  “And speaking of your continued existence, were you able to get your ticket?”  Although Willow and Buffy had won theirs in the contest, Xander would be left in Sunnydale unless he could convince one of the other two winners to sell or trade him their ticket.

            Xander’s face showed an affected expression of wounded pride.  “Well, of course.  You’re talking to the Xan-Man, the knight of negotiation, the baron of bargaining, the prince of um . . .”

            “Parley?” Willow said helpfully.

            “Sure.  Anyway, yes, of course I got the ticket.  Josh Bailey will be spending yet another boring and/or life-threatening weekend in the Dead Zone, while I’ll be at beautiful Arctic Ridge, zooming down the slopes.”  He fished the ticket out of his jeans pocket and read from the back of it.  “Two full days and nights of skiing, free lift tickets, equipment rentals, and room reservations.  Plus all the hot ski-bunnies a guy could ever ask for.”

            “You never did tell me what you had to give him for it,” said Willow.

            “Well, you see, there may have been a reason for that,” replied Xander.  “I kind of had to promise him you would tutor him in trig for the rest of the semester.”

            She leaned over and playfully punched him in the arm.

            “Ow, what was that for?” said Xander, rubbing an imaginary bruise on his shoulder.

            She punched him in the arm again harder and smiled.  “And that one’s for asking.”  She looked over at Buffy and winked.  “Everyone’s been saying I should be more assertive.  I thought I’d start with Xander.”

            Buffy smiled and looked at her watch.  Another few minutes and classes would start.

            “Great, then it’s all set,” she said.

            “This is going to be the best weekend ever.  We’re just like the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos, the uh, the Marx Brothers.”

            “Right,” said Willow, following up.  “I’ll be Groucho, and Buffy can be Harpo.”

            “Who does that leave me?” said Xander.

            “You get to be Karl,” said Willow, deadpan.  Unfortunately, the crack flew right over both Buffy’s and Xander’s heads.

            Just then, Willow remembered the conversation she had had with her father the night before.  Although the plan was that they would borrow her dad’s car for the trip, he refused because he thought it wasn’t the kind of car to handle mountain roads.  This left them without transportation, and possibly stranded in Sunnydale.  Just as she was explaining this to her friends, their conversation was interrupted by a familiar, if not grating, voice nearby.

            Queen Cordelia was holding court nearby, gesticulating wildly while holding a small piece of paper in her hand.  “And so then I said ‘My God, that shirt is like so Leave It To Beaver.  And even the Partridge boys would have rejected those pants as out-of-date.  Can you get more disgusting?’  And then I think I actually saw him start to tear up.  So anyway, I told him that if he gave me his ticket, I wouldn’t tell everyone how he was such a big loser.”

            “But Cordelia, you are telling everyone,” said one of her friends.

            “Excuse me, interrupt much?” Cordelia snapped.  “Anyone can tell just by looking at him that he’s an inhabitant of Dweebville.  So now all we have to do is find out which other three losers have tickets, get them, and I’ll pick which of you get to go on a fabulous ski vacation with me.  Plus, my father said I could borrow his new SUV for the trip.”

            Her friends’ faces lit up, and they began to gossip and look around to see who had the other tickets.

            “Well,” said Buffy, looking at Willow and Xander.  “Willow, if your dad won’t let us borrow his car, we’ll going to have to find alternative means of transport.”

            “I agree completely,” said Willow.

            They both looked at Xander.  He looked at them, not comprehending, before he realized what they wanted.  “You want me to try and talk the Ice Queen herself into letting us ride along with her?”

            “Well, you are the—what was that Willow said?  ‘The Prince of Parley’?  Anyway, Cordelia despises me and mocks Willow.  I’m sure that if the ‘Xan-Man’ can’t do it, then nobody can,” Buffy finished.

            Xander shook his head slowly.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.  I’m not exactly number one on her ‘I-want-to-spend-a-weekend-with’ list either.”  Xander hoped he was being sufficiently convincing—if either Willow or Buffy found out that he and Cordelia had kissed, he would never live it down.

            “Xander, as much as Cordelia may dislike you, she despises us even more.  You’re our only chance.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.  One for all and all for one and all that . . .  But I won’t like it.”

            “Courage under fire, that’s our Xander,” said Willow, smiling.

            “I’ll need some courage myself,” said Buffy.  “I still have one last obstacle in my path, one last encounter to deal with before I can leave for Arctic Ridge in good conscience.”

            “Evil blood-sucking vampires?” said Willow.

            “Nope.”

            “Undead, brain-eating zombies?” said Xander.

            “Nada.”

            “Witches?” said Willow.

            “Nope, Xander’s handling Cordelia,” joked Buffy.  “No, my battle will be far worse.  There is only one creature that can stand between me and a weekend of freedom from the Hellmouth.  And its name is . . .” Buffy paused for effect.

            “Giles.”

 

 

            Rupert Giles hunched over a table in the library, peering closely at a chessboard.  Although it was the middle of the school day, the library was quiet.  It was distressing to think about how few Sunnydale students ever actually used the library, but at the same time, Giles was relieved that it allowed him time for more important things, such as helping Buffy slay vampires.  And for playing chess, for example.

Giles reached out for the White bishop, but pulled his hand back at the last moment.  He grinned.  “I’ve got you now,” he said, and instead moved the White rook to the seventh rank.  Then he stood straight up, walked around the table, and sat down at the opposite end of the table.  “Oh, I don’t think it’s over yet,” he said.

            “What’s not over?” Buffy asked, suddenly entering the room.

            Giles jumped slightly, knocking over the Black chess piece he was just about to move.  “Buffy.  I didn’t notice you come in.”  He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before replacing them.  “What were you saying?”

            “I thought you said something,” she said, “about not being over?”

            “Did I?  Well.  You’re here early, Buffy.  Is there something I can help you with?”

            “Just came by to chat.  What are you doing?”

            “Playing um, chess,” he replied, discomfited.

            Buffy looked around.  The library was empty except for herself and Giles.

            “By yourself?”

            “Well, yes.  I find that a good game of chess helps me relax after time spent cataloguing and researching.  It’s intellectually stimulating.  When I move White, I play as Kasparov—but when I switch to Black, I play as Fischer.”

            “Who?” said Buffy, with a confused look on her face.

            “Well you see . . .” Giles went on, but Buffy completely tuned him out.  Much like she did with her teacher in History class.  Or in Algebra, for that matter.  Moments passed, and when she looked up again, she realized that Giles was again completely engrossed in the chess set.

            This was her opportunity, and she seized the chance.

            “Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and take the weekend off.”

            “Right,” he said distractedly, as Kasparov narrowly eluded Fischer’s brilliant pinning maneuver.

            Buffy backed away slowly, knowing that if she could just make it out the door she would be home free.  She tiptoed quietly and had just placed a hand on the latch when Giles turned and looked in her direction and thought to himself for a moment.

            “Buffy?”

            “Yes,” she turned around with an innocent look on her face.

            “What was that you said?  Did you say something about leaving for the weekend?”  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly in her direction.

            Caught!

            Buffy slowly walked forward, like a puppy that had been yelled at for chewing one too many socks.  She explained to him about Arctic Ridge, about how it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, about how the Scooby Gang might be split up after graduation, and even how it was as if Fate were calling since school was canceled on Monday and part of Friday.  In short, everything that worked on her mom. 

Of course, none of it worked on Giles.  He went on and on about how important it was for the Slayer to be ever alert, about how dangerous the Hellmouth was, and that even though things had been quiet for the last few weeks, in Sunnydale it was always just the calm before the storm.

            Time for Plan B.

            “Angel,” she said.

            “Angel?  What about him?”

            “Well, he can be the substitute Slayer for a weekend.  He knows everything there is to know about vamps and has informants all over town.  He’ll hold down the fort, a quiet weekend will pass, and before you know it, I’ll be right back slaying demons left and right.”

            “Buffy, I know this trip is important to you,” Giles said in his mentor voice.  “However, being a Slayer is a grave responsibility.”

            Buffy gave a wry smile.

            “No pun intended,” Giles continued.  “Although Angel has certainly been very helpful to us, he is not the Slayer.  He has neither your training nor your knowledge.”

            “I think Kendra mentioned something about periodic rests being recommended in the Slayer’s Handbook,” Buffy said.  A white lie, admittedly.  But a very small one.

            Giles’ face lit up with a thoughtful look and he rubbed the back of his neck.  “Yes, I suppose that is true.  However—“

            “Great,” Buffy interrupted.  “Then it’s settled.  I’ll talk to Angel and make sure you have a number to contact me if anything happens.”  She turned and jogged towards the door.

            Giles was about to call her back again, but he remembered the look on her face when she thought she had persuaded him.  He simply couldn’t bear to have to disappoint her again.  As she kept reminding him, she was just a teenager.  And she was right—how many more opportunities would she have to enjoy being with her friends?  Historically, the average lifespan of Slayers was rather short and—

            Giles shook his head and decided not to follow that line of thought.

            Within moments, Fischer was back on the advance.

 

 

            Buffy rejoined Willow and Xander at lunch.  Around them, freshmen and sophomores grumbled about cafeteria food or sack lunches.  Almost all of the upperclassmen left campus for lunch, driving off in sporty red convertibles or beat-up pick-up trucks.

            Xander chewed on a candy bar between swipes at a can of soda.  “I did it,” he said.  “I almost became a martyr for the cause, but I convinced Cordelia that we should all go together.”

            “Awesome,” said Buffy, impressed.  “So did you have to make googly-eyes at her or swear undying affection?”

            “Not funny,” said Xander, even though everyone knew it was.  “No, I simply explained to her the risks involved in a single, attractive girl driving hundreds of miles up remote icy mountain roads in the middle of probable blizzards.  I think I might have even mentioned Stephen King’s Misery.  Persuasion through fear,” he continued.  “I think it’s the only reason girls ever go out with me.”

            Willow patted his arm.  “You just need to meet different girls.  Girls who are kind, thoughtful, intelligent.”  Like me, for example.

            “In Sunnydale?” he retorted.  “Right.”

            Willow looked hurt, so Buffy decided to change the subject and told them of her success with Giles.

            “Then we’re good to go,” said Xander.  “Arctic Ridge Ski Resort, here we come.”

            “You’re not going anywhere Harris!” said a voice from behind the group.  The voice was like the jagged whine from a low-pitched buzz saw—but without the charm.  They turned to see Principal Snyder standing there, arms crossed, head bald, and mouth curled into a smirk.

            Xander silently wished groups of wild hyena-people could eat principals more often.  Normally, he would have been intimidated by Principal Snyder’s presence.  But this was the weekend they were talking about here, and it was clearly out of Snyder’s jurisdiction.

            “Actually, sir, we were just discussing our plans for this weekend.  You know, the small portion of each week when school’s not in operation?”

            “Don’t get smart Harris,” Snyder said flatly.  “Learning to work well with others is the key to a successful education.  Plus it keeps troublemakers like you under wraps.  That’s why I’ve volunteered you as a stagehand for the school play.  Monday through Thursday, 6 p.m.”      

From the corner of his eye, Snyder saw a freshman trying to mock him.  “Be there Harris, or be expelled,” he said, turning to go after the disobedient student.

“Man, freshmen don’t know anything,” Buffy said, as they all breathed a sigh of relief that Snyder was gone.  “That kid is totally dead.”

“I’m sorry, Xander,” Willow said in a comforting voice.  “The Bronze just won’t be the same tonight without you.”

“So you’ll skip it and come help me out at the play instead?”

“Can’t.  Oz is going to be there.”

“And I’m supposed to meet Angel,” Buffy added.

“Great,”  Xander sighed, clearly disappointed.  But then he shrugged and added “That’s okay—I hate disco anyway.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO: THE PRESENT

 

Tara stopped walking and looked around.  She knew the forests around Sunnydale pretty well, but she didn’t recognize any of the trees around her.  She put her hands on her hips and with a teasing smile said “Are you sure this is the right way?”

Willow stopped as well and walked back to where Tara was standing.  It was an early fall evening, cool enough it seemed like they could walk forever, but not yet cold enough that either needed jackets.  The last rays of the setting sun filtered down through the treetops.  They were utterly alone.

“No,” Willow said.  “I’m not.”  She lifted her hands, palms up, and said “I don’t know what happened.  I thought this was the way.”  She placed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and looked around for a familiar landmark.  They were supposed to meet the others for a picnic, but where were they?

blood

Tara’s eyes sparkled.  “I think you planned this,” she said playfully.  “Wanted to get me all to yourself so you could seduce and then ravish me.  You vicious monster, you.”

bloodontheshirtholeinthechest

“But all for the sake of love, m’lady,” Willow said, playing along.

--berg?

Willow walked a few more steps and then shrugged.  “I guess if we’re lost we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

Tara grinned and walked up behind her, placing her arms around Willow’s waist.  Tara kissed her softly on the back of the neck.

ohmigodshe’sbeenshot

--Rosenberg?

Willow turned around and intercepted the next kiss.  Tara’s lips were gentle but firm.  Every time was like the first time, and Willow couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have found someone like her.

Tara pulled away slightly and looked around.  “What if the others find us?” she said softly.

“I don’t care,” Willow said with a grin.

she’sfallingwhat’shappeningareyouokay

“I love you,” Willow whispered in Tara’s ear as they lowered themselves to the ground.

pleasedon’tdiepleasedon’tdiesomebodyhelpgoddammit

--Ms. Rosenberg?

Willow started and looked around.  Her classmates were staring at her—most with sympathetic faces, but some with mocking grins.  In front of her, Professor Markin stood with her instructor’s copy of Jude the Obscure and an expectant look on her face.

“Now that you’re with us again, Ms. Rosenberg, would you care to discuss how Hardy--”

The bell rang and the other students began to hurriedly gather up their books—some of them had classes all the way across campus, while others just couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in a classroom any longer than necessary.  Willow distractedly gathered her belongings as well and headed for the door.

“Ms. Rosenberg?  Do you have a moment?  I would like to speak with you about . . . some things.”

Willow turned and looked back.  Professor Markin was sitting in one of the student’s chairs in the front row.  Because college instructors might teach in three of four different classrooms every day, they often had desks only in their own offices.  Willow walked over and sat down across from her.

“Ms. Rosenberg—Willow—how are you feeling today?”  She said it hesitantly, unsure of where the boundaries should be.

“Fine,” Willow replied.

“Good, good.  Listen, I know things have been tough since your . . . friend passed away, and I know the grief counselors always talk about how important it is to try to keep up a normal routine, but . . . Well, the simple truth, Willow, is that the quality of your coursework has declined significantly, as has your grade for participation.”

Willow sat there, giving the appearance that she was listening carefully, but Professor Markin knew she was off in her own world again.  Still, the instructor had had something on her mind for several days now and decided it was the time to say it.

“Willow?  What I’m trying to say is that you’re not cutting it—and it just wouldn’t be fair to the other students if I gave you special treatment.  Still . . . I just think it might be a good idea to consider your other options—just temporarily.  It’s still early in the summer term.  If you like, I can probably talk Administration into letting you drop the class without any permanent mark on your transcripts, and maybe you can sign up again for Fall Term—when things are . . . better.”

“Uh huh,” was all Willow said in reply.

Professor Markin tried one last time.  “Willow, are you sure you’re okay?  You know there’s plenty of people here for you to talk to if you need it.”

“I’m fine,” Willow said before picking up her books and leaving the room.

Willow left Sedgwick Hall—where most literature classes were held—and stepped outside.  Down a small set of stone steps was a large open area called, imaginatively enough, The Square.  It was one of the few green areas still left on campus, and the students had fought to keep it free from development.  It was just after lunchtime and still rather busy.  As she walked down the steps, Willow hardly noticed the students playing frisbee or talking, or trying to catch up on a week’s worth of reading in the five minutes before class started.

She cut across The Square and headed for her dorm.  She didn’t say “hi” to anyone, and no one said “hi” to her.  Although Tara’s murder was no longer the hot topic on a bustling campus like Sunnydale College, even those students the couple had been friendly with were unsure of how they should handle themselves around Willow.  Should they act sad? Cheerful? Sympathetic? As if nothing had happened?  Afraid of appearing awkward, most chose the easy way out and simply avoided her altogether.

Willow entered the residence hall and walked in the direction of her room.  She stopped at the room next to her own—Tara’s.  The door was closed, and there was no sign that anyone lived there.  In fact, Tara’s room had been cleaned out and her things put in storage just a few days after she died.  They had asked Willow if she wanted to help—but she didn’t.

And now it’s like she never existed.  Because she doesn’t exist.  Because she’s dead.  When I’m seventy years old, Tara will still be dead.  And she’ll never be seventy.  Because she’s dead.

Willow continued on and opened the door to her own room.  It still looked much the same as it always had—books on magic on the shelves, posters on the wall, mementos on the desk.  But it was different as well.  In one corner of the room sat a pile of the things Willow had received from friends and relatives after Tara’s death—cards, flowers, books on dealing with grief.  All sat unopened and untouched.  On the floor next to her bed was a large cardboard box—inside were things of Tara’s, both things Willow had saved and things that Tara’s relative had thought Willow might want.  Candles, books, love letters, a rock shaped very roughly like a heart, a blue furry lobster.

Willow closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed.  Her eyes were open but she didn’t really see anything.

It was blistering hot outside, but Willow didn’t notice—or if she did notice she simply didn’t care.  She and Tara were holding hands, walking down the main concourse of the carnival that had set up outside of town.  Some people stared at them—but they didn’t care.  They were happy and if other people didn’t like it, that was their problem.

“I’m just saying that I don’t think it would work,” Tara said.

“Why not?” Willow asked.

“Because magic isn’t just a tool like a hammer or something.  It’s alive, in its way, and there are always consequences.”

“Look!” Willow said, pointing.  She read from a bright sign showing a heavily muscled-man holding up a giant sledgehammer.  “’Atlas’ Challenge—Only the Mightiest Can Succeed’  It’s one of those things where you swing the hammer and see how far up it goes and if you hit the bell you win.”

what’sonyourshirtisthatblood

Tara giggled.  “What—and you want to try?”

Willow smiled back.  “It sounds like fun.  And besides, we only have one ticket left between us, so we can’t do any of the rides.”

They walked up to the stall and were glad there wasn’t a line.  The carnival was getting ready to close for the night, and most of the other thrill-seekers had already gone home.  A surprisingly scrawny carnie stepped out from the display holding the “sledgehammer” in one hand—it was made of a light metal wrapped in foam rubber.

“Ladies, care to try your hand at Atlas’ Challenge?  Ring the bell and win a prize!” he said by rote, unenthusiastically.

don’tworryit’sokayI’llusemagiclikeIdidonBuffy

Tara handed him her ticket and gave it a try.  She swung the hammer akwardly though, and barely clipped the machine.  The mechanism didn’t even go halfway  up to the bell.

She laughed and then shrugged.  “Maybe you’ll do better hon,” she said, handing the hammer to Willow.  “And a kiss for luck.”  The carnie gawked slightly but didn’t say anything.

Willow weighed the hammer carefully in her hand and gave it a few practice swings.  “This is going to be pathetic,” she said in her self-deprecating way.  She raised the hammer high and brought it down, and squealed with delight when the mechanism went all the way up and rang the bell.

The carnie opened a box and pulled out a cheap toy lobster with blue fur.  He tossed it to her.  “Congratulations,” he said, and began packing up for the night.

Willow walked over to Tara and handed her the lobster.

helpisonthewaypleasedon’tdieIloveyou

“Thank you,” she said.  Tara pretended to feel Willow’s bicep.  “I never knew I was dating Hercules,” she said, still smiling

“More like Xena,” Willow replied.  “In more ways than one.”

She thought she was done with tears, but they came back.

Tara always knew what to say when bad things happen.  She knew what to say and what to do when Buffy’s mom died.  And when Giles left, and when I started getting out of control.  She always knew.  But she’s gone.  And I have to move on.  She’s dead, and I need to stop thinking about her.  Because she’s beautiful, and I loved her and I do love her and I can’t believe she’s dead and if I can’t bring her here I should go see her there and one of these days there’s going to be a knock at that door and she’s going to be back.  And everything will be the way it always should have been.  Again.

And there really was a knock at the door.  Willow’s heart skipped a beat and then reality set back in.  “It’s open,” she said softly.  Whoever was at the door knocked again.  “It’s open,” Willow said again, slightly louder this time.

The door opened slowly and Buffy poked her head through the crack and looked around.  She smiled when she saw Willow sitting there.  She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

“I thought I heard you say something, but I wasn’t sure if you were here or not,” Buffy explained.  She walked over to the desk and sat on the chair the wrong way, with her hands resting on its back.

“I just wanted to stop by and say hi—I have to get to work by one.”  She decided to be indirect.  “So how are classes going?  I always thought summer classes sounded like a terrible idea, but now that I’m stuck at the Double Meat Palace it sounds way better.”

“Classes?” Willow said.  “They’re fine.”

“And how is everything else?” Buffy said carefully, neither too cheefully nor too mournfully.  She hated this part.  Tara’s death had affected everyone, but Willow had been in love with her.  And although Buffy knew what it was like to lose someone—Angel, her mother—she could never know what it was like for Willow to lose someone.  And that made helping harder.  But still, she knew the last thing Willow needed was to feel like her friends had abandoned her.

“Fine,” Willow said.  “Everything is fine.”

Buffy glanced at her watch—she really was running late, and her boss would kill her if she was late again.

“Listen Will, I talked to Xander and he said he would stop by tonight after he gets off work.  And if I get off early I’ll try and stop by too.”

“Okay.”  Willow bravely tried a half-smile but both of them knew it wasn’t real.

After Buffy had left, Willow continued sitting at the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think I can do it.  I don’t know how.” Willow said.  They were sitting on the floor of her room, with the door locked securely.  A small circle was drawn on the floor with chalk mixed with flecks of mica.  In the center of the circle were two sigils.

“Trust me.  It’s really not so hard.  Just do what I do.”  Tara set the book on her lap and recited several lines in ancient Aramaic.  A floating, ghostly flute appeared in the middle of the circle.  Tara lifted her eyes from the book and then held her hands up.  She moved her fingers as if she were playing a real flute, and in the center of the circle the spectral flute responded with the appropriate notes.

I’mgoingtokillwhoeverdidthistoyou

Willow’s eyes widened.  “That’s amazing,” she said.  “I mean, I know how to do some of the simple stuff—the glamours and the minor legerdemain.  But I’m not sure I can do that.”

“I’ll help you.  Now just concentrate.”  Tara let the spectral flute dissipate and handed the book to Willow.  She scuffed out the two sigils and redrew them.

Willow cradled the book in her arms.  She started to recite.

Tara burst out laughing.

“What’d I do?” Willow said, looking up.  In the center of the circle a spectral instrument floated.  But it wasn’t exactly a flute—nor any other instrument known to man.  It was some odd combination of a mandolin and a flute and a trumpet.

pleasedon’tleavemeIcan’tgoonwithoutyou

Willow reddened, slightly shame-faced, but Tara put her arm around her.  “Not bad for a first try.  The Aramaic is hard to pronounce properly—a minor change in inflection will change the spell altogether.  We’ll try again until we get it right.”

Willow relaxed visibly.  “I guess it’s not a big deal,” she said.  “I never learned how to play a real flute either.”

The phone rang and Willow mechanically walked over and picked it up. We were stupid and naive to think things would end up okay.  Ms. Calendar, Angel, Joyce.  Now Tara.  Everyone we love dies, and they die because we love them and get them involved and keep them in Sunnydale.  Tara and I should have left and gone somewhere like Europe or the Himalayas or Canada.  Somewhere far away.  It shouldn’t have ended up like this.  Me, Xander, Buffy—the Three Amigos.  We saved the day, or the city, or the world, and everything should have turned out fine.  It was her mom calling.

“How is everything honey?” Mrs. Rosenberg said.

“Fine.”

“I’m making dinner tonight—your favorite,” her mom continued.

“I think I’ll just eat at the cafeteria.  Studying and stuff.  Thanks though.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

There was a long pause.

“And you’re sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah Mom, everything’s fine.”

Willow hung up the phone and sat back down on the edge of the bed.  She knew she should be doing something—studying or eating or surfing the ‘Net—but she just didn’t feel like it.  She didn’t feel like doing anything, really.  Instead, she just sat there, and waited.  She had been attracted to other people in her life—Xander and Oz, for example—but with Tara it was something different.  Something real.

In a crowded residence hall on the campus of a large college located next to a city with tens of thousands of people, with friends and relatives checking up on her frequently, Willow felt alone.  Truly alone.  And as far as she knew, she would always feel alone as long as one particular person wasn’t with her.  She wondered what was left when that one person was gone, and whether it was worth the heartache to try and find out.

She was alone, and despite what she told everyone, she wasn’t fine.

 

 

That night, after Xander had come and gone, Willow turned off the lights and laid down on the bed, fully clothed and on top of the blankets.  She couldn’t sleep, and when she did she woke up more tired than when she went to bed.  It was getting harder and harder to get out of bed each morning.  It just wasn’t worth the effort--there was nothing to look forward to, because nothing ever happened except remembering.

When her shift was over, Willow left the magic shop and stepped outside.  Tara was there, waiting for her.  They looked at each other for a moment.  They had each been miserable.

“Hi,” Tara said hesitantly.

“Hi.”

They started walking.  It was cloudy and after just a few moments it was sprinkling.  Soon it was raining hard, raining for real.  They stopped and huddled under a doorway.

“Willow, I’m sorry.  I’ve been a fool.”  Rain streamed down her face.

“No—it was my fault.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I know—but you were right—it—you know I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“I missed you.”  Tara smiled.  “I mean, it’s only been like four hours since we fought but God I missed you.”

Willow’s face was moist, not from the rain.  “Work sucked,” she said with a sob.  “I couldn’t even concentrate.”

They embraced and laughed with relief.  Things were going to work out, things were going to be okay.

And then Tara stepped back a few feet, and then there was a big red spot on her chest and then she started to fall forward and Willow caught her but Tara wasn’t moving and then . . .

Willow had trouble sleeping.  All of her dreams ended this way.

 

           

 

CHAPTER THREE: FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Disco Night at the Bronze was always something to see.  Although the nightclub’s regular patrons—in their late teens or early twenties—had no firsthand memories of the disco era at all, a chance to scour the thrift stores and dress up in hilariously unfashionable clothing was always appreciated.  Inside, the club’s manager had a disco ball temporarily installed, and since there would be no band, the stage was set aside as an extra dance floor.  Music the crowd’s parents might have enjoyed—hits by Abba, Donna Summers, and the like—blared over loudspeakers.

            Buffy and Willow, sitting at a table near the Bronze’s normal dance floor, were not dressed up in seventies clothing.  They hadn’t come for the music, the clothes, or the faux-nostalgia—they had come for the boys.   Two boys in particular . . .

            “Is that him?” Willow said, rising up from the table to get a better look.   “No it’s not.  Yes it is.   Is it?”

            “Will, calm down,” Buffy replied.  “And no, it—yes, yes it is.”

            The girls couldn’t help but giggle as Oz dodged around a couple of their classmates and made his way to their table.  He didn’t look like Oz at all—or rather, he looked like his own father in one of those period photographs everyone leaves in a box at the bottom of the closet.  He wore a tight-fitting, orange leisure suit, neck open at the collar, while his hair and false sideburns had been dyed a dark black.

            “I wasn’t going to,” Oz said, looking at his own outfit.  “But after I saw this, I just couldn’t pass it up.”

            “Well it’s very . . . authentic,” Buffy said, smiling.  She looked around for Angel, but he hadn’t arrived yet.  Angel actually lived through the disco era.  I wonder if he’ll—nah. 

“The bandages are gone—your arm’s completely healed?”  Willow asked.  She could still hardly believe he had jumped in front of a bullet for her.

“Yep,” Oz replied.  “It left a scar in the shape of the Virgin Mary—or maybe Marilyn Manson.  I can’t tell which.”

Buffy waited around a few more moments to make sure Willow was holding up her end of the conversation and then excused herself and made her way to the juice bar.  Willow had been so excited about seeing Oz tonight, Buffy had feared she might tense up or spaz out—but to Buffy’s relief, her friend was being charming and funny, engaging Oz in talk about his band’s gig this weekend.

            Buffy sipped her drink slowly at the bar, looking around for Angel.  Her eyes were drawn to the disco ball as it reflected light and images from around the room.  By concentrating just enough, she swore she could see herself reflected on one of the glass panels of the ball.

            Her concentration was broken when she felt a hand on her arm.  She looked over and saw that a man dressed in a white-John Travolta-Saturday Night Fever suit was leaning next to her.

            “Hey baby,” he said.  “You wanna dance?”  Ostentatious gold-plated necklaces clanked as he spoke.

            Buffy peeled his hand off of her arm, causing him to wince in pain slightly.  “I don’t think so,” she said.

            She returned her attention to the dance floor, hoping that Angel would show up and that losers like the guy standing next to her would take the hint and leave.  Neither of her hopes had come true yet, however.  She caught sight of her self in the mirrored disco ball again, standing at the bar, all by herself.  All by myself?  Wait a sec!, she thought.

            She turned and faced the bar, setting her drink down.  She smiled at the man she had just turned down, and then “accidentally” knocked her glass over.  She watched the reflection in the glass carefully as it rolled over to him.  He picked it up and set it back down in front of her.

            “C’mon baby,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist.  “You know you want me.”

            Like cancer, she thought, while saying “Yeah.  Let’s dance.”

            She led him over to the edge of the dance floor and then, with a wink, led him back behind the stage where it was dark and deserted.

            “Now we’re talking,” he said.

“I know you’ve been waiting a long time for your clothes to come back into fashion,” Buffy said, “so I’m almost sorry about this.”

“About what?” he asked.

“This,” Buffy replied, sliding the stake out of her purse.  She brought it up quickly and in a flash of light and dust, the vampire had disintegrated.

            Buffy walked back to where Oz and Willow were sitting.

            “Hey, who was that guy you were talking to?” Willow asked.

            Buffy wiped a few flecks of ash off of her blouse.  “Him?”  She looked back at the stage.  “He was a bit of a flake.  Anyway, I don’t think Angel’s going to show.  I’m gonna head home.”

           

 

“No!” Buffy said rather loudly.  “Don’t run into the forest—you’ll trip!  Grab the knife!”  Immediately, several of her fellow theater-goers shushed her.  “Sorry,” she offered in a whisper.

Xander sighed, handed his popcorn to Willow, and leaned over to whisper in Buffy’s ear.  “Listen Buffy,” he said, “It’s just a horror movie, right?  The dumb blonde is always going to run into the woods, she’s always going to trip on a branch, and the bad guy’s always going to get her.  It’s just the way it is.”  Xander knew that if Buffy kept interrupting the movie, she’d get them thrown out—and he would have risked Principal Snyder’s ire by skipping the play in vain.

“It’s just . . . she’s so stupid,” Buffy whispered back.  She sipped at her diet soda.  Watching horror movies just wasn’t the same since she became the Slayer.  Now that she had encountered dangers far worse than ever reached the big screen, it was hard to watch such a movie and not identify with the characters—and offer advice—as if it were real.

On screen, another ill-fated camper had locked herself in a room and pushed a bed up against the door.  She backed away slowly, carefully eyeing the door, and stopped in front of a window on the opposite wall from the door.

“Don’t do that!,” Buffy said.  “That’s where he’ll come through!”  Several more shushes told her she had accidentally said it out loud again.  On the screen, the murderous manaic crashed through the window, just as Buffy had said, and wrapped his arms around his next victim.

            She looked over and saw Xander giving her a not-so-friendly look.

            “I know, I know,” she whispered.  “I think I’ll go get a candy bar or something.”

            Buffy left the theater and stepped outside.  Nearby, a long line of moviegoers was awaiting the next screening.  Don’t bother, Buffy wanted to tell them.  You can see a horror movie for free every night—just walk around Sunnydale after midnight.  She began walking home, but stopped when a voice called her name from across the street.  Angel.

            She waited as he crossed over, trenchcoat flapping in the cool autumn breeze.

            “I thought you were supposed to show up in unexpected places,” Buffy said when he reached her.  “Full of cryptic advice.”

            “Listen Buffy, I’m sorry about last night—I got held up.”

            “Like a bank?” she replied.

            “No—I just couldn’t make it.  But I wanted to.”

            “No biggie I guess.”  Buffy smiled ruefully.  It was hard to stay mad around someone like Angel.  “Hey, were you around during the disco days?”

            Angel was confused by the sudden digression.  “Yes.  I hated them.”

            “Good,” Buffy replied.  “So did I.  Listen,” she continued, “I’m going to leaving town for a little while.  Can you take over for me?”

            Angel shrugged.  “Sure.”  They had continued walking, and now were in a quiet residential area.  He leaned in and they shared a long, passionate kiss.  Angel pulled away just long enough to ask her how long she’d be gone.

            “Just a few days,” she replied.  “And then I’ll be back.”                        

 

 

It seemed as if Friday would never come.  Tuesday and Wednesday had crawled along, Thursday went even slower, but Friday morning was worst of all—Buffy was sure this must be what it was like when the vampires in Interview With the Vampire were punished by being buried alive in a small crypt for all eternity.  If only all vampires looked like Brad Pitt, she thought to herself, they wouldn’t be so creepy.  Angel excluded, of course—he already looked better than Brad Pitt.

            But after a morning spent furtively looking at her watch, up at the classroom clock, and back again, the noon bell finally rang and students started filing out to start a long weekend.  Buffy swept her unopened textbook into her backpack and rushed out into the hallway.  The night before, she had spent almost two hours trying to decide what to pack.  It wasn’t as if she had much in the way of winter clothes—living in California ensured that—but she did want to look good while cruising the slopes.  The hard part was that she had no idea what people actually wore while skiing—apart from an occasional scene on TV or a movie, she’d never seen skiers in action.  Her father hated cold weather, and always balked at any suggestion of skiing when her parents were still together.

            After a quick stop home to pick up her bags, she arrived at Cordelia’s house, where everyone was supposed to meet.  Cordelia lived in one of Sunnydale’s nicest neighborhoods—it wasn’t an ultra-rich gated community, but it was certainly out of Buffy’s league, at least since the divorce.  Although Joyce Summers made good money at the gallery, it was nowhere near what Cordelia’s parents brought home.

Xander and Willow were there already, sitting at the curb alongside their suitcases.  They looked glum.

            “Hi guys, “ said Buffy as she walked up.  “Why the long faces?”

            Simultaneously, Xander and Willow waved a thumb towards a brand-new, dark green SUV which was parked nearby.  Although designed to carry heavy loads, it sat low on its wheels.  Through the back window, Buffy could see it was already packed to the roof with luggage.

            Xander stood up.  “Cordelia said she’d be out in just a minute.  She just had to get a few more things,” he said sarcastically.

            “Ah,” said Buffy.  “Well maybe I can talk with her.  It’s just a short trip, not a stay on Gilligan’s Island.”

            “That’s what they thought too,” cracked Xander.

            A few minutes later, Cordelia came striding across the immaculate lawn, carrying a large cosmetics case in one hand, and a garment bag in the other.  By her own estimate, and those of most other students, she was easily the most attractive and best-dressed student at Sunnydale High.  She and Buffy began talking, while Xander walked off a little way down the street.  Willow got up and joined him.

            “I knew this place looked familiar,” Xander said, pointing to a small brown house across the street.  “That’s where Bobby Stuckey used to live.  In junior high, we used to play football in his front yard like everyday after school.”

            “I remember him,” said Willow.  She brushed a dangling strand of red hair out of her eyes.  “He got braces one year and everyone started calling him Steeltrap Stuckey.”  She remembered especially well, because the fact that he had braces deflected plenty of teasing she would have received when she got them herself.

            “And you know who else we used to play with?”

            “Who?”

            “Jesse.”

            “Jesse?  Like ‘The-dust-formerly-a-vampire-formerly-known-as-our-friend-Jesse’?”

            “Right,” Xander continued without pause.  “I mean really, Will, he was one of our best friends.  And he's been dead what—just a year now?  And have you noticed how no one ever talks about him?”

            “Including us,” she offered, unsure where Xander was headed with this.

            “It’s just weird is all—how quickly everything changes.  I wonder where Bobby Stuckey is now,” said Xander, reflectively.

            “Why Xander,” said Willow, impressed.  “I didn’t know you could be so . . . philosophical.  It’s very sweet.”

            “Nah.  I was just remembering how he swiped my mint condition Bo Jackson rookie card and never gave it back.  If I ever run into him again . . .”  He waved a fist in the air, threateningly.

            Willow grinned, but she knew that as much as he tried to hide it, there really was more to Xander than slacking and joking.  At least most of the time.  If only other people—and he himself—would realize it.

            They rejoined Buffy and Cordelia, who after long negotiation had reached a mutually agreeable compromise regarding luggage:  Xander’s gear would simply have to be strapped to the roof.

            As they piled into the car, Buffy noticed a man staring at her from behind the wheel of a sedan parked down the street.  He wore a dark suit and sunglasses and looked away as soon as she glanced in his direction.

            “I think someone’s watching us,” said Buffy.

            “Whatever.  Probably just another one of those perv weirdos you’re always attracting,” said Cordelia.

            “Hey, I resent that,” said Xander from the back seat.

            “This is going to be a long trip,” muttered Cordelia under her breath.  She shook her head and put the car in gear.

            As they passed the sedan, Buffy saw that the man was simply chatting away on a cell phone.  This trip away from Sunnydale will do me good, she thought to herself.  I’m becoming even more ultra-paranoid than usual.

 

 

            Several hundred miles away, another man dressed in a dark, yet elegant suit picked up a telephone and listened.  He hated this American, who had the annoying habit of pronouncing each individual letter of his name so that it sounded like Cast-Till-Oh.  Still, Wittingstone did his job reasonably well and it was hard to find reliable living help these days.

            “Good,” Castillo said calmly into the receiver.  “Signal for the others.  They’re waiting nearby.”

            He listened for another moment.

            “No, I’ll supervise that part personally.”

            He hung up the receiver and smiled cordially at his visitor who sat across the desk from him.

            “Now, as I was saying Colonel, I understand there are some problems with continued development of the Sunrise Project?”

            “No, not anymore there aren’t,” answered a slightly overweight man dressed in an olive army dress uniform.  He puffed slowly on a cigar before speaking again.  “We had to place the project on hold, pending further review.  But those . . . obstacles have been removed.  The project is back on track.  Assuming a successful field test next week, final implementation should be concluded by this time next year.  If the Sunrise Project does everything you say it can, I can assure you Electrotech Incorporated will be first in line for additional contracts.”

            “Excellent,” said Castillo.  He asked a few more questions about the project before standing up and offering his hand.  “Always a pleasure, Colonel.  The Board will be happy to hear that we can continue cooperating in this little venture.”  He smiled as the officer shook his hand, and maintained the expression until the man had left the room—then he dropped it instantly and resumed his normal, guarded features: intense eyes, a hawk-like nose, and sunken cheeks.  Castillo was not the sort to lower himself to get what he wanted; but at the same time, he saw no need to arouse the military’s suspicions by looking hostile.

He sat back down at the desk and tapped a small button, sitting perfectly still while waiting.  Moments later, another man entered the windowless room.  It was now nearly pitch black, but the man seemed to be able to see the expensive, oak-paneled walls and the large desk perfectly.

            “Yes Mr. Castillo?”

            “Get the boys ready.  We ride at dusk.”
            “You’re coming too, sir?” said the man, seemingly surprised.  He looked at Mr. Castillo carefully.  Always immaculately dressed, Castillo’s wavy black hair was cut in a professional, yet fashionable manner.  A small black mustache followed the line of his upper lip, while his dark eyes and stern chin could be intimidating.

            “Yes,” Castillo replied.  “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a vacation.”

 

 

            A shout ripped through the run-down motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

            “Keep it down in there or I’m callin’ the cops!” shouted a booming voice from the next room, followed by the sound of banging on the nearly paper-thin walls.  Plaster and pieces of dirty wallpaper fell to the ground, and the single naked lightbulb in the room flickered with each shudder.

            “I warned you not to try that,” a cold, dead voice whispered.  Its owner pulled out a grungy handkerchief and stuffed it into the mouth of the man strapped to the bed.            The figure looming over him walked over to the lone table in the room and opened a large case.  He removed a gleaming knife almost eight inches long.  He walked back to the foot of the bed and brought it down swiftly twice.  Blood splattered on the bare mattress as a muffled scream erupted from the gagged man.

            “Now we will try this again,” intoned the figure.  “Where is the vampire Angel?” he said, removing the gag.

            The man on the bed sweated profusely and was literally shaking with fear and pain.  Combined with the sweat, his greasy hair and filthy clothes caused a rank stench to circulate throughout the small room.

            “I . . . I don’t know no Angel.  I swear!” he said.

            “I’ve come a long way, and that’s not good enough,” said the man looming over him, as he picked up the gag and held the knife aloft.  The knife started shaking in his hand, and his voice was no longer impassive—now it had an edge to it.  “Tell me!” he shouted through clenched teeth, as he raised the knife far over his head and thrust it down savagely.  The man on the bed screamed again and tried to roll up in a fetal position—but his hands and what was left of his feet were bound too securely.  Sirens wailed in the distance, as the pounding on the wall started up again.

            “Wait!  Wait!  I’ve heard of a guy called Ange—Angle--Angelus.  Real bad sort.”

            “I’m sure he has many names,” said the figure.  “Where is he?”

            “I—I’m not sure.”  The greasy-haired vampire groaned again and—for the first time since his transformation—prayed.  Prayed that his torture would soon end.
            “Well you better remember.  Living forever is not quite as much fun without any limbs.”

            Several minutes later, the figure left the room, carrying the large case.  After months of searching, he had the information he needed, finally. 

In the room behind him, more than one body part littered the floor as a thick pool of blood, mixed with ashes, stained the once-tan carpet a deep crimson.

 

 

            Jenny Calendar watched as Giles wrapped the pasta around his fork, released it, and then did the same thing again.  He had been staring off into space and toying with his food like this for the last few minutes and it was starting to irk her.

            “Rupert, is there something on your plate that you find more interesting than me?” she said.  Around them, waiters and waitresses in white shirts and black vests were carefully carrying large trays of food.  This wasn’t Sunnydale’s finest restaurant, but Vincenzo’s was still one of its nicer ones, and Jenny had been excited about coming here with Giles on a Friday night—at least until he started acting like a space-case.

            Giles looked up at the sound of her voice.  “Ah—I’m sorry Jenny.  I’ve just been a bit . . . distracted tonight, haven’t I?”

            “Like talking to a brick wall.  Rupert, what is it?  Maybe I can help.”  She sipped from her glass of wine and then set it down, ready for conversation.  It wasn’t often that the pair had a chance to simply be alone together and talk—during the school day, things were always so hectic, and it always seemed that some crisis or another was popping up to keep them apart.

            Giles looked around reluctantly and then lowered his voice so that only he and Jenny could hear.  “It’s about Buffy leaving.  I’m still worried about what might happen.  I mean Angel may help but—“

            “Angel?” Jenny said, interrupting him.

            “Yes.  As I was saying, he will be filling in for Buffy this weekend.”

            Jenny considered this carefully, but her face showed no particular emotion.  She knew what Giles and the others did not—that she was a Gypsy, descendant of the band that had placed a curse on Angel to make him have a soul, thus ensuring that he suffered eternally for what he had done to her people.  And more, the entire reason she had come to Sunnydale was to make sure that Angel continued to suffer—and his romance with Buffy was getting in the way of that.  It wasn’t that she hated either Angel or Buffy—they had even saved her life before—but she couldn’t simply abandon a solemn duty given to her by her elders either.

            “You know, Rupert, it may actually be a good thing that Buffy is getting some time away from things here.  She faces an awful lot of pressure.  And to tell you the truth, I’ve always been a bit . . . uneasy about her relationship with Angel.  I mean, Buffy is only sixteen and I remember when I was her age . . . .  Dating a vampire may not be the best her for at this time in her life—or ever, really.”

            Giles nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.  “I’ve actually thought the same thing on many occasions, but it is her life and—“

            “But Rupert, you’re supposed to be looking out for her.  And with everything that’s happened, you’re somewhat of a father figure to her.  Maybe you should have a talk with her about it,” she said, her face showing evident concern for Buffy’s well-being.

            “Well . . . I suppose I could . . . think about it,” Giles said, still indecisive.  As her Watcher, I am responsible for Buffy’s emotional as well as physical safety.  He was forced to change the subject when a waiter arrived with dessert, but he continued pondering it all through dinner.  Jenny didn’t seem to mind his distracted state nearly as much as before.

           

 

            Buffy drove along the highway, humming to herself.  It was a beautiful fall day, and she even saw a deer nibbling grass on the shoulder.  The air was cool and crisp, and carried with it maybe just a hint of rain.  This is the way it should always be, she thought to herself.

            Suddenly a fist shattered through the windshield and grabbed Buffy by the throat.  A head peered over from the roof, its features contorted into a vampire’s face.  Buffy struggled to free herself, and then realized that the car was headed straight for a tree--she screamed!

            “Will someone please shut her up?” shouted Cordelia, from the driver’s seat.  “Major freak-out.  I’m trying to drive here, okay!”

            Buffy woke up with a start, panicked.  Willow leaned over from the backseat and put a hand on her shoulder.

            “It’s okay, Buffy.  You just had a bit of a bad dream,” she said.

            Buffy looked around, shamefaced.  “Sorry, guys.  The baggage of being a Slayer, I guess.”  She hadn’t even realized she had dozed off.  Can’t I ever relax—even on vacation?  I’m becoming such a mental-case.

            “Did you dream that Cordelia had set you up for a double-date again?” joked Xander.

            “I can’t drive under this pressure, with her freaking out all the time,” Cordelia announced  loudly.  She took the next Interstate exit and pulled into a fast food restaurant.

            “Well, I was getting hungry anyway,” said Xander.  Other than Buffy’s dream, the drive had been uneventful and even somewhat boring.  He had been crowded with Willow in the backseat, which was partially taken up by luggage.  She had spent the drive so far paging through a heavy book, while he had traded barbs with Cordelia.  The Interstate wasn’t very busy--they had only passed a few cars, though there were a surprising number of motorcyclists headed towards them from the east.

            Once seated inside the restaurant, Buffy stared distractedly out the window, oblivious to the conversation.  The others worked their way through typical teenage fare—french fries and hamburgers.  Cordelia swore that such “garbage” was bad for her figure, and ordered a salad instead—but she kept picking at Xander’s fries until he gave up and dumped half of them on the table in front of her.

            “Let’s promise,” said Buffy suddenly, interrupting one of Xander’s (in)famous anecdotes.

            “What?” the others said, almost unanimously.

            “We’ve finally made it,” she replied.  “Out of the Hellmouth, I mean.  Let’s promise not to talk about vampires, werewolves, demons, or any thing else creepy, and not to bring up the Hellmouth at all.  For the rest of the trip,” she said, decisively.

            “It’s not the Hellmouth,” said Cordelia, as if she were addressing someone who didn’t realize orange pants and a plaid blazer didn’t go together.  “It’s you.  You’re the reason everything happens.  Sunnydale was fine for like 500 years, and then you show up, and guess what happens?  You’re like a weirdness magnet or something.”

            Buffy glared at her.  She wanted to argue, but deep down she suspected that Cordelia was actually right for once.

            “I don’t care,” she said, looking at everyone.  “Promise me.”

            “Well, okay,” said Willow.  “Is there a problem Buffy?  We can talk about it.”

            “Nope, no problem,” she said, and added a smile.  “Let’s just do it, okay?”

            “What, like a solemn vow?” said Xander.

            “Or whatever,” replied Buffy.

            “Well, in that case there’s only one thing to do,” he stated, and held his hand over the table, pinky extended.  “Pinky swear.”

            “Xander!” interjected Willow.  “Nobody’s done that since, like, the third grade.”

            “Exactly,” said Xander.  “And look what’s happened as a result—Human Hyenas, Praying Mantis Teacher, Evil Aztec Princess, etcetera, etcetera.”

            Willow shrugged and held out her pinky, gripping Xander’s.  Buffy looked at each of them.  They were her buds, and she couldn’t leave them hanging.  She reached out and awkwardly encircled the others’ pinkies with her own.

            “Cordelia?” said Buffy.

            Cordelia looked up from her salad and rolled her eyes when she saw what they were doing.  She sighed.  “Fine.  I don’t want to talk about Sunnydale either.  But if you tell anyone I did this, I swear!”

            She reached out and tentatively touched the others’ pinkies with her own.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR: THE PRESENT

 

Dawn pulled the sheet over her head.  Outside, the sun rose higher and higher, casting more and more light into her bedroom.  She tried to steal a few more minutes of sleep and then gave up and pulled the sheet down.  She stretched lazily and looked around.  Her room was that of a normal teenage girl—or at least that of a normal teenage girl who was actually a cosmic entity and whose sister was the Chosen One.  But Dawn had dealt with those issues, and after Willow almost took over the world, Buffy promised that she and Dawn would have a whole new relationship.

At the moment, however, Dawn was content to lie back and relax.  The beginning of summer vacation only came once a year, and it was something to be cherished.  No classes, no homework, no teachers, and best of all, no tests.  She contemplated the day ahead of her: some television, maybe a walk to the swimming pool, bumming around the mall for a few hours.  But all in good time, she thought, stretching again.  And maybe I should go see Willow too.  She and Tara were always there when things went nuts with Buffy and the Key and everything.  She also idly considered looking for a part-time job to help out Buffy, who was dipping french fries at the Double Meat Palace to help make ends meet.  But Buffy had wanted to give Dawn the same life she would have had if their mother had lived.  And besides, since she couldn’t drive, getting to work would be hard for Dawn and probably cause more stress than a minimum-wage job was worth.

She lay on the bed and let her mind wander for a few more minutes and then got up and went about her morning routine.  Just as she stepped out of the shower, she heard the phone in her bedroom ring.  Hastily wrapping a towel about herself, she dashed across the hall and caught the receiver on its third ring.  On the other end she heard the voice of her friend, Jamie Swinson.  Dawn had had a hard time making friends, what with her own insecurity and her sister’s reputation as a violent weirdo.  Jamie had been kind to her, however, and towards the end of this last school year they had begun to hang out from time to time.

“Rewind that and hit play again,” Dawn said into the phone.  Jamie had the somewhat annoying habit of spontaneously launching into veritable monologues where all the words started to run together because she spoke too fast.

“I said Brian Carmichael’s going to be there,” Jamie repeated, summarizing the last thirty seconds.

“Where?”

“At the rally,” Jamie said again, slightly exasperated.  “So he’s only like the cutest guy in the whole class.  And he likes me.  I think.  So are you gonna go with me or what?”

Dawn didn’t have to think for long.  That was the beauty of summer vacation—you didn’t have to make plans, things just sort of popped up and you went along with the flow.

“I guess,” she answered.  “But if Tommy Huston is there I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s a jerk.”

“You only say that ‘cause you like him.  Anyway, I’ll see you at the park.”

After breakfast, Dawn watched MTV for a few minutes and then got ready to leave.  She locked the door securely behind her—Buffy wasn’t home, and because she seemed to work a different shift every day, Dawn could never remember when she’d get back.  When she reached the sidewalk, Dawn noticed a large moving truck slowly backing into the driveway of a residence a couple of houses down the street.  The park lay in that direction, and Dawn walked towards it.

She saw a middle-aged couple and their little daughter standing on the front lawn, looking at the moving truck with expectant looks.  They had light brown skin and dark hair.  The woman wore a turban, but otherwise they were all dressed in typical clothing for Sunnydale.  Dawn gave a half-wave and said “Hi” as she walked past.  She tried to be friendly with her neighbors, but she wasn’t the sort to spend time chatting with them.  The man nodded and smiled in reply.  Dawn looked up at the house after she had passed them and noticed a young man, her own age, staring at her from a second-story window.  He seemed somewhat sad.  Must be their son.  Maybe he didn’t want to come here, Dawn thought as she walked away.  Considering it’s the Hellmouth, I can’t blame him.

When she reached the park, she saw that ten or fifteen people were milling around near where a microphone and some speakers had been set up.  Most of the people were college age, but some were her high schoolers and there was also a scattering of people from older generations.  Dawn didn’t see Jamie or anyone else she knew, so she walked over and sat on the grass near the others.

A hand was suddenly thrust in her face.  Dawn looked up to see a petite blond with a wide smile.  Dawn stood up and shook her hand tenuously.

“Michelle O’Rory,” the woman said.  “Are you here for First Principles too?  Great!” she continued, without waiting for Dawn to reply.  Chipper was the only word Dawn could think of too describe her.  And annoying.  “Here’s your name-tag—so glad you could join us!” she finished excitedly after Dawn had written her name on it and, as per directions, attached it to her shirt.  The blonde college student then rushed off to accost another newcomer.

Dawn sat back down.  When she saw Timothy Huston entering the park from the other side, she knew she had a good excuse to leave.  She stood up and started walking in the opposite direction.  He is a jerk and I don’t like him.  Jamie’s just psycho.  Even if he is does have long dark hair and looks a bit like Gavin Ross from Bush and smiles at me whenever I walk by.  I still don’t like him.  Not one bit.

She stopped when she heard her name being called.  Jamie.  She sighed and turned around to see her friend rushing towards her.  Jamie was short and slightly overweight, but she had more energy than most of the athletic girls Dawn knew from high school.  Dawn waited with her arms crossed over her chest as Jamie jogged towards her.

“Did you see Brian?” Jamie said as soon as she was in range.  “I haven’t seen him yet but if I do I’m just gonna die.  Do you know I talked to Laura last night and she said he told Kyle he liked me?”

“This is so seventh-grade,” Dawn replied, rolling her eyes.  “Get a grip!”  She would have been even more dismissive of Jamie’s immaturity, except she knew even Buffy and her college-age friends often acted downright silly when they were in love, or at least thought they were.  Sometimes Dawn wondered if she were the only sane person in all of Sunnydale.

“I don’t care!” Jamie said with a pout and then a smile.  “And you know who else is here?”

“Timothy Huston.”

“Exactly!” Jamie said, grabbing Dawn by the arm and pulling her towards the group of people, which had gotten larger.  Now there must have been about thirty people milling around.  “Don’t forget you promised,” Jamie reminded her.

“I promised to leave if I saw him,” Dawn shot back.

“Close enough.  Now c’mon!”

Dawn couldn’t help but giggle.  Jamie just had a way about her that made it hard to say no. 

“What is this thing anyway?  They gave me a stupid name-tag.”

“It’s called First Principles.  It’s like a civic group or something.  Helping clean up litter and entertaining old nursing home people and stuff like that.  Every day they do something for a couple of hours and then meet here for a rally.  It doesn’t really matter though—we’re not here for it.”  Suddenly she stopped and shrieked “There’s Brian!  Do you see him?  I think he’s looking at me.  How do I look?”

“Like a dork,” Dawn replied.  “Calm down.  He’s not even looking over here.  He’s busy talking to that guy in the suit.”

Dawn grimaced as Jamie pretended to talk with her but spent the whole time glancing over and watching Brian.  He was a high school senior and wore the preppy clothes and attitude that marked him as a future fraternity pledge.  Dawn couldn’t see what Jamie saw in him.

“Who’s he talking too?” Dawn asked, more to bring Jamie back to the real world than out of any curiosity.

“That’s Mr. Wittingstone.  He’s like the leader or whatever.  He gives the speeches everyday.  I think he’s getting ready.”

“Is he any good?”

“I don’t know—I don’t really pay attention.  I only started coming because I heard Brian was coming.  He must be okay though—more people show up every time I’m here.”

Michelle, the blonde woman who had given Dawn the name-tag, walked over near the microphone and clapped her hands in the air a few times.  She gave the crowd a big smile and yelled for everyone to gather around.  Her perkiness was getting on Dawn’s nerves.

“I don’t like her,” Dawn said as she and Jamie edged closer to the crowd.

“Neither do I.  Have you seen the way she’s been looking at Brian?”

The man Jamie called Wittingstone walked up to the microphone holding a small slip of paper.  He wore a conservative dark suit and his short black hair was carefully combed to the side.  He was one of those austere-looking men whose age was hard to place—he could have been anywhere from his early thirties to his late forties.

He tapped the microphone twice and then spoke into it hesitantly.  “Thank you for coming to First Principles.  This morning, due to your hard work, we collected” he looked down at the piece of paper, and then back up “eighteen boxes of food for the needy and the unfortunate right here in Sunnydale.”  There was a scattering of applause in the audience.  Wittingstone waited stoically until it was over before speaking again.

“When our people are well-fed, they are healthy.  And when our citizens are healthy, America is strong.  Through working together, we can make this great nation of ours a better place.  All it takes is some hard work and attention to what we like to call the First Principles: courage, determination, strength, vigilance, and most importantly, a sense of community.”  Dawn agreed with Jamie that he wasn’t much of a speaker.  He spoke in a virtual monotone, and seemed uncomfortable in front of the microphone.  Still, he makes sense, Dawn thought.

She tuned out the rest of what he was saying as Jamie grabbed her by the wrist and maneuvered her through the crowd.  Within moments, they were standing right behind Brian.  Jamie’s grip on Dawn’s wrist tightened with excitement.

“Let’s get this over with,” Dawn whispered.  “Tap him on the shoulder and say hello.”

“I can’t.  I don’t know what to say!”

“I just told you!  Say hello.”  Dawn put a hand to her forehead as if to say “why me?”

She tuned back in as Wittingstone was finishing his speech.  “This country has been through a lot over the past few years,” he was saying.  “You all know what I mean.”  Several people in the audience nodded their heads vigorously.  “And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.  We need each and every one of you to come back tomorrow and every day after that.  And bring a friend with you.  Together, if we work hard and pay attention to the First Principles, we can make America great again.”

The crowd applauded loudly as Wittingstone left the microphone.    Michelle shouted that refreshments had been set up on the nearby picnic tables.  Dawn watched as the crowd slowly dissipated, including Brian.  She was relieved that she didn’t see any sign of Timothy, but this didn’t hide her irritation at her friend’s behavior.

“Why didn’t you talk to Brian?”

“I was about to.  I will next time.  I’m gathering up my courage,” Jamie said.  “He is hot though, isn’t he?”

“He’s okay.”

“So what are you doing tomorrow?”

Dawn shrugged.

“Good.  Then you can meet me here again tomorrow.”

 

 

The next few days passed quickly.  Dawn kept accompanying Jamie to the meetings and Jamie kept chickening out about talking to Brian, but Dawn didn’t mind so much anymore.  She was starting to enjoy First Principles and make friends there—it really was becoming a community, even though it swelled with members every day.  By the end of the week, almost 250 people were showing up for each meeting.  Together, the group repaired playground equipment, collected clothes for the needy, and drew plans for a youth community center.  Her sister was proud of her too—Buffy kept telling her how great it was that she was volunteering and helping people out.

Dawn managed to avoid Timothy Huston the entire time, until one day when she was painting over graffiti on the side of a downtown building.  She could feel him staring at her as she mechanically dipped the brush in the can and then onto the wall.  He was making her nervous, and she was sick of it.  She set the can on the ground and slammed the brush into it, sending little blotches of white paint everywhere.

“I know what you said about Buffy,” she said angrily, turning in his direction.

“Huh?” he said, surprised.

“My sister.  I heard what you said about her being a freak.  Somebody told me.”  Her eyes bore into his as she put her hands on her hips.  Around them, the other painters tried to appear casual as they listened in.

“I didn’t say that,” he said to her dubious face.  “I said it was freaky how she always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And that it was too bad because she seemed okay otherwise.”

“You . . . you did?” Dawn stammered, trying to regain her composure.

Timothy shrugged.  “That’s right.  That’s all I said.”
            “Liar!” yelled one of the other painters in a mocking voice.  “He also said you were cute!”

Dawn blushed and turned away to pick up the brush.  Timothy leaned against the wall and spoke to her quietly so the others couldn’t hear.

“Really.  I swear I didn’t mean anything against your sister.”  He looked surprised when Dawn started giggling.

“You’ve ruined your shirt,” she said, pointing to the coat of fresh white paint he was leaning against.

He jumped away from the wall and looked at his arm.  “I meant to do that,” he said quickly, combining it with a charming, self-effacing grin.  “You’ve heard of those old stone-washed jeans right?  This is my new style I’m starting.  I call them ‘paint-splashed shirts.’”

After that, Dawn didn’t go to great lengths to avoid him anymore.  In fact, Jamie teased her that she was trying to bump into him.

On Friday afternoon, Dawn was in the crowd when Wittingstone gave a speech to his largest crowd yet.  Most of it Dawn had already heard before, but she paid close attention anyway.

“Communities are the bedrock of this great country of ours.  But communities aren’t static things—communities grow over time.  Communities like ours grow when American citizens work together, and when outsiders learn the ways of communities, shedding their own peculiarities in the process.  By becoming one people, we stand united where others would fall.”

Dawn joined in the applause.

“Community,” he continued.  “Community is what First Principles is all about.  American citizens deserve community, and community is what makes us strong as a people and as a nation.  Community is working together to build each other up, not tear one another down.  And most importantly, a community sticks up for members of the community when outsiders threaten it.”

Dawn lingered for several minutes after the meeting, chatting with other members and saying goodbye to Jamie.  It was late in the afternoon when she got home, and she arrived just as Buffy was leaving for work.

“How was your group-thingie?” Buffy asked.

“It’s called First Principles,” Dawn said with a slight smile.  She had told Buffy about it a hundred times but her sister could never remember the name.  “But yeah, it was good.”

“Still sounds like the Girl Scouts to me,” Buffy said jokingly.  “But seriously, it sounds cool.  There’s a lot more ways to help people out than killing vampires.  By the way,” she continued, as she opened the car door.  “I picked up a pie from the bakery.  Mind dropping it off at the new people down the street?  I think their last name is Jocerta or something.  They’re from Pakistan.”

“A pie?  You can’t be serious.  We never did stuff like that for neighbors.”

“I know.  But Mom always did.  She said it was the way to make people feel welcome.  So I figured we’d take up the habit.  Anyway, I’m sure the Jocertas are nice.”

“Maybe.  But we should be vigilant of outsiders.”

“What?  What makes you say that?”  Buffy looked shocked.  “Did you hear something about them?”

“No,” Dawn replied.  “It’s just common sense, Buffy.  Everyone knows it.  People who aren’t part of the community might be a danger to it.  We have to watch out for ourselves, you know.”

Buffy shut the car door and walked over to Dawn, eyeing her carefully.  “That’s not how we are, Dawn.  We give people a chance.  Where did you get all that from?  Is that what they teach you in that club?”

“First Principles isn’t a ‘club’ Buffy,” Dawn said, becoming visibly angry.  “It’s a community.  Members of a community protect one another from outsiders, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Then maybe you need to find another ‘community’ to hang out at if they’re making you think like that.”

“Maybe you should just leave me alone, like you promised!”  she shouted.  “They’re my friends and I’ll see them if I want to!”  She stepped inside the house and slammed the door in Buffy’s face, hard.

Buffy thought about trying the doorknob but then thought better of it.  Better to let her calm down.  I can’t believe she said that. She doesn’t usually freak out so quickly.  What a brat.  Was I ever like this to Mom?  God, I hope not.  She walked back to the car and got in—an evening of burgers and fries was waiting.

           

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Angel unzipped the tote bag and looked inside.  But for a dozen freshly cut wooden stakes lying in a loose bundle, the bag was empty.

            “I was going to put in some garlic, holy water, and even a cross.  But then I remembered your, ah, condition,” Giles finished lamely.  He had been sitting in the library ever since his dinner with Jenny Calendar ended.  Although filled with shadows during the daytime, the main room of the library was even darker now.  It was Friday night, and the high school would be deserted for the rest of the weekend.

            “Thanks,” Angel said, looking up while he zipped up the bag.  “Well, I guess I’m off then.  The graveyard, the Bronze, alleyways.  Anyplace I’m forgetting?”

            “No, I believe that covers it rather well,” responded Giles.  “A few hours’ patrol should be sufficient.”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if anything happens.”  Angel grabbed the bag and turned towards the doors.

            “Ah, Angel?”

            He turned around.  “Yes?”

            “I thought perhaps we could . . . talk for a moment.”

            “Talk?”

            “Yes.”

            “About what?”

            “Oh, nothing in particular,” said Giles.  “I just thought we might . . . get to know each other better.  After all, you and Buffy have been . . . ah . . . together for quite some time now, and as her Watcher, I’m responsible for her, of course, and—“

            “And why do I feel as if I’ve just been taken home to dinner for the first time to meet Buffy’s father?”  Angel smiled slightly and then he returned to the table and sat down.

            Giles’ face reddened.  He sat down as well.  “Of course, I didn’t mean to--well . . . actually I was going to ask you what your intentions were towards the girl,” he confessed.

            “My intentions?” said Angel to himself, as he looked off in thought.  He looked back at Giles.  “With everything that’s been happening . . .  I haven’t really thought about it--I mean, I haven’t formed any intentions as of yet.  I wanted to take things slow, but things just sort of happened.”

            “Please don’t take my question the wrong way,” said Giles carefully.  “I’m not trying to break you two up.  I know Buffy cares about you deeply.  But . . . .  Well, the idea of a vampire and a Slayer together, while quite romantic, is not . . . practical.  In the long run, I mean.  It is not as if you and Buffy can ever be married and live happily ever after.”

            Angel looked up, grimly.  “I know that.  I tried telling her that.”

            Giles looked increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation went on.  He stood up abruptly.  “Well, there’s no need to come to any decisions tonight.  Just something to think about is all.”

            Angel nodded, and walked out of the room with his shoulders slumped.  He wouldn’t make any decisions anytime soon.  But he would think about it.

 

 

            The three vampires pressed themselves flat against the roof of the small mausoleum and peered over the side.  It was hard for them to believe that, after all these years, human prey still willingly walked into the Sunnydale cemetery after dark.  One would think they would have wised up by now—but they hadn’t.  The cemetery was still prime feeding ground for the shyer varieties of the undead who didn’t want to risk the Bronze or the streets of the city.  Often dinner would consist of children out to play pranks, or couples out on a scary but romantic stroll.  Sometimes even police officers came to inspect strange noises.  It didn’t matter, though—they all tasted good.

            One such figure soon came into view.  With so little moonlight, it was hard to tell much about this potential meal.  He wore a long, dark coat, and was holding something.  He seemed pretty well built, but that didn’t matter to Cleo, the only female of the three vampires.  The strongest human was rarely a match for the weakest of their kind, and the larger the prey, the better the meal.  She whispered to the others.  “I’ve got this one.  Watch out for the Slayer until I’ve dragged him under.”

            She inched along the roof of the mausoleum to position herself right above where he would walk.  She waited patiently, until the time was perfect.  She leapt off the roof, and landed on the man’s back.  With one swift, smooth move she pulled down the collar of his coat and sunk her teeth into his neck, right where the jugular vein lay.  Half a moment later, she recoiled in pain and let out a yelp.  Her mouth hurt.  She realized she was bleeding and that she had lost two of her fangs.  Metal!  He was wearing some kind of armor or something, and she had bitten right into it.

            The man turned around and looked at her with cold eyes and clenched teeth.  He grabbed her by the arm and swung her into the air so hard that the tombstone she landed on broke in half.   She wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t moving, either.

            Tomas and Albert, the other two vampires on the roof of the mausoleum, didn’t know what to think.  This guy wasn’t just another idiot strolling into the cemetery in hopes of some spooky fun.  But then again, he wasn’t the Slayer.  They would never live down running back to Spike and the others like cowards if this were something they really could handle. But if it were something they couldn’t?

Pride got the better part of Albert’s discretion, and he jumped down a few yards in front of the man. Albert’s face morphed and he opened his mouth widely and licked his fangs.  He expected the middle-aged geezer to blanche in fear and try to run for it.  But instead, the stranger lifted up a small pistol.  Albert laughed.

            “Bullets ain’t gonna hurt me, old man.”  It was then that Albert noticed that a thin hose ran from the handle of the pistol and disappeared somewhere inside the man’s voluminous coat.

            “No, but this will,” said the figure.  He pulled the trigger, and a blast of high-pressure holy water hit the vampire right in the face, completely drenching his skin and clothes.  Albert’s flesh was literally burning, and he felt like he was covered by napalm.  He screamed and ran around frantically before collapsing into the dirt and disintegrating into ashes.

            Tomas had seen enough.  He took a running jump off the mausoleum and landed almost twenty feet away from the man before regaining his feet and booking it for the entrance to the tunnels below.  He didn’t get far enough, however.  The man’s hands disappeared into his coat  and emerged holding a small rifle with a circular barrel drum around it—it looked almost like a tommygun from an old 1930s-era gangster movie.  He aimed carefully, and each time the drum rotated, a short, sharp piece of wood shot from the barrel.  The last thing Tomas knew before he disintegrated into dust was that something had hit him in the back.

            The man walked over to where Cleo was still lying on the ground.  She was semi-conscious now and struggled to look around to see what was happening.          

“I have a question,” he said simply, drawing a long, thin knife from his belt.

 

 

            Xander felt like he had been driving all night long, even though it had only been a few hours since Cordelia had traded the wheel for a spot in the passenger seat, with Buffy moving to the back seat, bummed she didn’t have her driver’s license yet.  Night came quickly as they moved further east, and the world seemed desolate once they left the Interstate for one of the myriad highways which branched off of it.  Even though it was only late September, snowflakes were already beginning to hit the windshield as they climbed higher and higher on mountain roads.  None of them were accustomed to the cold, so they set the heater on high.

            Buffy seemed to relax considerably since they left the restaurant, and now slept soundly.  Xander glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that she was drooling slightly on Willow’s shoulder, who also dozed peacefully, and in fact, was snoring slightly.  It was a cute scene and would have made a memorable incident to tease them about later if he had thought to bring a camera.

            As the minutes passed, Xander grew more and more nervous.  The snow came down harder and harder, and it was getting difficult to see the road clearly.  Learning to drive in Sunnydale had not exactly provided him experience in handling potentially icy roads.

            “Are you sure this is the right way,” Xander asked for what must have been the fifth time.  “We were supposed to reach the place like two hours ago.”

            “Yes I’m sure,” said Cordelia.  It was late, she was tired, and she was getting sick of Xander constantly questioning her.  She unfolded a map and turned on the overhead light.

            “See, we’re on this line and pretty soon we’ll reach this dot there,” she said while pointing at it.  “I’m not stupid.  I can read a map, you know.”

            Xander spared a moment’s attention from the road to glance down at the map.  He looked back at the road, thought for a second, and looked back at the map.

            “Cordelia?”

            “What?”

            “That’s a map of Canada,” he sighed.

            Drifting snow blew across the road, causing him to slow down considerably.  Time seemed to drag on even slower as they inched along the road.  After a few more minutes, he realized he was only guessing where the road was.  He pulled the SUV over to where he hoped the side of the road was and put it in park.

            “If this is some pathetic attempt to make out with me, it’s not going to work,” said Cordelia.

            Xander sat patiently, waiting for the snow to die down.  It seemed to take forever, but finally the snowfall began to lessen and he put the car back into drive.

            The only problem was that it didn’t move.  They were stuck.

            He shifted gears several times before throwing his hands up in frustration.  He zipped up his jacket and opened the car door to take a look around.  The problem was quickly apparent—he had stopped the car in a thick bank of snow and ice.  Fortunately, he had managed to avoid driving into a ditch by mere inches.

            Cordelia joined him outside.  The snow continued to fall thickly and was illuminated by the small pool of light emanating from the car’s front grill.  There was some moonlight as well, but the area was empty except for a row of trees several yards away.  There were no tracks on the road except for the ones they had made, and they had not seen another vehicle for almost an hour.

            “I tried calling on my cell phone, but I guess I used up all the minutes talking with Harmony earlier.”  Small clouds of fog formed as she spoke.  She looked at the SUV.  “So isn’t there something you’re supposed to do, like rocking it back and forth or putting down dog food or something?”

            “If we rock it back and forth, we’ll likely to end up face down in the ditch.  Dog food gets soggy when it’s wet, and we don’t have any kitty litter—unless you packed that in one of your bags too!” he snapped.  The stress and the cold—and Cordelia—were getting to him.

            “Hey, don’t put this one on me, ‘Xan-Man’,” she shot back with a glare.  “You’re the one who was driving.  If you can call it that.”

            “And you’re the one who can’t even read a freakin’ map!  Listen Cordelia, let’s just put what’s going on between us away and concentrate on figuring out a way out of here.”

            “There never was, and never will be an ‘us,’” she said. 

            They glared at each other.  They were angry, not in the faux-anger that led them to leap into each other’s arms in the past and embrace passionately.  This time, they were simply torqued  at each other.

            Xander walked around the car and trudged a little way into the snow.  Willow and Buffy were still asleep in the back seat.  He simply had no idea how long the storm would last, or if it was really a blizzard or would be melted by tomorrow.  All he could think about was that stupid book he read in eighth grade on the Donner Party.

            “I think I see a light up ahead,” he said to Cordelia, who started to shiver.  “Maybe we can find someone there and call for a tow truck.”

            “No way.  This is like the start of every single horror movie in existence.  Car dead, walk to strange mansion on the hill, meet Norman Bates.  I don’t think so.”

            “Fine.”  He started trudging off into the snow.  He was scared too, and thought about asking Buffy and Willow to come with him.  But Buffy was sleeping soundly for the first time in who-knows-how-long, and he didn’t want to have to freak her out and ruin the last vacation she might have in a long time.  Or ever.  Vampire slaying is listed next to land-mine defuser in the High Risk Occupation chart.

            The snow was deep, and sometimes it seemed as if he was wading more than walking.  He silently cursed himself for walking around in weather like this in just jeans and a jacket.  But it wasn’t like he had much of a winter wardrobe, he remembered in his own defense.  Up ahead, the light was getting brighter and it did look like there was a building up ahead—maybe a farm or a gas station.

            Snow crunched under his feet as he walked.  Suddenly he realized his footsteps were only making some of the crunching sounds—he was being followed!  His mind raced through all the possibilities life in the Hellmouth had taught him to expect: the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot, giant frozen zombies.  He turned around, prepared to run.

            It was simply Cordelia.

            “I know you all think I’m just some kind of stuck-up bitch, but I’ve helped all of you out several times,” she said when she caught up to him, as if their earlier conversation had never ended.

            Xander knew she was right.  There were a lot of examples—she had helped them out when the Master had escaped, when Ethan had cast that spell turning them all into what they were wearing for Halloween, and even when Buffy was being hunted by that weird insect assassin thingie.  She had even let herself be talked into letting them come with her on this messed-up trip.

            “What do you want me to say?” said Xander, throwing his hands up in the air.

            “’Thank you’ would be a good start,” she said.

            “Thank you.”

            “And ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get us out of this’ would be a good second,” she added, still in a confrontational tone.

            “Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get us out of this,” said Xander, doing his best Sylvester Stallone.  It made them both smile and broke the tension.  They weren’t lovers yet, Xander knew, but he could never tell on any given day whether they were more or less, than friends.  But they were something, at least, and he resolved to just let things be.

            The building in the distance began to definitely take the shape of a small farmhouse as they approached, but it grew no less spooky in appearance.  A porch light was on, but otherwise the place looked run-down and abandoned.  Two of the windows were boarded up, the fence in front had long ago fallen over, and there were no vehicles parked in the area.  The two teenagers walked to the front door, and Xander readied himself to knock when he heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun being pumped behind him.

            They turned and saw a squat, plump woman in a thick flannel shirt gripping a twelve-gauge with gloved hands.  Her hair was done up in curlers, and she had a grim expression on her face.  Xander thought that she looked much more like Kathy Bates than Norman Bates, but that thought led him to think about his earlier conversation about Misery, making him even more uncomfortable.  The woman raised the gun menacingly, and they raised their hands instinctively.

            “What do you kids want?” she said with the air of someone who was not going to take  bull from anybody.

            Xander explained how they were on their way to Arctic Ridge when they had gotten stuck about a mile back.  Each time he finished a sentence, the gun lowered slightly.  When he was finished, the gun was pointed at the ground.

            “Well you’ve got the good and the bad,” the woman said.  “The good is that you’re not  five miles from that old resort.”

            “See!” said Cordelia, elbowing Xander in the gut. 

“The bad is that no tow will be comin’ out at night in this weather.  Hafta wait ‘til  morning.”

            Cordelia visibly paled at the thought of having to spend the night sleeping in a cold, cramped car.  The snow continued to fall, and it seemed that the temperature dropped with each passing minute.  She realized for the first time, even in spite of the fact it lacked a decent mall, that Sunnydale had at least some good things going for it.

            “But I guess if ya don’t mind the floor, ya ken sleep inside,” continued the woman.  She used the gun as a pointer to indicate the house.  “Name’s Martha.”

            Xander and Cordelia smiled and then retreated a few steps and whispered to each other.

            “No way,” said Cordelia.  “Look at her.  She has ‘personal hygiene’ written on her ‘To Do’ list and it hasn’t been checked off yet.  Her house must be even worse.  And I still see ‘Psycho’ written all over her face.”

            “Look Cordy, it’s like math, right.  A dirty floor and the chances of her being a nutty knife-wielding maniac are outweighed by the 100% chance of freezing our butts off in the blizzard.  With Buffy along, I’m willing to be warm and take my chances with the maniac.  Still, if you want to sleep in the car all by yourself, you’re welcome to it.”

That convinced Cordelia, and they told Martha they’d get their things.  They trudged back to the car, retracing their own footprints that grew shallower as the snow continued to fall.  Xander gently woke Buffy and Willow, both of whom had slept through the whole incident, and told them that they had decided to stop for the night and rest with a friend.  Both were too sleepy and out of it to inquire about how this “friend” had been made.

            It was bright and sunny the next morning when they watched a mechanic carefully attach tow cables to the SUV.  They spoke with Martha about Arctic Ridge while waiting.

            “It’s sure not what it useta be,” she said.  “Looks like crap.  Has for years now.  Since the owner’s daughter died, he’s let the place run to hell.”
            “It can’t be that bad,” said Willow.  “I mean, we’ve seen pictures and all.  On the Internet.”

            “Don’t know much about that,” Martha said.  “Still gets visitors, though not many this time of year.  It’s haunted though.”

            “Haunted,” queried Buffy, her Slayer persona coming online.

            “Ghosts,” replied Martha, matter-of-factly.

            “’There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies, Horatio,’” Willow recited.

            “Horatio?” Xander said.

            “Shakespeare,” Willow answered.

            “I’ve always wondered what Shakespeare’s first name was,” he said earnestly.  Willow sighed—it almost made her regret being well-read when no one ever understood her references.

            “Wait, I’ve seen this one,” interjected Cordelia sarcastically.  “Old resort, haunted by ghosts.  It’s really the old caretaker who’s behind it all.  Scooby Doo, right?”

            “We’re in great shape then,” responded Xander.  “I’ll be Shaggy, and Will, you’re Velma.”

            “I’m Daphne,” said Buffy, trying to imagine herself being kidnapped by all kinds of weird goons.  She was disturbed to realize that very much was her life.

            “Well no way I’m that other guy,” said Cordelia.  “Those ascots?  Please.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX:  THE PRESENT

 

The air was thick with dust, causing Anya to cough frequently as she surveyed the scene.  Xander had pulled some strings and had the major structural damage shored up already, but the Magic Box was still in shambles.  Although the ceiling was no longer touching the floor, there were still books and arcane implements scattered haphazardly all over the place.  The floors, counters, and remnants of bookshelves were filthy with dust and bits of broken plaster.  When Willow, filled almost to bursting with dark magic, had challenged Giles to a magickal duel, the others were lucky the Magic Box was left standing at all.

Anya sighed as she picked up books from the floor and stacked them randomly on the shelves.  In many ways, the place was even dirtier than before.  Although the repair crews had been fast, they weren’t exactly great at picking up after themselves. 

 Separating minor spell components such as jars of bats’ blood and murkaweed into separate piles, she wondered how they were going to pay for all of the damage.  They had insurance, but Anya didn’t think they could make a claim for “Evil Witch Coverage.”  Maybe a tornado.  Does California get tornadoes?  Or an earthquake.  Definitely an earthquake.  But a really small one.  She resolved to ask one of her friends, concluding that they might know more about such mundane things than her.

She hadn’t seen much of the others lately, however.  She and Xander were hardly speaking after he left her at the altar and she and Spike hooked up that one time.  Buffy was always so busy working at the restaurant that she rarely had spare time to stop by the store, while Willow hadn’t been back since the night she had wrecked the place.  And Tara, of course, was gone--Anya wasn’t very close with Tara, but she always enjoyed having someone else around who hadn’t known the others forever.  Buffy, Xander, and Willow had such a history that sometimes Anya felt like an outsider in their presence.  If only Giles were here—he’d get the place in order.  But the Watcher had to leave Sunnydale just hours after Willow had been stopped, citing unfinished business in England.  He had promised to return, but no one had heard from his since.  Nope, once again it’s all up to me—Vengeance Demons always get the grunt work, she reflected idly.

Anya was pulled out of her reverie by the ringing of the little bells that hung over the front door.  I’m surprised they still work, she thought, as she called out “Sorry, we’re still closed.  We’ve had an . . . um . . . natural disaster.  Maybe in a couple of months or something.”

She looked up to see that a man in a dark suit had entered.  He walked with a slight limp and she could tell that his face was lined by faint scars.  “I need information on wards and spells of opening,” he said in a quiet but assertive voice.

Anya flashed a sympathetic smile.  “Like I said, we’re closed.  Everything’s a mess.  I’m not sure if we’ll even get the money to open again.  Call back later this summer though and you’ll know one way or the other.”

“That doesn’t concern me,” he said, shaking his head slightly.  “It won’t take long and I’ll make it worth your while.”  He pulled out a thick wad of folded bills from his pocket and laid several on the counter.

Anya counted them quickly.  Deciding that the Magic Box was going to need all the help it could get if it really was going to reopen someday, she pried open the drawer of the damaged cash register and stuffed the money inside.  “Okay,” she said with a shrug.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

Anya spent most of the weekend at the Magic Box.  A couple of times a wronged woman somewhere called out for vengeance, and Anya did her duty—but her heart wasn’t really in it.  She simply wasn’t feeling very vengeful of late.  More and more, she was simply feeling sorry for everyone involved in the dysfunctional relationships she found herself getting involved in.

Early on Monday evening, just as she was going to call it a night, Buffy walked into the store.  The Slayer was still dressed in her Double Meat Palace uniform and looked tired.  She looked around before walking over to the counter where Anya waited expectantly, a copy of The Decryer’s Camerone in her hands.

“The place looks better,” Buffy observed off-hand.  “At least better than when Willow was sending us flying against the walls and stuff.”

“Well, there’s still a lot to do—but it’s getting there.”  Anya looked at Buffy carefully.  The Vengeance Demon was often still naive about mortal ways, but she was starting to pick up on things.  “What brings you here Buffy?” she asked, sure that it wasn’t just to chat.

Buffy thought about prevaricating but decided not to.  She sighed and rested her elbows on the counter, holding her chin in the palms of her hands.  “Dawn’s made home catfight-of-the-month-club, Willow’s place is depressing as hell, pun not intended, and Xander’s not home.  So I thought I’d check out how the store is doing.”

How is Xander? Anya wanted to ask, but instead said “And so I’m the last person you’d go see?”

Buffy looked apologetic.  “No, Spike is.”  She instantly put a hand to her forehead—it was supposed to be a joke, a flippant comment, but Buffy had forgotten the whole mess with Xander, Spike, and Anya.  “I mean—“

“Never mind.  Don’t worry about it,” she said, although her face showed that the comment had bothered her.  “What’s wrong with Dawn?” she asked to change the subject.

Buffy sighed.  “I’m not sure.  Things were different after Willow went nuts—it was like Dawn and I had finally become friends instead of just sisters.  But all of a sudden she’s been yelling at me for no reason, leaving without telling me where she’s going.  A couple of days ago she even made a really stupid comment about the new family across the street.”

“She was a little like that when I saw her too,” Anya said.

Buffy raised her eyebrows.

Anya continued.  “She came in a couple of days ago and asked if I’d do her a favor—go to some meeting at Weatherly Park with her.”
            “First Principles?” Buffy interjected.

“That’s right.  So we went, and there were activities and speeches, and everyone else seemed really excited but it just seemed boring to me.”

“What sort of speeches?

“About community, and security, and knowing who’s a member and who’s not and things like that.  I stayed for a while and then told Dawn I didn’t find it very interesting and had to get back to work, and she went nuts on me.  Said that everyone liked First Principles and that if I didn’t want to be a member of the community, then I was an enemy or something.”

“I’m not surprised,” Buffy said, shaking her head.  “That’s the sort of thing she’s been saying to me too.  Her head’s been filled with all this garbage, and I know it’s been a tough time for her but . . .  I think I better check this place out.  Dawn’s just not like that.”

Buffy turned to go, but Anya had something on her mind.  She tried to sound casual.  “So how has everyone else been?  Like--“

 “Xander?  He’s doing okay, Anya.  He’s working hard and trying to spend time with Willow.  But you know, it might help if you two actually talked to each other.”

“That’s harder than it sounds,” Anya replied carefully.

“Yeah.  Well I can’t stay to play Dear Buffy.  Dawn’s going all Branch Davidian on me, so I better get to Waco before it’s too late.”

 

 

Dawn leaped, higher than she ever thought she could, and barely caught the frisbee with the tips of her fingers.  She came down off-balance, stumbled, and fell into a sommersault.  She laughed freely as she picked herself off the ground and wiped leaves and grass from the jean jacket she never left home without.

“Nice catch!” Timothy said, looking at her admiringly.

Dawn did a mock bow and threw the frisbee back.  He caught it easily and then jerked his head as if to say “Look over there.”  Dawn followed his eyes and saw Jamie and Brian had abandoned the frisbee and were instead exploring each other’s tonsils.

“Don’t you two need a license for that?” Timothy called out.

Brian raised a hand and waved them away without even looking up.  They were near the center of Weatherly Park.  It was rapidly filling up, as hundreds and hundreds of Sunnydale’s residents arrived early for the First Principles rally that would be starting soon.  The park was large, covering several city blocks, with large groves of trees and winding paths.  It was also a prime spot for dog walking, a fact Dawn was reminded of when a dark, chocolate-colored labrador trotted out of some nearby bushes and came towards her.  She flinched slightly but remained calm and within seconds the dog was nuzzling her, demanding to be petted.

“Isn’t he adorable?” Dawn asked.  Timothy came over and patted the dog on the rump.  Brian and Jamie were still oblivious to their, or anyone else’s, presence.  “I wonder who he belongs to?”

“I think I know,” Timothy said slowly, his eyes narrowing and his lips taut.  He pushed the dog away and stood up, walking towards the trees.  Dawn stood up as well and followed him.  A moment later she noticed what Timothy had seen: a dark-skinned boy holding a dog leash, walking around and whistling for his companion to come back.

“I think I know that guy,” Dawn said, recognizing the face from the window.  “His family just moved into our neighborhood, a few houses away from us.”

“They’re not from around here,” Timothy remarked.  “Hey!” he shouted, to get the boy’s attention.  “Come get your mutt and get the hell out of here.  You don’t belong here!”

The boy looked surprised and confused.  He looked around and then back at them.  “But I thought this was a public park,” he said, putting the collar back on his dog.

“Not the park,” Timothy shot back, angrily.  “The whole town.  You don’t belong in Sunnydale.  This is an American town, for American citizens.  You’re not part of the community, and we don’t need your kind around here.”

“I don’t think he gets it,” Brian said, suddenly appearing besides them.  “Maybe we should make sure he remembers.”  Dawn looked behind him and saw a sizable number of First Principles members had gathered, watching the confrontation.  She felt . . . something . . . in the back of her mind but brushed it aside.  One had to keep in mind the First Principles.  Members of a community had to look out for themselves.  And that meant dealing with outsiders in the way they deserved.

“I don’t want any trouble,” the boy said, obviously shaken.  “I’ll just go.”

“It’s too late for that!” Jamie yelled excitedly.  She seemed anxious to see a fight.

Brian and Timothy took a menacing step towards him, but froze in place when the labrador growled at them.  The boy saw his chance to escape and ran towards the edge of the park with his dog in tow.

“And don’t come back!” Dawn shouted after him, her lips curled in anger.  She couldn’t believe the kid’s gall.  He was trying to provoke us, she thought.  But members of a community stick up for their own.

“He was probably a terrorist,” observed Jamie

“Or a communist,” Brian offered seriously.  “They still have communists, right?  This guy on T.V. said that most terrorists are also communists, because communists are un-American and terrorists hate America.”

“Well, either way, we should do something about people like guy,” Timothy said.

“Yeah,” agreed Brian.  “Maybe we should talk to Wittingstone.  See what he has to say.  People like that need to learn their lesson—this place is for us, for our community.”

 

 

Wittingstone stepped up to the microphone reluctantly, rolling his eyes at yet one another of Michelle’s overly-enthusiastic introductions.  In front of him, the largest audience he had yet faced stood assembled—almost five-hundred people, large enough that First Principles had been forced to secure a parade permit and organize a clean-up crew after each meeting.  Look at them—sheep, each and every one.  Lemmings, really.  I could tell them the universe is going to implode tomorrow and they would believe me—and still eagerly agree to “help out their community” by volunteering for latrine-cleaning duty.  Wittingstone wiped his brow with a handkerchief—the days were getting longer and hotter as spring gave way to true summer.  Wittingstone sighed as the upturned faces of the crowd showed utter adoration.  Just like last time, except the new bit at the end.  I hope he’s happy!  Me, Elias Wittingstone, turned from go-to-man and skilled operative to stand-up hatemonger!

“Ladies and gentleman, today we stand stronger than ever before!”  He tried to force some excitement into the words, but they were just too banal.  Still, the audience applauded wildly.  “Our community is remembering its First Principles, and together we are making it better and better everyday.  But our work is not yet complete.  There are many dangers facing us in Sunnydale, dangers that we can face only if we stand strong together as a community.

 “And what makes a community?” he continued.  “A community is made up of shared traditions, shared values, a common view of what makes the world great.  But there are always those outsiders who would threaten these great things we share by wanting to manipulate them, or stretch them, or even experiment with them.  We mustn’t let that happen.  Our community must remain vigilant against the threat of these degenerates who would destroy our values and traditions, who would undermine the very essence of who we are as a people.

“I must remind each of you to be watchful of those who are not members of the community.  Those who are different are dangerous because they don’t share our way of life—and thus they have nothing invested in our communities.  And, remember, just because someone may look like members of the community does not mean they are truly our allies—outsiders are always hoping to disrupt what makes us great because they are envious of the security and happiness we share.

“First Principles is on the verge of great things.  But we need each and every one of you to be proactive.  Identify the dangers that threaten our community and do not be afraid to confront them.  By working together, we can make America the best it can possibly be.”

Wittingstone stepped away from the microphone to thunderous applause.  Damn.  Was that “identify the dangers that threaten” or “identify the threats that endanger”?  Ah well, same effect.  First Principles staff members ushered him to a waiting car, an expensive black sedan.  Wittingstone loosened his tie and wiped his brow again as he instructed the driver to take him home.  He sighed when his cell phone rang, but flipped it open and listened carefully.

“Mr. Castillo!” he said, surprised but careful to pronounce it exactly as he had been instructed--the lingering pain on the tips of his fingers was a constant reminder.  “Yes, sir,” he spoke into the receiver.  “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .  No, sir.  . . .  Yes, all is going as planned.  In fact I was surprised how quickly they took to it.  The creature is certainly fulfilling its end of the deal . . .  Move the schedule up?  Certainly, sir. . . .  Hopefully by the end of the week. . . . Of course I can’t guarantee that but—yes sir, I‘ll try. . . . There’s something else that will please you.  The Slayer’s sister has become involved. . . . No, it’s not a trick.  She’s as caught as the rest of them.  In fact, they’re ready to begin being ‘proactive.’ . . . Yes sir, I spoke to her and her friends myself just before the speech. . . . Yes, I’ll watch carefully. . . .”

Wittingstone flipped the cell phone shut and put it back into his pocket.  I can’t believe he actually found it.  If he manages to get it open and it does what the legends say it will . . . I’ll just have to make sure I’m gone by then.  I sure wouldn’t want to be in Buffy Summers’ place right now.

 

 

Tintsman dodged to the side, barely avoiding the gauntlet-enclosed fist that hit the wall instead, leaving a large hole in the plaster.  He brought the butt of his rifle down hard on his attacker’s jaw, but the helmet turned what should have been a staggering strike into a mere glancing blow.  His attacker reacted instantly, launching a solid kick into Tintsman’s midriff. The sheer force of the attack knocked him to the ground. The padding kept him from being hurt, but before he could recover he found three rifles pointed at his head.

He grinned and removed his helmet.  “Well done,” he said, taking hold of a proffered hand and getting to his feet.  “I think you’re finally ready.”

“Do you really think so, sir?” said one of the figures, her voice muffled by the helmet she  wore.  All of the figures wore suits of dark green armor—the material looked and felt like plastic to the touch, but was much harder.  The joints were covered by a flexible black rubber-like substance.  Each also wore a helmet and carried a variety of weaponry.  The Pittsburgh warehouse they had been training in for the past several months had quickly become riddled with cracks, holes, and deep gouges from testing the equipment.

Tintsman eyed them carefully and then nodded.  “Yes, I do, Rita.  All of you have been through what I’ve been through—and although we never get over it, we can at least ensure it doesn’t happen again.  It’s taken me almost four years now to build these suits and train you, and I wouldn’t throw it all away if you weren’t ready.”  He spoke confidently and with a measure of pride, like a father telling his son he was ready to play Little League baseball.

The three armored figures had been holding their breath as he answered the question.  They relaxed and removed their helmets.  Rita was the youngest of them, in her early twenties—her fiancee had been killed by vampires just over two years ago.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Tintsman continued.  “But I know we can do it.  I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into when I went to Sunnydale last time—how bad it would be.  Going there by myself almost got me killed.  But I know what we’re up against now—how tricky they are.”

“I still don’t see how we’re going to tell them apart from the normals,” Joshua, the younger of the men, said.  He had been an investment broker before losing his parents to the blood-drinkers, and was easily the most timid of the group.

“They’ll find us,” Tintsman answered.  “They always do.  But if they try to hide, I know what to do.”

“Do you think . . . he’ll be there?” Otis, the last soldier, asked.

Tintsman’s face grew darker.  “I don’t know,” he said simply.  “He may have fled long ago. But Sunnydale’s the place to start—we may be able to pick up his trail from there.  And this time I’m not leaving until they’re all dead, including the humans who helped them.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Angel walked carefully through the cemetery.  It was well past midnight, and dawn lay only a few hours off.  The entire night’s patrolling had been uneventful, and it looked like the cemetery was deserted.  He was somewhat surprised but definitely not upset by this turn of events.  He resolved to call it good and turn in for the day when he noticed that one of the newly installed grave markers was already cracked.  It wasn’t unusual for vandals to go on tombstone-tipping sprees, but it was strange that only one would be broken in this whole area of the cemetery.  Walking closer, he noticed that some of the tombstones seemed to be dripping.  He looked up at the sky—no clouds, no rain.

            He put a finger to the liquid to see what it was, but drew his hand back quickly when his fingers burned.  He thrust his hand in his pocket and tried to wipe off as much of it as possible.  No doubt it was holy water.  Further investigation yielded several tiny wooden darts.  He pocketed a few.

            He wondered what was going on.  Did Buffy stay in Sunnydale after all?  This didn’t seem like her handiwork.  Was another Slayer in town?  He remembered with a shudder how Kendra had locked him in that cage, seconds away from being toasted by the sun before Slick Willy had rescued him.  But no, Giles would know and would have mentioned it if another one had come to town.  Whatever was going on, it was clear that someone—or something—was now prowling the streets of Sunnydale.  Not that another vampire hunter would be bad, Angel thought to himself.  As long as it realized that he was different than the others.  But it was too late to do much more this night, and it was too early to talk to Giles.  Maybe tomorrow he would look up some of his informants and see if they knew anything.

            He walked wearily through the streets back to his place, too restless to sleep but too tired to do much of anything else.  Patrolling wasn’t just walking around waiting for something to jump out at you.  It meant carefully and silently making your way through deserted and often unlit places, with your senses always on edge and jumping a little at each cricket or car door slamming.  A few hours of patrolling like this could fray the nerves and exhaust one’s patience.  How did Buffy manage to patrol several nights a week and still attend a full slate of classes each day?  That must be why she’s always on edge. 

Summer and early fall was always a frustrating time of the year for him—just eight or nine hours of darkness each night meant he had to spend the rest of the time cooped up in his room.  Maybe I need a vacation to Alaska, he thought as he opened the door. Six months of 24-hour darkness.  I would be just like anyone else there, able to go where I please, when I please.  As long as I remembered to leave before the 24-hours of daylight kicked in. He climbed down the stairs to his basement apartment, unlocked the door and switched the lights on.

            He dropped the bundle of stakes near the door and grabbed a book from the nightstand—Proust’s Swann’s Way—and reclined on the bed to try and relax.  His apartment was spacious but largely spartan.  Paintings of various styles from the past two-hundred years were on the walls, as were sculptures and knick-knacks he had picked up in his travels around the world.  Small piles of books sat along the walls, and a few artificial plants hung from the ceiling. 

There were no mirrors of course, and few photographs.  One of them was of Buffy—her sophomore yearbook photo.  In the picture, her hair was done up and she wore a goofy grin, but in spite of it all she was beautiful.  He thought back to what Giles had told him about the night before, and remembered the conversation he had tried to have with Buffy the weekend those monster-eggs were taking over everyone’s bodies.  He had tried to get her to think about the future, to confront reality.  But she wouldn’t—it wasn’t that she was terrified of it, or didn’t care—but more like she just wanted to, or perhaps needed to, focus on what was now as opposed to what might happen someday.

He rolled over on his stomach and continued trying to read.  He could remember reading the novel when it first came out in the original French, back when Proust had to publish it at his own expense because he couldn’t find a publisher.  Normally it was engaging and helped pass the time.  Tonight he just couldn’t seem to concentrate—something kept nagging at the back of his mind.  Something was wrong.  Something about his place was different.  The smell, he realized, rolling over and jumping to his feet.  Someone else had been here—recently!

            “What did you mean when you said I should leave well enough alone?” whispered a voice from the doorway.  Angel turned and saw that a tall, thick man was blocking the exit.  He seemed to be around Giles’ age, but his face was contorted into pure rage.  He wore a long coat, but underneath it Angel could tell he was wearing a shiny, metallic body suit of some kind.  It seemed to be composed of small, flexible plates that overlapped one another.  Was this one of Spike’s brood?  Angel didn’t recognize the man, but his instincts told him he was dangerous.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Angel said carefully.  “Have we met before?”  Even with a great memory, one forgot a lot of faces after being alive for over two centuries.

            Tintsman stood there silently.  Someone like Angel was not who he expected to find.  He always thought it would be some half-mad demonic vampire, or some foul, withered, bloodsucking old crone.  Not some handsome young kid who looked barely old enough to run for student body president at a community college.  He hesitated a second, before remembering what had been taken from him.  He had traveled across the country to finally find this “Angel.”  Hatred bubbled up inside him.  Vampires were nothing but murderous leeches.  And this—this filth has the gall to deny he was even a part of it, he thought.  Maybe he’s killed so many he can’t even remember the recent ones.

            “This is for Maggie and Katie.”  He was so enraged he could barely vocalize the words, but his finger managed to find the trigger of the small pistol he was holding.  Angel didn’t have time to consciously react as a jet of water shot across the room, but his instincts led him to dive out of the way just in time.  He hit the floor hard, knocking over a lamp and plunging the room into semi-darkness.  Only a few scant drops of the liquid had touched Angel’s skin, but by the burning sensation, he knew what it was.

            Angel recovered quickly and jumped towards the man, kicking the pistol out of his hand.  It didn’t fall, however, as it was connected by a hose to a container strapped to Tintsman’s back.  Angel landed a solid punch to his attacker’s ribs but was knocked to the ground by a sudden backhand.  He could hardly believe how strong his attacker was.  No human can do that!

             Angel watched as his attacker pulled another weapon from the coat—it looked like a rifle, but Angel knew it was no ordinary one.  He dove under the bed and pushed up hard, knocking both frame and mattress on their side, forming a shield between him and this psycho who was after him.  The spraying had stopped, but a strange clicking had started from the direction of the doorway.  Smoke and the sound of gunshots filled the small room and Angel’s only defense was riddled by small wooden projectiles.  One of the darts grazed him on the shoulder, taking a patch of skin along with it before hitting the wall behind him.

            It was time for a strategic withdrawal, Angel realized.  He pulled the bed back down to its normal position and rolled over, face down on the floor.  Even a vampire didn’t live for over two hundred years without learning a few tricks, such as always having a second exit to any resting-place.

            With one hand, the intruder flung the mattress and bed aside.  A trapdoor was clearly visible underneath.  He opened it and peered into the darkness within.  “I’m coming for you Angel!” he shouted into it, but he knew it was too late.  The vampire probably knew the tunnels below like the back of his foul hand, and he wouldn’t be coming back here anytime soon. 

Tintsman stood up, his face contorted with rage.  He holstered the small rifle and tried to calm himself down, but to no avail.  So close!  After all this time!  He strode into the main room of the apartment purposefully and walked along the walls, sweeping artwork and knick-knacks to the ground as he went.  Precious treasures that Angel had collected over the centuries were broken and ground into the floor.  When almost everything in the room had been shattered, Tintsman stood in the center and looked around.  He started to breathe again.  I’ll simply have to find another way, he thought.  Whatever it takes.

 

 

            Saturday night was usually jumping at the Stop-On-Inn truckstop off Highway 322, and tonight was no different.  Saturday was not only a popular travel day for weekend trips, it was also one of the few nights many locals came out for chicken fried steak, biscuits and gravy, and anything else one could rarely find in town after 10 p.m.

            It was shortly before the witching hour that almost a dozen motorcycles roared in.  Sam Mills, the night manager, stood there in a checkered shirt and baseball cap, watching them circle around the parking lot a few times before they stopped and removed their helmets.  He wasn’t worried though—bikers had a much worse reputation than they usually deserved.  Often they were more polite and better tippers than the townies, at least.

            Most of the bikers headed for the front doors, but a few circled off around the back.  All  the customers looked up as they came in.  Sam noticed that there was one in particular who stood out from the rest.  Although dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a leather vest like the others, there was something about him—some indescribable presence—that clearly marked him as their leader.  He walked as though he was ready to order an army into battle or meet the Queen of England with equal ease.  Striding in front of his followers, he stopped in the middle of the store.  In front him was a long counter that separated the truck stop from the cooks and waitresses who worked there.  Off to his right was a long row of booths, most of them filled, while off to his left were the packaged snacks and cheap souvenirs and trinkets one finds in every highway convenience store.

            “Yes, this will do nicely,” Castillo said to one of his lieutenants behind him.  Inwardly, he smiled.  He had been spending far too much time in the office and at interminable meetings.   Although it was obvious that power and money came much easier through politics and trading invisible pieces of invisible entities called “corporations,” there was simply something visceral about being on the hunt that could not be matched in the boardroom.  Sometimes he longed for the Spain of his youth—prowling the alleyways for courtesans or noblewomen, leaping aboard ships and terrifying the crews just for the sheer joy of it.  Yes, this was definitely something he needed to do more often.

            He clapped his hands loudly, and every face in the store stared at him curiously.  “Friends,” he began, loudly enough for everyone to hear “I am pleased to inform you that tonight is the very last night of your miserable, pathetic little lives on this earth.  Now please, line yourselves up by height and then blood type.”  Several of his companions guffawed behind him, while the customers didn’t seem to get the joke.

            A shapely young waitress walked over.  “Do you want a table or do you want to peddle your keesters out of here?” she called, as if she were wasting time by even being in their presence.  In my day, we would have called her a ‘saucy wench,’ Castillo thought to himself.  Why was it the most apt phrases always go out of style so soon?  His hand lashed out, grabbing her around the waist.  She gave a little startled cry as he pulled her off of her feet and pushed her to the waiting arms of his men.  He paused and listened to the slurping and sucking sounds that were music to his ears.

            The customers, who had assumed this was all some kind of stupid prank, changed their minds when they saw the waitress fall face down and hit the floor hard with a loud crack, the blood drained out of her.  They panicked and ran for the exits.  Castillo knew a dozen ways he could have handled tonight’s events without causing a stir—for example, he could have had his men wait patiently and ambush customers as they entered and exited the store, with none inside the wiser.  But that missed the point—the tumult, the confusion, the panic, the terror, the screams—that was what made being a vampire fun!  And what would eternal life be, if it wasn’t fun? Castillo thought rhetorically as his men fanned out and began tearing the place apart while picking out their prey.  With all of the exits blocked, many of the customers formed themselves in a small bunch towards the side of the store as the vampires advanced.

            Sam Mills had seen various incarnations of Dracula on late-night cable enough times to know what had to be done.  He wasn’t a hero--but he wasn’t about to let himself be torn apart by vampires either.  He decided to risk it and sprinted for the souvenir section of the store, feeling triumphant when he reached the display of imitation-gilded crosses.  Grasping the largest one he could find, Sam thrust it bravely in front of him as Castillo walked over with a thin smile.

            “Back demon of the night!  Back by all that is uh . . . holy!” Sam shouted, trying to remember what exactly it was that Dr. Van Helsing always said.

            Castillo chuckled softly as he walked right up to Sam and grasped the cross without hesitation.  He gently pulled it out of Sam’s hand and crushed it into a ball and tossed it on the floor.  It slid into the base of a postcard display before stopping.  Castillo shook his head slowly, for he knew what all humans--and even most vampires--did not: disbelief could be as powerful as belief.  There was nothing intrinsically powerful about a cross that harmed vampires; instead it was the fact that a person’s mental and spiritual energies were being focused into the cross that was important, much the same as it was the residue of these energies that kept a vampire from entering a domicile uninvited.  When these energies were focused into a tangible object, that was what gave a vampire pause and could even harm them.  Thus, a Jewish person could focus on a Star of David, a Muslim on a crescent and star pendant, or, for that matter, a skeptic on a volume of Hume.  In this case, Sam’s faith was nothing compared to Castillo’s disbelief.

            Castillo looked up and realized he had simply been standing there thinking, while all of his men were staring at him expectantly and Sam was trembling in shock.  Castillo extended his thumb and index finger, as if to pinch something in the air, and then in a flash jammed them into Sam’s neck.  He pulled out Sam’s carotid artery and began to suck from it as if it were a straw, as the humans eyes closed for the last time.

            Blood Lite.  Tastes great, less filling, Castillo almost said out loud before catching himself.  Despite all of his precautions, the relentless American drive to commercialize and advertise everything was getting to him.  The thought made him shudder, and he resolved to have all channels except PBS permanently blocked.

            The entire truckstop burned as Castillo and his men road away to the west.  Once the flames reached the underground gas tanks, there would nothing left to identify what had happened.  Not that it mattered much, Castillo knew.  No matter how obvious it was that vampires had attacked, the authorities invariably came up with serial killers, drugs, or Satan-worshipping cults as the cause.

            They rode for several more hours in the cool night air before turning into a rest stop.  There lay two large, black semi-trucks with their cargo doors opened and ramps extended.  The bikers slowed down and rode their cycles up the ramps and into the darkened holds.  Here they would rest during the daylight while the trucks took them farther west.

            “Have them hurry,” Castillo said to one of his men, indicating the cab of the semi.  “I want to be at Arctic Ridge by tomorrow night.  The Slayer is no doubt there already, and I don’t want her to leave without us being there to send her off appropriately.”

 

 

            Several hundred miles and a nearly a dozen states away, another black semi-truck pulled  into Sunnydale’s small warehouse district.  It stopped in front of a low, brown warehouse on the edge of the town.  Just as the rear doors of the semi opened and several men in blue uniforms jumped down to unload it, the huge double-doors of the warehouse slowly pushed open as well.

            “You’re late,” said a man standing within the doorway of the warehouse.  “You’d better hurry.  Dawn is in less than an hour.”  He carefully wiped the dust off his hands with a handkerchief, careful not to get any on his suit.

            “Why don’t you stop yapping and start helping,” retorted one of the men struggling with a large container.  Each crate was marked “FRAGILE—SENSITIVE ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT” and “ELECTROTECH, INC.”

            “Because I don’t have to worry about bursting into flame or disintegrating into ash or whatever it is that you do when the sun comes up,” the man, Wittingstone, said snidely.  “And besides, moving the equipment is your job.  My job was to watch the Slayer, find us a base, track down your preliminary target for tomorrow night, and eventually prepare for the final demonstration.  As you can see, I am simply much too busy to engage in manual labor.”

            When the truck had been unloaded and had driven off, the movers sat in a semi-circle on the floor of the warehouse as Wittingstone handled each of them a manila folder labeled  “DOSSIER—CONFIDENTIAL.”

            “Inside,” he said, “you will everything we have on your target for tomorrow night.”

            “I don’t get it,” said one of the men, flipping through his folder quickly.  “The boss didn’t send four of us for this guy!”

            “We had anticipated one or two more targets.  But still, even alone I wouldn’t underestimate him.  Mr. Castillo is simply being prudent, as always.  This ‘Rupert Giles’ is reputed to be quite resourceful.  Not only is he the Watcher for one of the most powerful Slayers in history, he is also rumored to be quite skilled in sorcery.”

            “Worse yet, he’s a librarian!” snickered one of the men.

            Wittingstone sneered at him disdainfully.  He was not a humorous man, and he despised insolence.  “In any event,” he continued, ”I will return this evening with our target’s final location.”  He nodded and walked towards a small door in the back of the warehouse.  He was careful to open it only enough to squeeze through, so as not to flood the place with sunlight.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT:  THE PRESENT

 

            Xander sat on the couch gripping a soda, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other.  He had changed from his work clothes the minute Buffy called.  Now he sat in her living room, anxious and wondering why it was she wanted him to come over.  I finally made it.  Just me and Buffy, alone in her house.  Neither of us seeing anyone.  Just the two of us.  Could it be?

            “It’s about Dawn,” Buffy said, coming into the room from the kitchen.

            I knew that.

            “Dawn?” Xander said.  “Still slipping boxes of Nut ’n Honey under her jacket at the grocery store?”

            Buffy shook her head.  “No, I think the whole klepto-thing is pretty much over.  I would actually prefer a little petty larceny to what’s been happening.”

            “If her problem involves loose floor boards or building a new patio, you called the right guy.”

            “I think she’s involved with a cult.”

            “Man!” Xander sighed.  “Not another giant snake-guy coming up from the well?”

            “I don’t think so,” Buffy replied.  “It’s this First Principles thing.  You may have seen it on the news.  They meet at Weatherly Park everyday and ever since Dawn started going . . . she’s been acting weird.”

            “Buffy, your sister’s always been weird.  I mean, weird in the sense that she’s the Cosmic Key or something, but also weird in that she’s a teenage girl.  Of course she’s weird.  They’re all weird.”

            “You didn’t seem to think I was so ‘weird’ back then,” Buffy said with a smile.  “In fact, I seem to remember that you thought I was—“

            “We should stick to the point,” Xander said quickly.  “So Dawn’s weird huh?”

            “I said acting weird.  The other day she said our neighbors were ‘outsiders’ threatening the ‘community’ and I don’t think she had ever even met them—she was just assuming because they’re from another country.  It all started when she began going to these First Principles meetings.”

            Xander shrugged slightly.  “I agree with you that’s stupid.  And of course I’m happy to play big brother and help out, but Willow seems a lot more serious right now.”

            “I’m not asking you to move in.  Just go to one or two of these meetings for me and figure out what’s going on and how to get her out of it.  I’d go, but I think she’d freak out even more.”

            “Okay, I’ll do it.  But if I turn into a raving twistie, it’s on your head.”

            “Deal.  Oh, and Anya said ‘hi.’”

            “She did?” Xander looked surprised.

            “Yes.  Yes, she did,” said Buffy.  Just ‘cause my love life is doomed doesn’t mean theirs has to be.

            Xander stood up and walked into the kitchen.  He set his glass in the sink, thought for a moment, and then came back to the living room.  He smiled slightly as he sat back down on the sofa.  “We don’t get to do this much anymore, you know?”

            “What?”

            “Just talk.  I mean we used to see each other everyday at school.  Now we just see each other when there’s a crisis.”

            Buffy nodded.  “I know, I should call more to hang out.  It’s just that—“

            “We’re busy,” Xander finished.

            “Right,” Buffy smiled.

            They sat there for a moment uncomfortably.  Xander was the first to break the silence.  “I saw Willow last night.”

            “How is she?”

            “She’s dead,” he said.

            Buffy did a spit take, shooting soda all over the carpet.  “What!”

            “I mean—no, she’s not dead dead.  I just mean she acts like it.  Monotone and one-word answers to everything.  Like a zombie without the brain-hunger.”  Xander disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with a towel.  “Sorry to freak you out.”

            “Sorry to freak out,” Buffy said.  “It’s just that with everything else . . . never mind.  But yeah, I know what you mean.  I don’t know what’s going on inside her head but at least on the outside the Willow we knew is . . .”

            “Dead,” Xander offered.

            “Yeah.”

            The depressing, awkward silence lasted longer this time.

           

 

            Dawn held the pie—chocolate creme—carefully and shook her head.  “I don’t think so,  guys,” she said, peering around the corner.  The house she was looking at was illuminated by a porch light and through the windows she could see inside lights were on.

            “You’ve got to,” Jamie said.  “Wittingstone agreed it was a great idea—and since you’re the neighbor, it’ll work perfectly.”

            Dawn hesitated.  She was having trouble concentrating of late.  When she tried to think deeply, everything in her head seemed . . . blurry.  First Principles.  Community.  Stick up for ourselves.  Outsiders threaten our way of life.  She shook her head to clear away the cobwebs but it didn’t work.

            “C’mon Dawn, we’ll your friends.  We’re with you in this,” Brian said.

“I’m so glad we’re part of the community together,” Timothy added.  He cupped Dawn’s chin gently and gave her a soft kiss.  “When we work towards the same goals, nothing can keep us from being strong and secure.  And it’s just a little pie—no one will get hurt.”

Dawn nodded and walked towards the front door.  She rang the doorbell while the others, staying low, concealed themselves on either side.  The dark-skinned, middle-aged woman Dawn had walked past several days ago opened the door.

“Mrs. Jocerta?  Hi, my name’s Dawn from down the street.”  Okay, I’ll just give her this and walk away.  I don’t care what the others think.

            “Dawn?  Oh, of course, Buffy’s sister.  She was so nice when she came by the other day and she mentioned she had a sister.  We have such nice neighbors here!” 

She smiled widely and opened the door wider to let Dawn enter.  That’s when the other teens made their move: Timothy jumped from the shadows, grabbed the pie, and shoved it in Mrs. Jocerta’s face.  The woman stumbled back, frightened and bewildered, as Brian and Jamie ran into her living room and began wrecking the place.  After they had overturned the stereo, broken several pictures, and kicked through the screen of the television, Timothy shouted “Go back to Egypt or wherever you came from!”  Everyone took off as Mrs. Jocerta screamed, but only Dawn looked back.

They stopped running and ducked into an alley several blocks away, huffing and puffing.  Dawn was in better shape than the others and recovered quickly.

“You didn’t tell me about that part!” she snapped.  “A pie in the face—that was supposed to be all!”

“Relax, babe.  The opportunity just sort of presented itself.  This way they really get the message.”  Timothy tried to put his arm around her but she shrugged it off.

“Yeah, stop being such a crybaby, Dawn,” Jamie said.  “She deserved it.  She’s an outsider and you know how dangerous they are.”

Dawn put her hands to her head and sat down on the pavement and tried to think. Something wasn’t right, but she just couldn’t remember what it was.  Why can’t I focus?  What’s wrong with me?  Stick to the basics.  Community.  Togetherness.  Security.  Protection.  Friendship.  First Principles.  “You’re right,” she said, standing up abruptly.  “I don’t know what I was thinking.  We’ll all be better off when all the foreigners go home.”

“Now that’s the Dawn we know and love,” Timothy proclaimed with a smile.  This time Dawn didn’t shrug his arm off.

The group of friends walked down the street.  Timothy and Dawn walked arm and arm in front, while Jamie and Brian held hands and brought up the rear.  Dawn tuned out their incessant chatter about how great it felt to be “proactive,” but began listening again when Brian shifted topics.

“And it’s not just the foreigners,” he was saying.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re a problem.  But there are others too.  Like Wittingstone said.  People who want to attack our community, I mean, by being like, nontraditional and stuff.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” Jamie said fawningly.  “Like who?”

“Well, like people who are all perverted and stuff.  That’s who we need to be proactive against.  I mean really proactive.  Like what we did to that old lady, but more.”

“I’m with you there, buddy,” Timothy said, looking back.

“But like who?” Jamie said again.

“Oh I don’t know,” Brian answered before inspiration struck him.  “Well like that red-head and that blonde chick who are always together downtown—you know that’s just not natural.”

“I heard they’re lesbians,” Jamie answered.

“And that’s just what I’m talking about,” Brian replied.

“One of the sickos died,” Timothy put in.  “But the other one’s still around.  Let’s think of something proactive to do to her.”

It took a moment for the others to notice that Dawn had stopped dead in her tracks.  Like a flash of light, the blurryness and the confusion in her head was gone.  It was like she was waking up from a bad dream and the cloudiness in her brain was filling with something else instead.  Rage.

Timothy looked at her.  “What’s the matter, babe?”

She stood there for a moment, her fists clenched tightly, trembling with anger.  Then she slowly walked up to Timothy, reared back, and punched him in the face.  Hard.  He went down like a wounded bird, hitting the ground with a thud and a splash of blood from his broken nose.  Dawn stood over him as Jamie and Brian looked on, shocked.

Tears flowed down her face as she struggled to get the words out through her anger.  “Willow and Tara were the best,” she said through partially clenched teeth.  “I loved them.  They were some of the best people I ever knew.  And I can’t believe you would dare to—“

Her words were interrupted by Timothy’s, who had just gotten to his knees, holding his nose as blood poured down between his fingers.  “They were perverts, and a threat to our community!”

“They were my friends!” she screamed at him, the tears coming harder now.

“But—but—we’re your friends, Dawn,” Jamie said.

“No.  You never were.  And you never will be.  You disgust me!”  She shot them such a look that they stepped back involuntarily, cowed, while Dawn turned and ran away.

Towards her real community.

 

 

Xander had just stood up to leave when Dawn came bursting through the doorway, sobbing.  She saw Buffy and virtually tackled her, knocking both of them into the couch.  Buffy held her there, trying to calm her down, exchanging a look of what the hell is going on? with Xander.

“God Buffy I’ve done something terrible,” Dawn sobbed when she had finally calmed down enough to speak.  “But it wasn’t me.  I mean I was so confused and—“

“Dawn—just tell me what’s going on,” Buffy said gently.

Dawn related what she and the others had done to the Jocertas’ house.

“Man, that was cold,” Xander said angrily.  “How could you do something like—“

He stopped when Buffy shot him another look: shut up.  “She wasn’t herself, Xander.  This ‘First Principles’ is behind it.  They messed with her mind somehow.”

            “There’s more,” Dawn said, drying her eyes.

There’s always more, Xander thought.

“They’re planning to . . . do something to Willow.”

“What?” Xander shouted.  “Dawn, I don’t care if you were ‘confused’ or not, if your little friends do something to her I’ll—“

“Do what?” Buffy said protectively, remembering four years ago when Xander had promised to kill her if Willow was hurt by the Anointed One.  The worst part was that she had believed him.  “Just go check on Willow, Xander.  I’ll sort this out.”

They heard the screech of tires on pavement just moments after he stormed out.

 

 

Wittingstone shut the door and walked back to his desk.  He would have to call Mr. Castillo with bad news—and he hated calling Mr. Castillo with bad news.  Still, he was glad the  kids had come to him so soon.  It was always better to deal with problems before they got out of hand.

He picked up the desk phone and dialed.  “Mr. Castillo,” he said as soon as the other phone picked up.  “It’s Wittingstone.  There’s a situation, sir.”

“Continue.”

“It’s about the Slayer’s sister.  Dawn, I believe.”

“I thought you had her.  Caught, I believe you said.”

“We did sir.  But something happened and she got loose.  Attacked one of the other members.  I believe they had decided to become ‘proactive’ with Willow Rosenberg, who is--”

“I know who she is, Wittingstone.  I remember her from the resort, and I’ve been receiving regular updates since I sent you to Sunnydale.”

“Yes sir.  I believe Dawn’s going to run home, and the Slayer may get involved.”

“It’s not quite time for that, yet.”

“I know, sir.

“We’ll simply have to keep them busy.  Pay attention now.”

“Yes sir.”

Several minutes later, Wittingstone hung up the phone with a sigh.  If this job didn’t pay so well . . . .But who else can do what I do?  He made several more calls, and then called for his driver to bring the car around.  He carefully straightened his tie while waiting.  At least it’s better than the damn microphone.

After the car arrived, he gave some brief directions and then made several more calls on his cell phone.  It was just after dusk by the time the car finally stopped at a deserted pier near Sunnydale’s docks.

“Are you sure this is where you’re supposed to meet him, Mr. Wittingstone?” inquired  the driver.

“Yes.  Apparently our prospective agent has a flair for the melodramatic.”  Wittingstone stepped out of the car holding a briefcase and peered into the shadows.  Moments later, the sound of footsteps was followed by the appearance of a blond-haired figure in a dark trenchcoat.

“Mister, ah, ‘Spike’ I presume?” Wittingstone said.

“Make this good and make this fast,” Spike responded curtly.

“Very well.”  Wittingstone flipped the briefcase open to reveal several bundles of bills.  “My employer wishes to retain your services to eliminate one Dawn Summers, of 1630 Revello Drive.  Payment upon perform—“

Spike knocked the briefcase to the ground, grabbed Wittingstone by the throat, and thrust him up against the car.

“What makes you think I care?” he growled.  “Do you think I need cash?  What for, a bloody dee-luxe apartment in the sky?”

“My employer is . . . very powerful and . . . very well-connected.  He said to tell you . . . that things are going to happen in Sunnydale . . . and that . . . you might want to . . . be a part of them,” Wittingstone gurgled.

“Is that so?” Spike asked rhetorically, loosening his grip.  “Dawn Summers you say?  You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Leader of the vampires in Sunnydale,” Wittingstone answered, rubbing his throat.

Spike laughed loudly.  “Bloody right.  Okay Bob, I’ll see what I can do.”  He picked up the briefcase and walked into the shadows, enjoying the irony.  If only they knew, he thought, shaking his head in derision.

Wittingstone straightened his tie and pulled out his cell phone.  “Yes sir, I’ve contacted him and he agreed.  It appears we’ve been successful on both fronts then.”

 

 

Castillo returned the phone to its cradle and walked to the elevator.  Inserting a special key, the digital readout flashed “Sub 2” and the elevator descended quickly.  The doors opened with a whoosh and he stepped out into a well-lit, well-guarded corridor.  He passed through two more doors, each locked with either retina- or fingerprint- identification systems.  At last he emerged into a dark, largely empty room with stainless steel walls, a plain metal folding chair, a small chest, and a large circle drawn in blood.

He shed his clothing and checked the summoning circle carefully, making sure each symbol was exactly where it was supposed to be and that there were no places where the lines had been rubbed out.  He pulled out a small knife, cut his flesh, and watched as his own blood dripped into the center of the circle.  He then recited the chant from memory.  Magic certainly wasn’t his forte—Castillo considered himself a far too practical man to become heavily involved in such things.  But he knew its place in the world, the power it could give.  And since he was a patient, exact man, he had learned quickly what needed to be done.

The air grew noticeably chilly as a shape began to manifest in the center of the circle.  Small drops of water started to whirl about, but they quickly became flakes of snow.  Moments later, they were tiny balls of hard ice.  Castillo stood unfazed, however, and completed the ritual.

The dimly-reflected shape of a creature appeared, seen as if through several panes of translucent glass.  It was vaguely-humanoid in appearance, but sharp icicles seemed to hang from its arms.  The face could barely be made out, but looked like a blob of white snow with a sharp row of teeth.

“Your control is not yet strong enough,” Castillo said, as if speaking to an equal.  “One has already broken free.  The time is close, and so you must redouble your effort.  Soon the hatred will grow and you will be strong enough to manifest fully.”

“Too . . . warm,” whispered a voice, soothing and manipulative.

“Not for much longer,” Castillo replied, glancing at the chest.  “By this weekend everything will be . . . prepared.  But until then you must focus your energies on influencing the humans we assemble.”

Castillo performed the necessary rites to dismiss the demon and stepped carefully away from the summoning circle. He touched his fingers to his face and traced the lines of the scars that were there and would never completely heal.  Then he kneeled down and touched the chest, idly tracing the outlines of the runes carved on it.  He smiled in anticipation of what was to come.

               
               

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            The final five miles to Arctic Ridge, which everyone expected would only take a few minutes to travel, dragged on for almost half an hour up a twisting mountain road.  Willow ended up driving, with Cordelia refusing to let Xander drive while at the same time refusing to drive herself.  Still, everyone was in fairly high spirits as they were finally about to reach their destination.  It had finally stopped snowing, the roads had been plowed, and the wind had died down. The scenery itself was amazing: postcard-perfect views of mountain peaks with pine tree stubble.

            Their first sight of the resort came as they crested a small hill and saw what must be the resort’s main lodge.  From a distance, it looked like everything they were expecting: walls made of wooden logs, a wide chimney jutting from the roof, a banner proclaiming “WELCOME TO ARCTIC RIDGE—ENJOY YOUR STAY!”  As they drew closer, however, their expectations were dashed.  The banner was torn and dirty, the windows and door to the lodge were boarded over, many of the logs were cracked and in sore need of repair, and worst of all, they didn’t see anyone else around—no vehicles or skiers.  Further on, they could see only a handful of small cabins and a ski-lift.  It wasn’t running.

            “I don’t get it,” Willow said.  Everyone wore glum expressions, including her, as she  stopped the SUV in front of the lodge.  “The place looked great on the Internet.  Happy skiers everywhere, a cozy lodge to hang out in.”

            “Maybe the pictures were from before it went bankrupt,” said Xander.

            “That can’t be,” said Willow.  “I checked—the website was updated just a month ago.”

            “Well I don’t care!” exclaimed Cordelia, obviously peeved.  “This is so not what I was promised.  When I get back I’m going to have my father call our attorney.  This is like fraud or false advertising or something!”

            They were arguing about whether they should go right back to Sunnydale or try to find somewhere else to spend the weekend when they saw a young man walking toward them from the direction of the cabins.  He was dressed in jeans and a bright blue sweater, and had a pair of goggles around his neck. The man was quite handsome.  With a broad smile and a cheerful wave, he looked as if he could have returned from an International Male catalog shoot.

            “Well maybe it’s not all bad,” said Cordelia, getting out of the car and staring intently at the approaching figure.  The others followed and waited for him to approach.

            “Welcome to Arctic Ridge!” he yelled as soon as he was within range.  He jogged the rest of the way over to them.  “Chad Allen,” he said as he grabbed each of their hands and gave it a hearty shake.  “I’ll be your guide for the rest of your stay.”

            He saw the confused looks on their faces and then looked over at the lodge.

            “Er, you are here to visit the resort, right?”

            Buffy was the first to speak.  Being the Slayer seemed to carry over to other fields as well: the others looked to her for leadership in situations besides vampire hunting.

            “To be honest, uh, Chad, this was not quite what we were expecting.”

            He looked slightly disappointed, as if the fault were his own.

            “It’s just that, well we won these tickets, and I guess we were expecting something a little more . . .”

            “Open,” Xander finished for her.  He continued without pausing.  “This place is deserted.  No skiers, no employees.  The lift isn’t even running.  Are we supposed to ski back up?”  It was clear Xander’s mood from the night before hadn’t completely worn off and Cordelia’s fawning over Chad wasn’t helping matters.  “Let’s just get out of here,” he said, turning to the others.

            “But it is open,” Chad said hastily.  He noticed that Cordelia seemed especially attentive to his words.  “There are other skiers.  In those cabins over there, they just like to sleep in late.”  He pointed as he spoke.  “And the lift works just fine.  I only need to turn it on.  And as for employees,” he continued, “there’s me.  I’m sort of the combination caretaker/ski instructor/equipment manager.”

            He saw that the others were still skeptical.  “Look, I know the place isn’t what it used to be.  We had to close down the lodge because it was too expensive, and we don’t get many vacationers here anymore.  Heck, I’ve been here three years and every spring I expect my paychecks will stop arriving.  But I guess the old man wants to keep this place running, because they keep coming.  I’m sure if you just give it a chance you’ll have a great time!”  He seemed genuinely welcoming and enthusiastic, unlike most everyone they ran into in California.

            Buffy and her friends walked off a little distance and conferred in whispers. 

“Well, I’m not going to spend another twelve hours stuck in that car with you losers.  Besides, Chad’s pretty cute.”  Cordelia flashed a smile in his direction as she spoke.

            “I think it sounds creepy,” whispered Willow.  “And that lady said the place was haunted.  Just cause we’re not in the Hellm—“

            Xander clamped a hand over her mouth and then held up his pinky.  “Remember?  Don’t disrespect the pinky!”

            “Well anyway,” Willow continued after Xander removed his hand, “freaky things can happy anywhere.  What kind of ski resort only has one employee?” 

The thought of driving all the way back to Sunnydale seemed like the waste of a perfectly good weekend to the others—and who knew when they would get another chance?  In the end, Willow was outvoted.  She contemplated putting on her resolve-face but thought better of it—she didn’t want to be the one to ruin the others’ fun.

They followed along slowly in the SUV as Chad led them in the direction of the cabins.  A few minutes later, they stopped outside one of the medium-sized cabins near the ski-lift.  The cabin was of simple construction, but looked sturdy.  Two windows, a door, and a chimney were all the features that could be seen from the outside.  The other cabins looked the same, but one was larger than the others.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” said Chad.  “Take a few minutes to unload and relax.  Come over to that cabin when you’re done,” he pointed to the largest one, “and I’ll get you outfitted with some gear.  Lessons start at nine a.m.  I really am glad you decided to stay!”  He smiled again and waved goodbye before walking away.

The inside of the cabin looked larger than one would expect from the outside, but it was still cozy.  A double bed lay next to each of the side walls, while a fireplace dominated the back wall.  A door led to a small restroom in the rear of the cabin.  Otherwise, the cabin was unadorned.

Cordelia seemed to be regretting her vote to stay, but tried to make the best of it.  “I’ve got this one,” she said, laying her cosmetics case on the larger of the two beds.

“Fine,” said Buffy, knowing there was no point in arguing.  “Willow and I can bunk together.  That means you’ll have to sleep with Xander.”

“I’m not ready for that yet!” Cordelia exclaimed.  “I mean, he’ll have to sleep in your bed.”

“There’s no way we’re fitting three—“

“Ladies, ladies,” interrupted Xander.  “I’ll just sleep . . . here.”  He tossed his suitcase on the floor and sighed.

The lift was already operating by the time they made it outside, and they saw a few middle-aged women chatting away vociferously as they walked towards one of the intermediate slopes.

            The inside of Chad’s cabin presented an odd contrast.  One room looked like a typical bedroom, with a dresser, footlocker, and posters on the wall.  Across a small entryway, the other room looked like a small store.  A counter and cash register were set up, and racks of skis, clothing, and other gear lined the walls. 

Chad stood behind the counter and waved them over when they came in.  He examined their tickets carefully before pronouncing them valid.

“I’m surprised, though,” he said, placing them in the cash register drawer.  “As far as I knew, we stopped all advertising and promotions a few years ago.”

“Why was that?” inquired Willow, sure she was getting to the bottom of something.

“Not sure exactly.  It was after the owner’s daughter died.  He started acting kind of weird after that.  Stopped putting money into the place--didn’t want to close it, but didn’t want to pay much to keep it open either.”

“Which is why you’re the only employee left,” observed Buffy.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Chad said.  “The other employees weren’t forced out or anything.  It’s just that some of the other larger resorts, like Vail or Breckenridge, pay a lot more.  And working at a ski resort is seasonal employment anyway.  I liked it here though, and decided to stay year-round.  As the others left, I just started taking on some of their responsibilities.  And . . . well here I am,” he lifted his palms up and grinned again.  “But enough talk.  Let’s get started with the fun stuff!”

            Willow eyed Chad suspiciously as he helped them pick out the right length of skis and poles.  Xander managed to snatch only snowboard.  He hoped his skill with a skateboard would rub off on it, but even if it didn’t, he knew it would look cooler.

            One of the women they had seen earlier joined them for the morning lessons, which were fun and flew by quickly.  Chad was a skilled skier, but kept the lessons lighthearted by cracking jokes and doing silly stunts.  Most of the time was spent getting everyone strapped correctly to the skis to begin with, and then the balance lessons began.  Falling was the most common result of the lesson, but it always ended with giggling instead of bruises.   Cordelia seemed to topple over, quite coincidentally, every time Chad walked nearby—she noted with pleasure that he caught her every time.  Xander expected the snowboard to be easier, but landed on his duff several times for want of poles to balance himself with.  Buffy learned to balance on the skis quickly, her ice-skating training no doubt coming into play.  Unfortunately, Willow barely managed to stand up and wobble forward.

            Near the end of the morning, Chad took them over to a very gentle slope that flattened out after just a few dozen feet.

            “This is what we refer to as the ‘Bunny Slope’,” he said, pronouncing it carefully as if it were a complex technical term, causing the others to grin slightly.  “This is where you’ll do your first real skiing.  Now remember, keep your knees bent, your balance forward, and your eyes straight ahead.”

            Chad had instructed hundreds of students, but he still had trouble suppressing laughter when he watched newbies try to ski for the first time.  If he had a video camera, he knew, he could make thousands from America's Funniest Home Videos.  Despite his best efforts, the new visitors fell in just about every way imaginable, and some that weren’t.

            Xander had just found himself lying on his back from one such fall when he looked up and saw Cordelia making butterfly eyes at Chad yet again.  It’s not like I’m jealous or anything—I just hate seeing her with other guys.  This thought led Xander to initiate something he had always wanted to take part in but never had the opportunity to do.

            He rolled over into the snow and grabbed a handful, discretely squeezing it with his hands before rising to his knees and aiming carefully.  The snowball hit Cordelia square in the back with a thud, almost making her fall.  She gave a little yelp and with effort managed to turn around.  It took her a moment to realize what had happened, but then she looked around and set her eyes on Willow, who had stopped in front of Xander to help him up.

            “You bitch,” Cordelia said to her, but with a slight grin instead of a scowl.  She quickly rolled up a snowball of her own and bounced it with a lucky shot off of Willow’s shoulder.  Willow looked shocked at this uncalled for violence, but responded in kind—only she overshot, and Chad took a solid hit right in the ear.  Everything went downhill from there, and even the women they saw earlier joined in.  For Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Cordelia, who had lived in California their whole lives, this was their first snowball fight—and it represented to them what life outside of Sunnydale could be like.   

When they were all exhausted and anxious to get someplace warm, Chad squeezed into the backseat of the SUV and directed them to a small town about ten miles away on the other slope of the mountain.  They feasted on pancakes at a local diner, swapping stories and generally having a good time.  Chad had just finished a rather ribald tale about what happened when one of the guests a few years back decided to try skiing naked when Willow asked him about the resort being haunted.  Buffy was disappointed by the question.  For a few hours, she had succeeded in  forgetting all about Sunnydale and the Hellmouth—and now she was thinking about it again.

            “Guests do ask about it sometimes,” Chad responded.  “But I really have no earthly idea where the rumors originate from.  I’ve never seen anything, and I’m always at the resort.  Not that I mind much—every tourist attraction in the country is happy to be ‘haunted’—draws in thrill-seekers if nothing else.”

            Although she was warming up to Chad, Willow was still skeptical.  “How was it the owner’s daughter died?” she asked.

            Chad’s smile quickly dropped, and he looked uncomfortable.  “A skiing accident,” he finally said.  “I swear it doesn’t happen often.  But . . . well, Sonny Bono’s not the only one to smack himself into a tree at high speed.”

            The conversation lulled after that.  Maybe I came on to strong with the Agent Scully routine, Willow reflected.  After lunch, they dropped Chad off at his cabin and pulled up in front of their own.  The unanimous agreement was that a nap was in order—after last night’s drive and this morning’s excitement, they were all rather tired.  Before they got inside, however, Xander noticed a visitor he hadn’t seen before.  She was just beginning down one of the slopes about a hundred yards away, but even from a distance she was simply gorgeous.  She had long, blonde hair, and a cute, pert figure,.

            Xander quickly grabbed his snowboard out of the SUV’s trunk where he had stowed it earlier.  “Guys,” he said distractedly, “I’m not really all that tired anymore.  Think I’ll go for a run.”

            He heard Buffy say “Where are you going?” but didn’t respond as he ran over in the girl’s direction.  He reached the slope quickly but lost sight of her.  Knowing that she must have started down it already, he decided to follow after her and quickly strapped on the snowboard.  It wasn’t until he was a few dozen feet down the slope and picking up speed quickly that he realized what he had done.  The slope was steep and he had no idea how to stop himself without tumbling over into the snow.  He continued to pick up speed and soon objects in his peripheral vision were a blur as he concentrated on staying upright and hoped that the slope would level out soon.

            He had just started to praise himself for coolness under fire when he realized he was headed straight for a cluster of thick pine trees.  He began to panic then, pinwheeling his arms all about to maintain his balance as he leaned desperately in every direction to get the board to turn.  Something came out from nowhere and tackled him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him.  He hit the ground hard, and even with the snow to soften the fall, he was dazed.  He felt something covering him, then the weight was removed and something was tugging on his hand.

            “Come on, get up.  I know you’re not hurt,” he heard a voice say.

            His eyes focused with difficulty and he saw that the girl he had chased after was standing over him, trying to pull him to his feet.  She was wearing a yellow snowsuit, but it could have been a yellow bikini as well as it showed off her body’s features.  Her face was round and pretty, with cheeks red from exertion.  He knew she must be about his age, maybe a little younger.

            It was hard to stand while still strapped to the snowboard, but she pulled hard and Xander  managed to regain his feet.  He put a hand to the back of his head and looked around, still disoriented.

            “Let me guess.  You’ve never ridden a board before, have you?” she said dryly but with a hint of teasing behind it.  She was balanced carefully on a snowboard of her own.

            Xander tried to think up either a good fib or a witty retort, but for once he was struck dumb.  He just stood there with his mouth open, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything.

            The girl giggled.  “A man of few words.  I can admire that.  Suicidal, too, apparently,” she said with a sparkle in her eye and pointed towards the trees.  “This part of the resort is off-limits.  You know what’s on the other side of those trees?”

            Xander shook his head, mentally urging his brain to get it in gear.

            “Nothing.”

            “What?” he said, proud of himself for finally saying something.

            “Those trees overlook a cliff.  If you were lucky enough to miss them, you would have sailed off almost four hundred feet.  For one brief, shining moment, you would have been just like those guys who jump from the airplane on snowboards in the Mountain Dew commercials.  Then you would have gone ‘splat.’”

            Xander sat down and unstrapped the snowboard, heeding the call of the all-too-vivid image of himself smashing into rocks.  She led him back up the slope.

            “So.  Uh, what’s your name?” he said and and then bit his tongue.  Clever.  Next I’ll ask her what her sign is and then go straight for the phone number.

            “Amara.  And you must be Xander.”

            “How did you know that?”

            She shrugged and said teasingly “My agents are everywhere.”

            They had a long walk back to the main area of the resort, but the time passed quickly.  Xander found it easy to talk to her once he got started, though he had difficulty not mentioning anything about all of his adventures with Buffy—everything that had happened to him in the past  year paled in comparison to them.  Amara chatted easily as well—she could transition from explaining why Ginger made a mistake in leaving the Spice Girls to why the United States should have intervened in Rwanda—and she made it look easy.  Xander had difficulty following everything she said, but what he could follow, he liked.

            When they reached the resort, instead of leading him back to the cabins, she led him over to one of the beginners’ slopes and told him to get back on his board.  He was afraid she was going to ditch him there since he wasn’t up to her level, but she stayed and helped him glide down several times.  She was as good an instructor as Chad, and Xander definitely found her much more attractive.  He felt he was really starting to get the hang of it.  When it started to get dark, she took him back to her cabin for dinner and more conversation.

 

 

            “So?” Willow said.

            “So?” Buffy responded.

            “Come on, you gotta tell me.  It’s like the Young and the Restless, only better and not as hokey.”  The pair were wandering around outside.  Willow was wearing the over-sized winter jacket she had worn to portray an Inuit at the International Culture Festival a few weeks before—it was the best piece of winter clothing she had.  They had just eaten but were too sore to do any more skiing for the day.  With Cordelia spending all her time around Chad, and Xander off doing whatever, they were alone for the first time in quite a while.

            “It . . . it’s going perfectly,” Buffy confided, smiling widely.  “He is such a gentleman too.  And such a good kisser.  I think for my birthday I just want Angel tied up in a bow.”  They both giggled.  “And what about you, Will?  Any developments on the Oz-track?”

            Willow blushed just a little.  “No.  Well kind of.  I mean we’ve been talking a lot.”

            “That’s definite progress,” Buffy said confidently.

            They walked a bit further, both lost in thought.

            “Buffy?” Willow said finally.

            “Huh?”

            “Do you think Xander knows I like him and is consciously rejecting me, or doesn’t know I like him and is subconsciously rejecting me?”

            Buffy felt sorry for her.  “Willow . . . everyone in Sunnydale and a two-hundred mile radius can tell you like Xander.  He would have to be completely oblivious not to notice.  But . . . I don’t think he notices.”

            “I think he’s too focused on you,” Willow teased, even though it hurt her to say it because they both knew it was true.

            “Well, he does have great taste,” Buffy said, trying to lighten the mood.  “But come on Will, you know I haven’t done anything to lead him on.”

            “I know.  You know what, on the last night of summer before school started, he was almost about to kiss me.  Maybe.  I think,” Willow said, remembering a smudge of vanilla ice cream on her nose.

            “Well what happened?” Buffy said.

            “Vampires.  And you showed up to save the day.”  Willow felt bad—she didn’t mean it to sound like that.

            “He’ll come around,” Buffy replied.  “And if he doesn’t—well, it’s his loss.”

 

 

            Xander didn’t return to his own cabin until well after sunset.  He wasn’t quite sure why, but he knew he was infatuated with this girl.  She was cute, funny, smart—everything he had been looking for.  Maybe, he reflected, his luck was beginning to change now that he was finally out of Sunnydale and the Hellmouth’s vibes.  Maybe he had finally broken the “I-always-end-up-dating-psycho-women” curse.  Or maybe not, he said to himself as opened the door.  Maybe she’s actually an intelligent orangutan disguised as a woman, or a demon from another dimension, or a “What the—“

            He stepped back slightly, not sure what he was seeing.  Buffy, Cordelia, and Willow were each dressed in their pajamas, propped up on pillows.  They were singing some silly song he didn’t recognize, and Buffy was painting Willow’s toenails while Cordelia was braiding Buffy’s hair.  The smell of somewhat-burnt popcorn filled the air intermingled with the distinctive odor of roasted marshmallows.

            “Hi Xander,” said Willow sweetly.  “We wondered where you were.”

            “Just, uh, out,” he said.  He had expected that they would be more curious about Amara, since they he had spent most of the day with the girl.  He had even expected that Cordelia would shoot him some dirty looks or be weird about it.  But the three acted completely nonchalant and didn’t say anything about it.

            “So,” he said.  “Can I just ask—what the heck is going on here?”

            “Slumber party,” Buffy said looking up.  “It’s way too cold to do anything outside, and there’s nothing to do inside.  So, slumber party.  It’s been years since any of us have had one.  It was Willow’s idea, but Cordelia found the popcorn and marshmallows.”

            “But you can join in too Xander,” said Willow, following up.  “We even saved some for you.”  She held up a small bottle of blue nail polish.

            “I . . . don’t think so,” Xander said, remembering the night that several frat boys had forced him to dress up in womens’ clothes.

            “C’mon Xander, haven’t you ever wanted to be in on some girl talk?” said Buffy.

            “Well . . .”   It was either join in or sit in the corner and watch.  “I guess,” he said walking over.  “But only if I get the red polish.  Blue is just so effeminate,” he stated as laughter rippled  throughout the small cabin.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN:  THE PRESENT

 

            Buffy let it ring for must have been the hundredth time before switching the hand-held phone to off and dropping it on the couch next to her.  She shook her head, thinking the worst.  She’s spent 24/7 in that tiny dorm room and now that we’re worried—she’s gone.  Great timing, Will.  Buffy stood up, a determined look on her face.  She walked over to the phone book and began flipping through it vigorously.

            “Who are you calling?” Dawn said anxiously.

            “What’s the name of that guy, the leader?  Wittgenst-“

            “Wittingstone.  Mr. Wittingstone.”

            She flipped a few more pages and then ran her finger down the page.  She closed it angrily and began pulling her shoes on.

            “You know where he is?” Dawn asked.

            “No, he’s not listed.  Not surprising though.  Evil cult leaders never seem to be around when you need them.”  She grabbed her duffel bag full of Slayer’s gear.  Just in case.

            “Where are you going then?”

            “Weatherly Park.  Some of your First Principles ex-buddies might still be there and maybe they know where he is.”

            “Good.  Sounds like a plan,” Dawn said, standing up and grabbing her jean jacket.  Her face was dry and determined.

            “Whoa,” Buffy exclaimed.  “I didn’t say anything about us going.  This is Slayer territory now.  It may be dangerous.  You’ll stay here.”  How many times have I said that in my life?

            “Remember Buffy?  About how you weren’t going to protect me anymore, how you were going to ‘show me the world?’”  Dawn was getting upset again.  “Well you can start by showing me Weatherly Park at night.  Besides.  I got this thing started . . . and I want to see it through.  After all, it’s just a geezer in a suit—not Dracula.”

            And in the stories, Dracula only looked like a geezer in a suit until the fangs came out.  The real thing was even worse.  Still, Buffy knew Dawn well enough to be certain that she would either have to let her come along or tie her up securely to keep her from sneaking out of the house.  And me without my manacles, she thought bitterly.

            “Fine.  You come.  But you follow my lead, got it?”

            “Got it.”

 

 

            Weatherly Park was an easy place to get lost in at night, dark and full of winding trails.  Buffy wasn’t worried, however.  She had been patrolling the place for years and could draw a decent map of the place with her eyes closed.  She and Dawn walked quickly, criss-crossing the park.  They were disappointed to find no First Principles members and no Mr. Wittingstone, either.

            “It’s a bust, Buffy.  They’ve all gone home.  I know there’s supposed to be a big meeting tomorrow though.”

            Buffy held up her hand for Dawn to be quiet and continued listening.  Something wasn’t right—they weren’t alone.  Her left hand slipped expertly into one of many places she secreted stakes on her body.  She gripped the comforting weapon and focused her senses.  All of a sudden, with a deft spin and a quick flip of her wrist, the stake was flying through the air, only to embed itself a moment later in the chest of an oncoming vampire.  The vampire disintegrated into dust spectacularly, a phenomenon Buffy could never tire of watching.

            She jogged over to where it had been destroyed and looked around.  “One vampire,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air.  “One vampire?  They have got to be kidding me.  That’s so T-ball and I’m in the majors now.”

            A muffled scream spun her around to see three other vampires had surrounded Dawn and were dragging her off towards a large copse of trees.  Damn.  They always do that and I always fall for it.  Hold on, sis!  With a short kick into the dirt, she launched the fallen stake into the air and caught it as it spun, and then ran after Dawn and the other vampires.

            Before she even reached the trees, however, one of the vampires came flying out, its limbs spinning wildly in the air, and landed hard on the grass.  It was soon followed by another one that had a cracked skull, and a third that screamed before disintegrating into dust in mid-air, a branch lodged in its chest.  Buffy quickly staked the two who were lying motionless on the ground.  “Dawn!” she called as she ran forward again.

            “Over here!”

            Buffy followed the shout to a small clearing where she saw her sister standing with her arms crossed.  She was facing someone Buffy hadn’t expected to see.

            “Spike,” Buffy said, readying the stake.

            Dawn put a hand on her arm, but continued glaring at him.  I know what you tried to do, was all she could think.

            “What are you doing here, Spike?” Buffy asked indignantly.

            Spike shrugged nonchalantly.  “A little of this, a little of that.  Saving Little Red here from the Big Bad Wolves.”

            Buffy looked over at Dawn.  She nodded.

“So you’ve been following us?” Buffy asked.

He snorted.  “Following you?  Hardly.  But I heard what these fellows were planning and happened to be in the neighborhood.”  More like I talked some new arrivals into a little job, but close enough.

“I don’t buy it, Spike.”

“And I don’t care.”  He bent down and picked up a briefcase that had been sitting next to him.  He threw it through the air, and it opened upon landing, causing several bundles of cash to spill onto the ground next to Buffy and Dawn.  “It’s so you don’t have to wear that bloody ridiculous uniform anymore,” he explained.

Buffy didn’t move towards it.  “I don’t want your money, Spike.  I can’t be bought.  And I don’t want you stalking us.  So as you Brits are so fond of saying, sod off!”  She took Dawn by the hand and led her out of the trees and back into the park.

“Better get ready, Slayer!” he called after them.  “Big things are happening!”  He chuckled to himself and then walked away with a bemused smile on his face, leaving almost two-hundred thousand dollars in unmarked bills sitting on the ground.

 

 

Xander parked his car in front of the Magic Box, a worried look on his face.  Willow hadn’t been in her room at the college, she wasn’t at her parents’ house, and she wasn’t even at the Bronze—not that he had expected her to be there, but he had checked it out just in case.  As he unlocked the front door, he invented several new methods of torture he would gleefully try out if he found out those little thugs had hurt her.

He saw a flash of hair disappearing behind the front counter and hurried over, relief swelling in his heart.  “Will?” he cried out. 

Xander almost tripped over Anya, who was ducking behind the counter, hoping he hadn’t seen her.

“Anya!”

“Xander!”

“What are you doing down there?”

“Would you believe, tying my shoe?”

Xander shook his head.  “No, but that doesn’t matter now.  Have you seen Willow?”

“Not since the funeral.”

“She’s in danger—I need to find her fast.  Can you do something, like magic or—“

            “Well, a simple locator spell should work but—“

            “Do it!”

            Anya’s eyes narrowed and she set her jaw.  “But perhaps if she’s hiding from you Xander she doesn’t want to see you.  That happens you know.”

            “She’s not hiding—she’s just consciously avoiding every place I would normally look for her.  Now are you going to help me or not?”

She considered for a moment and then silently assembled the components for the spell.   They were basic items, but it took her several minutes of sorting through the store’s debris to find them.  She recited a short incantation and then threw a large ball of twine and a small red button into the air.  The items floated there for a moment, and then the ball of twine unwound  into a pattern, criss-crossing back and forth over the lines it created.  Within moments Xander and Anya were looking at a rough street map of Sunnydale.  With a final incantation, the button glided over to a point on the map and hovered there.

“Okay, I know where that is.  There’s a bunch of condos in that area, near where Giles used to live.”

“I hope she’s okay,” Anya offered with a slight shrug as she dissipated the casting and let the twine and button fall to the floor.

“Thanks,” Xander muttered as he turned and headed for the door.  “Say hi to Spike for me.”

Anya was not amused.

 

 

Tintsman rested his elbows on the bar and ordered another drink—his third.  He had been sitting in this seedy, windowless dive in Sunnydale’s warehouse district for almost an hour now, scoping the place out, listening in on his fellow patrons’ conversations, and occasionally asking a judicious question or two of certain individuals.  He had come dressed to fit in—long, greasy hair, grungy jeans, leather jacket—but he could tell the others knew he didn’t belong from the way they kept muttering and glancing over at him from the corners of their eyes.  He wasn’t nervous, however, although he kept a foot squarely on the duffel bag that sat on the floor next to him.  He considered himself a professional now, and being a professional meant having a plan for every contingency.

“I think maybe you’ve had enough,”      intoned a voice from behind as Tintsman grasped the glass mug. 

He calmly laid a couple of dollars on the bar for the drink before turning to see that three men, dressed much like he was, had stood up and were staring at him with menacing looks.  He casually pressed a button on a beeper strapped to his belt.  “Enough?” Tintsman asked rhetorically, looking down at the foaming mug of beer.  He walked over to the man who had spoken, a veritable giant at almost seven feet tall.  “Yes,” Tintsman said flatly.  “I have had enough.” 

Before the other man could react, Tintsman slammed the mug into the aggressor’s face, sending drops of beer and shards of broken glass everywhere.  The man staggered back in pain as Tintsman turned, grabbed his duffel bag, and jumped over the counter, knocking over several bottles of cheap liquor in the process.

 The customers looked at each other, not knowing quite what to think.  Almost in unison, however, they stood up, each hoping he would be the first to show this outsider whose bar it really was.  Their press towards the counter stopped suddenly when both the front door and the rear exit burst open in a spray of broken wood to reveal figures in green armor holding projectile weapons.  Instantly, the armored figures opened fire, spraying a thick stream of liquid followed by a hail of wooden bullets.  The customers, caught in the crossfire, screamed in agony from the holy water, only to burst into flame and ashes from the wooden bullets a second later.

Three of the customers, more quick-witted than the rest, avoided the deadly hail by leaping behind the counter.  Unfortunately for them, they found Tintsman waiting, duffel bag open and weapons at the ready.  None of the three would ever drink—or do anything else—again.

The largest of the vampires—the one Tintsman had shattered his beer on—grabbed hold of one of his drinking-buddies by the back of the shirt and sent him flying into the air to smash into Joshua, the armored figure guarding the front door.  He then rushed the door, shrugging off an incredible amount of holy water fired at him from Otis on the opposite side, stepped over his now-prone attacker, and breathed in the cool night air.

An armored figure, much shorter and slimmer than the others, stepped out of the shadows in front of him.  She drew a long, slim blade that glimmered slightly in the moonlight.  The sound of gunfire echoed from the bar onto the deserted street where the two combatants circled.  The vampire suddenly rushed in and swatted his attacker away with a backhand.  She crashed against a wall and was slow getting to her feet. 

The giant vampire knew he should probably run for it, but he was greedy—a solid kill would help make up for losing his favorite drinking spot.  He spied a length of chain rusting away in a nearby gutter and grabbed it.  He swung it over his head a few times, and then with a chuckle swung it at his attacker’s legs.

She watched him and was ready for it.  With careful timing she leapt into the air, towards him, as high and far as she could.  When she had reached the highest point of her jump, the blade lashed out and connected.  She crashed into the vampire’s body, but its head was no longer attached.  Before it even hit the ground, the body disintegrated into dust.  She tucked her body in and landed in a sommersault.  Rita pulled off her helmet as Joshua came trotting outside.

“Are you nuts?” he asked, having seen the tail-end of the battle.  “A guy that big--why didn’t you use the guns?”

“He was the one,” she replied simply.

“You mean . . .?”

“Yes.  I have no idea why he was here.  But now it’s done.”

Back inside the bar, Tintsman surveyed the scene.  He was pleased—not a single vampire had escaped.  He stepped through thick piles of dust, ash, and broken glass over to where Otis was standing.  On the ground in front of him, two men were moaning—their legs and lower abdomens were bleeding profusely from the dozens of puncture wounds the wooden bullets had caused.

“I checked with the holy water.  These guys aren’t vampires,” Otis observed.

“Obviously,” Tintsman replied.  “Finish them off.”

“Michael?  Are you sure?  I mean—“

“Vampires or those that help them.  That’s what you swore to me.”

“I know, but--”

“Do it!”

Tintsman turned towards the door to see Rita and Joshua enter as a short burst of automatic fire followed by screams told him that Otis had followed orders.

“Did you find out what you were hoping to?” Joshua asked.

“Yes,” Tintsman replied.  “Much as I expected.  Angel’s gone—some say Los Angeles, some say San Diego.  The librarian—Giles—either died in the explosion of the high school a few years back or is in England.”

“So Los Angeles then?”

“Not yet.  Like I said, we won’t leave until Sunnydale is clean.  This is a good start, though.  They’ll know we’ve arrived now.”

Fueled by spilled liquor and strategically-placed pools of gasoline, flames quickly enveloped the bar as the four figures walked away into the night.

 

 

Xander was agitated when he left the Magic Box and got back into his car.  That was a stupid thing to say—and mean—but she deserves it.  Though maybe I deserved what she did.  Never mind now.  It’s done.  I won’t think about her anymore.  Still, no matter how many times he promised himself, the image of Anya and Spike rolling around on a bed was one he couldn’t get out of his head—and it was one that enflamed him with jealousy.  Let’s see.  Angel-Buffy.  Spike-Buffy.  Angel-Cordelia.  Spike-Harmony.  Spike-Anya.  Dead guys really do get all the action.

He was knocked out of his reverie and literally jumped in his seat when he went to adjust the rear-view mirror and saw a woman in it, staring at him.  Eyes wide open, he swung his head around to verify that she was really there, and then quickly got out and yanked the backseat door open.

“Okay, who are you and what the hell are you doing in my car?”

“You don’t remember, do you Xander?” the woman asked, stepping onto the pavement.  She was short, slim, and had shoulder-length blonde-hair.  Combined with her jeans and white blouse, she looked no different than half of the girls in California.

Xander shook his head but kept looking at her.  Maybe there was something . . . familiar about her.

“Amara.”

Xander’s eyes flew open even wider than before.  The girl from the ski lodge.  God that was a long time ago—but I thought she was a . . .  He stepped back, covered his eyes with his hands, and then looked again.  She was still standing there, so he walked up to her and jabbed a finger into her shoulder.

“What was that for?” she asked, slightly offended.

“Listen, this is going to sound stupid, but I really have to be going so I’ll say it and swallow the humiliation later.  I always thought you were a ghost.  Okay?  Gotta go now, bye!”

“A ghost?  That’s rich.  You mean like Casper the Friendly?”  She gave a disbelieving laugh but stopped when she saw Xander had gotten back in the car.  “Wait!” she said.  “I’ve been trying to track you down for days now.  There’s something you have to understand—you’re in danger!”

“Great.  As if you hadn’t noticed, this is Sunnydale—the Hellmouth.   I am always in danger.  Right now my best friend is in danger.  So I’m glad you’re really alive—if you are—and everything, but I have to go.”

“But—“

Her words were cut off when Xander slammed the car door and pulled away, leaving Amara to bite her lip in frustration.

Xander raced through the streets of Sunnydale, now more confused than ever.  More than once he ran a red light, but he hardly noticed.  Eventually he reached the area Anya had indicated on the map.  He slowed the car down now, circling the blocks and keeping a close eye on the sidewalks to either side.  He circled several times with increasing frustration and no sign of Willow until on one of the side streets he noticed the front door of a condo open and a figure step out.

He slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt.  He jumped out and ran up to her.  “Willow!  Listen, are you okay?  I don’t want to freak you out, but Dawn said there’s some punks after you and—“

“It’s okay, Xander,” she replied calmly.  “I just had a talk with Mr. Wittingstone about First Principles.  He helped me to understand.  I’m part of a community now, and a community sticks up for its own.”

Xander’s mouth dropped open in shock.
           

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            “You had best come up with a right good reason why I shouldn’t have you killed now,” Spike growled.  He pushed the wheelchair closer to the intruder.  “You see, we expected your arrival after what happened to poor dear Cleo over there.”  Spike nodded at the female vampire, who was nursing her arm.

His band of vampire underlings tensed in anticipation of a kill as they slowly encircled the man in the now-dirty trench coat.  They were still wary after hearing Cleo’s story of what happened to Tomas and Albert, but knew that with their numbers, nothing, not even a Slayer, could hope to stand against them for long.

            “I knew you would be here,” said the human, with a glance at Cleo, “and I have a proposition to make.”  He looked around and realized that his plan had better work, or he really would end up dead.  Like Maggie and Katie, he thought grimly.  It was Saturday night, and he had followed one of the vampires into the tunnels, one of which emerged right into this “Spike’s” lair—an abandoned factory.  It had grown progressively darker as he had delved into the catacombs, and now he doubted he could find his way out unaided.

            “I know you hate Angel as much as I do,” Tintsman continued.  “If you tell me where to find him, I will . . . end him.”

            “Kill Angel?” Spike exclaimed, as if the human in front of him had made a great joke.  “What a lovely thought.  Unfortunately, better than you have tried.  I should know—I’m one of them.”  He looked down at his own crippled legs, injured in the collapse of the church when he had kidnapped Angel to revive his beloved Drusilla.   His eyes rose and he carefully looked  over the man standing in front of him.  Spike was surprised to see that he didn’t show fear—or really much of any emotion at all.  Spike knew that the man carried a surprising array of weaponry and was as physically strong as any vampire, but beyond that he was a mystery.  Still, he reflected, if this fellow wants to kill Angel, who am I to stand in the way?  Angel and his precious Slayer had been a thorn in Spike’s backside ever since coming to Sunnydale.

            “What makes you think you can?” Spike said finally.

            “I wounded him at his resting place.  He ran from me there.”

            “Well,” Spike said, impressed.  “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

            Later, after the man had been escorted out of the factory, Spike wheeled himself into Dru’s bedroom. The bed was scarlet and canopied, while along the walls were hundreds of dolls, each with a black gag tied around its mouth.  His lover sat at the edge of the bed, carefully drawing an ivory-handled comb through her long, dark hair with one hand while gazing intently at the small hand-mirror she held in her other hand. Dru got up as he entered and gave him a deep kiss—she was almost completely cured from the mystical disease she had been afflicted with.

            “Please tell me it’s not true lovey,” she said.  “Please don’t tell me he’s going to kill Angel.  I was so hoping we would get to.”  She pouted and spoke in an odd, lilting, almost childlike manner while fluttering her eyelashes.

            “Don’t worry, my little bird,” Spike replied, stroking her arm  “It will never happen.  But until I’m better, anything that will keep Angel occupied can’t be all bad, now can it?  And pet,” he said, gently taking the mirror from her hand, “your hair looks lovely—but I’ve told you about the mirror—you can’t see anything in them, remember?”

            “Silly silly silly,” Dru recited, swaying back and forth to nonexistent music.  “Of course I can’t see what’s in the mirror.  But what’s in the mirror can see me—and I want everything to be just perfect.”  She sat back on the bed and continued brushing her hair.

            “Right,” Spike said hesitantly.

            When he left her bedroom, he beckoned several of his followers forward.

            “Follow him,” he instructed.  “Discretely, mind you.  Help him finish off Angel if he finds him, and then finish him.  If he doesn’t find Angel, finish him off anyway.  Either way, I don’t want him alive come sunrise.”

 

 

            Hot tea sloshed out of the cup and onto the counter as Giles was startled by the tapping on his kitchen window.  He looked up and saw Angel wearing a serious expression on the other side.  Giles had not expected company, but in any event he assumed company would use the front door should they arrive.  He leaned over and unlatched the window and pulled it up.

            “Can I come in?” said Angel.

            “Ah, sure.  Of course,” said Giles, hesitating slightly.  Once invited in, Angel could enter his home at any time.  But Giles knew that if Angel had wanted to kill him, the vampire would have had hundreds of opportunities in the past several months.  “I was just brewing a pot of tea.  Would you care for some?” he asked as Angel climbed smoothly through the window.

            “No thank you.  I thought I had better try coming through here instead of the door,” he explained.  “I think I’m being followed.”

            “Come and let’s sit down,” said Giles, moving into the living room and pulling small piles of books with titles like Death Rituals of the Ancient Orient and Ten Simple Mistakes Every Summoner Makes off of the chairs and onto the floor.  Small stacks of note cards and various file folders covered a table in the room.  Saturday night was one of Giles’ favorites.  Not because he enjoyed parties or barhopping like the younger inhabitants of Sunnydale, but because it allowed him an entire uninterrupted day to spend on his studies.

            Angel quickly recounted what he had found in the cemetery and the subsequent attack at his apartment.  “I’m not sure what to think,” he concluded.  “My attacker was something like a hi-tech Slayer—but even stronger than Buffy or me.  What I don’t understand is that it seemed to have some kind of personal grudge against me.  He was human, though.  I could tell from his scent.”

            “And you’re sure you’ve never heard of this ‘Maggie and Katie’?  Something dating from the time before your, ah, change, perhaps?”

            “I . . . I don’t think so,” Angel’s faced looked pained as he tried to recall.  “No, it couldn’t be.  This man was only in his forties or fifties, and it’s been almost a century since I . . . changed.”

            “Well, the weaponry and the outfit you describe are clearly his most distinctive characteristics.  I’ll do some research and see what I can uncover—only this is more in Willow’s field than my own.  Still, she showed me a few things on how to use the ah . . .” he fumbled for the word.

            “Internet?”

            “Precisely.  I’ll head to the library and see if I can find anything.”

            “There is something else,” warned Angel.  “I’ve heard rumors that there’s a new presence in town—the vampiric kind.  I’ll check into it and meet you back at the library.”

            “Right.  Be careful then.  If something happens, Buffy will not be there to save you.”

            “Yes.  But at least she’s somewhere safe.”

 

 

            Angel made his way cautiously along the wide streets of the warehouse district, where Willie the Snitch had told him the newcomers could be found.  Unlike most places in Sunnydale on a Saturday night, the warehouse district was largely deserted.  A thick San Francisco-like fog had rolled in, making it difficult to see very far in the distance.  Occasionally a street light illuminated a small puddle of the darkness, but with so many large buildings any light was quickly obscured.  Unlike light, however, sound carried easily and Angel quickly discerned voices nearby.

“He’ll be either at the house or at the school,” one of the voices said.

            “How do we know?” another answered.

            “Because he’s never anywhere else.  At least that’s what the file says.  Even on a Saturday night.”

Angel edged along a building wall in a crouch and peeked around the corner.  On the opposite side of the street was a long, low warehouse with its main loading doors pulled open.  A black sedan sat in front of it, and a man in a business suit was conversing with a handful of other fellows in jumpsuits.  Angel could tell that some of them, at least, were vampires just from the smell and the way they carried themselves.  Giles will be at the school, he realized.  If they’re going there for some reason, he may be in danger.

“What do we have here?  A lurker, it looks like,” said a voice directly behind Angel. 

He spun and saw two figures in blue jumpsuits standing just a few feet away.  He silently cursed himself for being careless just as their faces contorted.  His did the same, causing them to hesitate—but not for long.  Angel’s opponents looked at each other and then simultaneously leapt for him with claws and fangs extended.

He ducked out of the way just in time, causing one of the vampires to smash into the wall with a loud thud.  Angel stayed in a crouch as his leg lashed out, striking the other vampire in the back of the knees and sweeping it off of its feet.  Angel stood up and spun around to meet the charge of the other vampire, who had already recovered.  He managed to catch the vampire's wrists but the sheer force of the charge knocked them both to the ground.  Angel landed on his back, still holding his attacker’s wrists, but that left his neck vulnerable to the vampire’s fangs—the pain was immense as the vampire tore a large chunk of flesh out of Angel’s neck.  It wouldn’t kill him of course—few things could kill a vampire—but it still hurt like hell!

Just as the vampire was going in for another bite, Angel swung his head around hard and hit the vampire right in the nose with his forehead, stunning him.  Angel took advantage of the opportunity to roll the vampire over, so he was now on top. 

The forearm suddenly around his neck told him that the vampire he had swept off its feet earlier was back in the game.  Angel knew he had to end this quickly before he was simply worn out.  Still straddling one of the vampires, he grabbed the other’s arm and tugged forward, flipping the vampire over his shoulder.  It landed hard on the concrete. 

The other vampire, still bleeding from the nose and dazed, was helpless as Angel formed his fingers into a point and plunged it into its chest and grabbed its heart.  He pulled it out, disgusted by what he had been forced to do, as both the heart and the vampire turned to ash.

All of this had transpired in just a few seconds, but it was enough time for the vampires and man he had watched earlier to be alerted.  He saw the vampires heading in his direction, and decided that fighting four or five at the same time would not be a good idea.

When the other vampires reached the scene, they found only one of their companions and a pile of ash.  Their mysterious attacker was nowhere to be found.  Had they but looked up, they would have seen him about fifteen feet above the street, pressed against the wall and hanging onto a window ledge.

When they had returned safely to the warehouse, Wittingstone listened with displeasure as one of the vampires explained how he had been attacked by another vampire.  Wittingstone sighed and shook his head.  It was bound to happen sooner or later, he thought to himself.  We’ll simply have to engage in some early practice runs.  Hopefully, there will be still some targets left when the Brass arrive for the field demonstration next week.  Wittingstone walked over to one of the crates and lifted its lid.  He began handing out small rifles with drum magazines, pistols with small hose attachments, and silver, layered suits of body armor.

“You’ve all been trained in these,” he said as the vampires began donned the equipment.  “The rifles fire wooden ‘bullets,’” he continued.  “Holy water,” he said, holding up the small pistol and hose.  “Watch out for overspray.  And of course, the exoskeletons will increase your strength even beyond its current level.”

“Now I want these back in mint condition,” he said sternly.  “Mr. Castillo will be displeased to find we’ve damaged his prototypes before the actual demonstration.”

 

 

            Joyce pressed the doorbell one last time, before turning away disappointed.  She held a small tin of homemade brownies in her hands, and had hoped to interest Mr. Giles in a quick snack and some conversation.  She was surprised he wasn’t home—according to Buffy, he was something of a homebody.  It’s not that I’m attracted to him, she reflected, he’s far too bookish for that.  But ever since Ted I’ve been spending far too many Saturday nights home alone.  And it must be lonely to move from a whole different country to someplace like Sunnydale where you don’t know anybody.

            She decided to try again tomorrow night and started walking down the path back to the street.  She hoped he might tell her more about how Buffy had been doing in school.  The girl was always reticent to talk about it.  Still, Joyce was pleased that the girl had found something of a mentor in the librarian—any friends had to be better than those troublemakers she had been involved with at her last school, and having an ally on the faculty might help her stay in school longer if the Board of Education ever decided to expel her again.

            Just as she reached the sidewalk, a black sedan pulled up and parked in front of the house.  Joyce could see that a man in a dark suit was behind the wheel.  He quickly opened the door and walked around the front of the car to stand a few feet in front of her.

            “Good evening, ma’am,” he said.  Joyce was past the point where it stung to be called “ma’m” as if she were middle-aged, but had not yet reached the point where she expected it as a sign of respect.

            “Hello,” she nodded, and pointed back towards the house.  “If you’re here to see Mr. Giles, I fear we’ve both missed him.”  She was curious what sort of involvement Mr. Giles would have with someone like this on a Saturday night.

            “Well that is disappointing,” Wittingstone said politely.  “But I can always call again.  I have very important business with him.  Pleasant evening, then,” he finished, walking back to the car.

            “The library,” he said to himself as soon as the door was shut.  The sedan started up and  rolled down the street.

            Joyce headed home for another evening with the television as company.  But at least I have fresh brownies to console myself with, she thought.

 

 

            Giles tapped the “Delete” button with frustration.  He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but slowly his screened had become filled with various windows advertising everything from home mortgage assistance and instant college degrees, to pictures that made him blush.  The worst part was that he had no idea how to make them go away and return to his search screen.  Infernal thing, he thought to himself.  No one ever has to wonder how to close a book if its rubbish.

            He pushed the keyboard away in frustration and walked over to the phone on the counter.  He tried calling Jenny Calendar, but only got an answering machine.  Pulling a small slip of paper out of his pocket, he dialed a different number.  He hated to bother Willow on her and Buffy’s vacation, but if anyone could make sense of these dreadful computer problems, she could.  The phone just started to ring when Giles heard the library doors open.  He covered the speaker with one hand and turned towards them to say “I’ll be with you in just a moment, Angel” when he realized he wasn’t looking at Angel.  Vampires, yes.  Angel, no.  Spike’s bunch, Giles realized, as the two advanced towards him.

            “Arctic Ridge.  This is Chad,” said a groggy voice from the receiver.  Giles dropped the phone and backed up around the counter, placing it between him and the vampires.  He knew that his friends were too far away to help him with this problem.

            The vampires advanced slowly, and then leaped right on top of the counter.  They had grown bored of following the other human around and decided to stop for a quick snack when they saw the library light on.  Besides, this one looked like much easier prey than the other.

            Giles continued to back away and then turned and sprinted for the doorway to a small room behind the counter.  I wish I had participated in Buffy’s calisthenics instead of simply supervising them, he thought to himself, panting.  He reached the doorway and shut it behind him, locking it just as his attackers reached the door.  He knew it wouldn’t hold them for long.  He ran to the shelves and began fumbling through the boxes.  I know it has to be here somewhere.

            A hand punched through the door, right above the handle and then fumbled to release the lock.  It turned with a click and Giles turned around, his back against the wall.  He aimed carefully and the crossbow bolt embedded itself in the vampire’s heart, causing the creature to disintegrate.  Giles fumbled with another bolt, realizing he would never have it loaded in time.  The vampire’s companion advanced with a smile, knowing it was going to enjoy this.

            The sensation of his skin burning made him think otherwise.  He growled out in anger and turned, catching the blast of water full in the chest.  In just a few seconds, both he and his vampiric companion had disintegrated. 

Giles, too, was covered by this spray of water.  His tweed jacket was drenched, his glasses were knocked off his face, and his hair was in soggy disarray.  He kneeled down and fumbled in the pooling water for his glasses, shaking water off of them as he put them back into place.

“You!” he exclaimed, seeing the figure that Angel had described so well.

“I . . . thought you might be one of them,” the figure said plainly, without apologizing.

“Ah, of course,” said Giles, squeezing water out of his jacket.

“You should be careful.  I am told that another one will be here tonight.  He is called Angel.”

“Angel?” Giles said, then decided to play along.  “Yes.  I’ve ah . . . heard of him.  How exactly do you two know each other?”  If he could find out what this fellow wanted with Angel, Giles hoped, he might be able to persuade him that he had the wrong man—or vampire.

“I am . . .” the figure hesitated, as if he could barely remember the answer to the question.  “My name is Michael Tintsman.  My wife and daughter were . . . killed on the orders of Angel.  I’ve tracked him across the country.  It’s taken me six months to find out where he is, but now I am close.  He will be here tonight.”

“Ah, are you sure you have the right one?” Giles said.  He knew it couldn’t be Angel, as Angel was with him and Buffy last year.  And if he ever decided to start feasting on living prey again, he wouldn’t travel across the country to do it.

“Yes.  His killers said so before they . . .” Michael closed his eyes in pain.  It was clear to Giles that this man had never come to grips with his wife’s and daughter’s deaths.  Instead, he had turned to revenge to keep from dealing with the real pain.

“And your ah, equipment?” Giles asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“I . . .took them . . . from a project I used to work on for the government.”  Michael knew, but did not say, that the Sunrise Project had been developed to track and hunt vampires, proof of whose existence they had finally been provided with by the project’s private contractor, Electrotech, Inc.  The only problem was that the exoskeleton required the constant injection of adrenaline and other drugs into the wearer’s system in order to function.  When studies consistently showed that the injections had negative effects on memory and emotional states, Michael had written the report recommending that it be canceled.

Giles sympathized with the man’s plight, but knew that Angel could not be to blame.  He was attempting to come up with a believable story that would convince the man to leave Sunnydale and not return, when the subject of their conversation burst through the library doors, intending to warn Giles of an impending attack.

Michael could hardly believe what he saw, but he regained his composure quickly.  “I won’t let you kill another innocent,” he whispered, placing himself between Giles and Angel.

Angel stopped short when he saw Michael there, but crashed back through the door when dozens of wooden darts flew at him.  One of the darts struck him in the leg, while another broke the small pane of glass in one of the doors.

“Wait!” Giles shouted at Michael’s back.  But it was to no avail.  The hunter planned to follow the wounded Angel out into the hallway, and finish him off for good.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE:  THE PRESENT

 

 

            Buffy peered around the corner, careful not to be seen.  She watched Willow, sitting there on the couch in Xander’s living room, as the light from the television flickered across her face in the darkness.  It took a moment for Buffy to realize that Willow wasn’t actually watching the T.V.—she was simply staring in its general direction.

Buffy stealthily made her way back to the kitchen.  Xander and Dawn were waiting for her.  “How long has she been like that?” she asked.

“Since I found her last night,” he answered.  “I brought her back to my place so I could keep an eye on her.  When I fell asleep she was like that, same as when I woke up this morning.”

“Well, you’re right.  She’s definitely got a case of the old zombie-style mind-control going on,” Buffy replied.

“I tried to check out that condo she came out of but it was locked, and then I realized whatever pulled the whammy on her could just as easily do it to me.  So I got out of there.  But I bet that Witting-whatever guy lives there.”

“His name’s Wittingstone,” Dawn put in.

“Right.  Well I guess in a way she’s not that much different then she’s been since Tara died.  Still monosylables and whatever.  Except now she likes to talk about First Principles and about the big rally that’s supposed to take place tonight.  That’s pretty much all I can get out of her.”  He gave a defeated sigh and leaned back in the kitchen chair.  Early morning sunlight poured in from above the sink.  It was going to be a long, hot day.

“We need some answers,” Buffy said forcefully.  “And I want them before this big rally-thing goes off tonight.  I’m starting to think it might not be a coincidence that a pack of vamps tried to kill Dawn right after she quit the group.”

“So what are you going to do?” Xander asked.

“Ask a few questions,” Buffy replied.  “Starting with someone who seems to know more than he should.”

Xander was about to ask another question when he looked up at the clock.  He stood up abruptly.  “I’m supposed to be at the site fifteen minutes ago—it looks bad to keep calling in sick.  Plus, I want to keep my eye on this job--we’re laying the foundation for the new high school.”  Buffy and Xander each crinkled their nose at this.  “But someone has to stay and look after Willow,” he added.

They turned and looked at Dawn.

 

 

Buffy squeezed through the narrow rock passage, a flashlight in one hand and a stake in the other.  She wasn’t necessarily expecting trouble, but she wasn’t going to take any chances, either.  She was deep below Sunnydale now, in a portion of the vast cave network she had never explored before.  Water slowly trickled along the walls, but she felt and heard it more than saw it.  Although it was dark and she was alone, she wasn’t afraid—she was the Slayer, and she had dealt with her fears long ago.

She had come to the tunnels looking for Spike, after a brief stop at his apartment and a chat with Clem, who had been staying there lately.  Clem said that the blonde-haired vampire had been coming and going a lot lately, sometimes disappearing for weeks at a time.  Although he hadn’t known for sure, he thought maybe Spike came to the tunnels—at least it was where many of Sunnydale’s other day-shy denizens came to rest.

The tunnels slowly climbed upward as she continued along.  Spike had said something was coming, and she regretted that she didn’t stay around long enough to find out what it was.  Although he no longer considered himself the “leader” of Sunnydale’s vampire population, he still had authority and still had connections.  He was also someone she just could not figure out, despite having known him for several years now.  One day he tries to rape her, another day he tries to give her money.  It made him sound insane, but she knew from some odd Spike-perspective, it all made perfect sense.

She quietly edged along the tunnels, in some places having to crawl to get through.  After a few more minutes, through the shaking glow of the flashlight, she saw something that took her breath away.  The edge of the tunnel she stood in opened into a large, round cavern.  All along the edges of the cavern, the entrances to other tunnels sat in shadowed recesses.  But most shocking was the floor of the cavern—it was like the floor of an emergency shelter after a disaster.  Dozens upon dozens of vampires were there, most snoozing away peacefully on mattresses they had dragged down from above, others resorting to the comfort of lined coffins, either their own or belonging to corpses they had long ago ejected.  More vampires were there than Buffy had ever seen in one place before, and she didn’t know how to react.  It took her breath away, but then she realized it made sense—they had to go somewhere after the destruction of the Master’s church, Spike’s old factory, and the several other haunts and resting places Buffy and the Scooby Gang had flushed them out of.

She carefully walked among the sleeping vampires, looking for Spike with the flashlight on its dimmest setting.  She was careful where she put each step, knowing that if she woke even one of them, they would all be upon her before she could reach the tunnel—and now she wasn’t even sure which tunnel she had come out of.

“Buffy!”  The whisper broke the silence, startling her.

She swung the flashlight around, but the cavern was so large the light didn’t reach all the way to the walls.

“Buffy!” it came again, but this time she was listening.  She saw that a faint light was coming from one of the tunnel entrances and she headed towards it.  The light started moving towards her, and she realized the figure was holding an old oil lantern.

“Dawn!” she whispered as loudly as she dared.  She wanted to yell and scold but she couldn’t as they stood in the midst of the dozing vampires.  “What are you doing here?  I thought you were watching Willow!”

“I was.  But Xander came back—they were still waiting on the permits they needed or something.  I went to see Clem and he told me where you were.  I knew you’d try to find Spike.”  Her last words were accusing.  As she whispered, the dim glow from the lantern finally faded completely—it was out of oil.

“How many times do I have to tell you?  I’m the Slayer!  I can take care of myself,” Buffy whispered back, harshly.  Just inches from her right ankle, a vampire rolled over in its sleep and groaned.  She felt like kicking it, but restrained herself.  “We’re not going to discuss this here.  We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

They had started working their way back to one of the tunnels when a piercing wail froze them in their tracks.  It was loud, like standing next to a fire engine on a four-alarm call.  The sleeping vampires were roused and stood up, blocking Buffy’s escape.  They didn’t notice her, however, as their attention was drawn to the bright light that now stood at the entrance to another nearby tunnel.  A short figure dressed in green armor was standing there, holding a blindingly bright electric torch in one hand and a gun of some kind in the other.

“Come and get me boys!” she shouted, and then pressed the trigger on the gun.  She aimed high above the crowd’s heads, so that fat droplets of holy water fell on them like a consecrated rain.  Several vampires cried out in agony, causing the entire crowd to storm forward towards the figure.  Buffy’s flashlight was knocked from her hand by the press, but she managed to grab Dawn’s hand just as they too were swept up in the crowd and pushed towards the tunnel.  They tried to escape, but they had to keep up or be trampled.  Stay calm, Buffy told herself.  They think we’re just two more vampires.  If they can’t see us, they don’t know we’re really alive.  If they don’t know we’re alive, we’ll stay that way.

 

 

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Joshua asked.  More and more, hunting vampires didn’t exactly seem like a healthy way to deal with the grief to him.  Along with Tintsman and Otis, he was standing with his back to the wall of a large, irregular cavern.  There was only one exit tunnel from the cavern, and they were standing as far from it as possible.  The only thing that kept him from shaking was knowing that although it might take them hours to actually trek back to the surface, relatively speaking they were only five or six feet below ground.

Tintsman stared at the tunnel intently.  Soon he saw the faint glow he was expecting, and it was moving towards them and getting brighter.  “No,” he replied finally to Joshua’s question.  “But I am an engineer.  And regardless, it’s too late to turn back now.  She’s already on her way.”

The wait was nerve-wracking.  Although Tintsman held a small radio transmitter, none of the three held any weapons.  They knew that if they had to use them, it would be too late already.  Soon they could hear the approaching storm of Rita and the vampires—the curses and yells of the vampires, and the occasional sound of her sprayer as she made sure they stayed angry enough to keep following her.

A minute later they were forced to partially cover their eyes because Rita’s electric torch was so bright.  They could just make out her figure, rushing into their cavern, followed by a swarm of vampires.  She barely kept ahead of them; although she was in great shape, the undead never ran out of breath—mainly because they didn’t need to breathe.

Tintsman waited until the last of the vampires had entered the cavern—Rita was less than  ten feet away from them now, and the the vampires were at her heels.  Even worse, they had seen him and the other two.  He waited one more agonizing moment to ensure the timing was perfect,  then pressed a button on the transmitter.

With a deafening explosion, the tunnel leading to the cavern collapsed in a pile of rubble.  Half a second later, well-placed explosives set on the cavern ceiling detonated, sending large rocks and a rain of pebbles crashing into the swarm of vampires.  Rita leapt into Tintsman’s arms, inches away from the cascade of stone.  Where they were standing, they were safe—at least for the time being.  Most of the vampires had survived the cave-in, and even now getting to their feet.

It was then they realized that their attackers had never meant to crush them.  The explosives were set on the surface to create several parallel shafts to the nearby cavern below.  And with the sun at just the right angle, the entire cavern was bathed in sunlight.  Rita and the others covered their eyes as almost thirty vampires screamed, thrashed about, and finally disintegrated into dust.  Tintsman watched eagerly, however.  The pain of losing Maggie and Kate had been softened by the passage of time, and finding allies had given him hope.  But unlike the others, he still had never faced what had happened—destroying vampires was his life now, all that he had left.

Later, as the others were preparing the climbing gear so they could extricate themselves, Joshua called out to them.

“These two aren’t dead,” he said.  “Not vamps, either.”  He pointed, and the others walked over to see that a young blonde girl was covered in rubble.  They could just barely see another form underneath.

“Looks like the blonde shielded the brunette with her body,” Otis observed.

“Well they’re both out of it,” Joshua put in.  “Though it looks like neither is hurt too badly.  Give me a hand here and we’ll dig ‘em out.”

“Leave them,” Tintsman said coldy.  “If they’re alive, finish them off.”

“Wait a second, Michael,” Rita said.  “I know what happened back in the bar.  But these two—they’re just kids.  Human kids.”

“Vampires and those who help them!” Tintsman said angrily.  He was tired of having to repeat it and tired of their always questioning him.  “All of you swore.  Now do it!”

“I don’t think I can,” Rita said.

“Me neither,” Otis added.

Everyone looked at Joshua, the weakest-willed of the bunch.  He stepped back and put his hands in he air as if to fend off an invisible attacker.  “I . . . I’m with them, Michael.  It’s just going too far.”

“Fine,” he said, starting to ascend the shaft.  “You can go wherever the hell you want.  I’m going the rest of the way though.  All the way.  By myself if I have to.”

The others looked at each other, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m out of here,” Joshua said.  “I’m going back to Topeka.  This is just too much.”

The others reluctantly agreed.

“What about these two?” Otis asked, pointing.

“He probably is right you know.  If they were down here, part of that crowd, they must be helping the vamps.  Nothing else makes any sense,” Rita observed. 

“Unless they were prisoners—but they weren’t tied up or anything.”

“Well not killing them doesn’t mean we have to help them.  They’re alive.  We’ll leave them alone.  If they wake up, they wake up.  If they don’t, they don’t.  We’ll let fate decide,” Joshua said.

 

 

Xander was startled when Willow stood up suddenly.  She had been sitting on the couch, motionless, for hours as the afternoon stretched into the early evening.  He had tried all day long to get her to respond, but she had maintained the blank look and spoke only about “community” and “First Principles.”  Now that she was finally doing something, he didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or worried.

“Uh, how’s it going Will?” he asked tentatively.

“Everything is fine, Xander.  I have to get ready.  Tonight is the big rally.  Something big is going to happen.”

“I see.  You know, I was thinking we might skip the whole ‘First Principles’ thing tonight—just this once, you know.  Maybe catch a movie, get a little dinner, whatever.”

“I can’t, Xander.  I have to get ready.  Tonight’s the big rally.  Something big is going to happen.”

“You just said that.”

She didn’t respond, but instead started walking towards the door.  He jogged past her and blocked it with his body.  He grabbed her gently by the shoulders and hoped his words would bore through to her brain.

“Willow, listen to me.  Something’s going on.  You’re not a joiner.  You hate crowds.  Whatever’s happening tonight, you don’t need to be there.  I can’t let you go.”

“Community comes first, Xander.  Without our communities, how do we know who we are?  First Principles is all about community, and that’s because—“

Xander sighed and let go of her shoulders.  He knew he could stop her, keep her here, but it really didn’t seem to matter anymore.  She was never going to be herself as long as she was under this First Principles spell.  If something big is going to happen tonight, we might as well be there to see what the hell it is.  And how to put a stop to it.

“You know what, Will?  Changed my mind.  I feel like joining the ol’ community after all.”

 

 

Dawn woke first, wondering why her blankets were so heavy and if she were going to be late for school.  She began to panic when she realized she could barely move.  Her eyelids fluttered open, and she half-wondered if she had been out camping—she could see the stars twinkling overhead and feel a cool breeze on her cheek.  She lifted her head and look around.  It all came flooding back—the rush of vampires, the bright lights, the figures in green, the falling rock—Buffy covering her body with her own.

                “Buffy!”  Her sister’s head lay inches from her own, and Dawn thought she stirred slightly.  She called out her name again.

            “Leave me alone.  I’m tired,” Buffy groaned.

            “Buffy, wake up!  We’re stuck at the bottom of a freakin’ cave again!”

            Buffy’s eyes flickered open.

            “Again?”

After Buffy had awakened fully and found the strength and leverage to push herself off the ground, sending rocks skittering everywhere, she helped Dawn to her feet.  Neither of them were seriously hurt, though Buffy’s back would be bruised like someone had taken a baseball bat to it.  The climb to the surface was far easier than they had expected—metal climbing spikes had been embedded in the nooks and crannies of the stone.

“Thanks Buffy,” said Dawn, when they were resting at the lip of the shaft.  “What you did was—well it was really cool.”

Buffy smiled.  “All part of being the Chosen One, I guess.”

“So what was that all about?”

“You know, I have no clue.  Something came along and took out half the vampires in Sunnydale—and almost us, too.”

“So you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Unfortunately.  We’re still going to have to find Spike.”

“Are my ears burning?” a voice called out.  Dawn and Buffy whirled around to see Spike walking towards them.

            “I wish your whole body was burning,” Buffy replied.  “Why do you always show up at the worst time?”

            “Love, the whole undead community in Sunnydale heard about what happened down there.”  Spike walked over to the edge and looked down.  “Biggest single massacre in years and years.  I don’t think even you got quite that many at once.  Are you jealous?”

            “No, disappointed that you weren’t down there too.  We’ve been looking for you.”

            “Well, you found me,” he shrugged.

            “You said something big was going to happen.   How did you know?”

            “You think I meant this?”  He grinned, looking into the hole.  “The bloody rotters got what they deserved—I couldn’t stand most of them.  No, I was talking about something else.”

            “So are you going to tell us are you going to be all cryptic, like Angel circa my sophomore year?”

            Spike bristled slightly at the name.  “All right.  I don’t know much—but it has to do with First Principles and the big man in charge.”

            “Wittingstone?”

            “No, the real guy in charge.  Word on the street is that he has a mad-on for a certain Slayer we all know and love.  And, of course, this being the Hellmouth, he’s got quite a plan for bringing her down.”

            “Enough games,” Buffy said.  “What’s this guy’s name?”

            “Castillo.”

               

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Everything was quiet—almost eerily quiet, as there were no crickets chirping, alarm clocks ticking, or police sirens blaring like there would be back in Sunnydale.  Cordelia tried not to disturb the silence as she carefully and slowly rolled out of bed and dressed in jeans and a warm jacket.  She walked to the door and lifted up the latch ever-so-slowly, glancing around to make sure no one was awake.  She slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

            It really is beautiful she thought to herself.  Without the light pollution of the city, the stars were brilliant and sparkling.  Mountains in the distance loomed up large and imposing, while the snow nearby, illuminated only by the moon, stood out in a confusing mix of foreground and background.

            She hurried across the snow towards the direction of one of the slopes, hoping she had timed her escape correctly and that he would be there to meet her.  In truth, there was no need for her to have been so cautious—Cordelia was seventeen and it wasn’t as if she needed the others’ permission if she wanted to have a midnight rendezvous with Chad on the slopes.  But sneaking out was so much more exciting and romantic that it simply seemed like the thing to do.

            In actuality, however, she hadn’t escaped the cabin without being noticed.  Xander had been awake the whole time, and had correctly surmised the purpose of her leaving.  He hadn’t been able to sleep a wink that night, feeling restless while his thoughts dwelled on Amara.  Although he knew intellectually that it was simply a crush, puppy love, an infatuation, it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t help but think about her.  She was everything he had been looking for, and surprisingly, she actually liked him too.  And she’s not even embarrassed of me like Cordelia.  He rolled over and arranged the blankets again, trying to get comfortable for again.  A few minutes after Cordelia left, he gave up and started getting dressed.  If she can go out in the middle of the night to meet her boyfriend, I can do the same thing.  Though not with her boyfriend.  Or my boyfriend.  With a girl!  Xander often bantered with himself like this in his head—most of his famous one-liners occurred when he decided to verbalize this internal monologue.

            He also lifted the latch of the door slowly and passed through.  He started walking in the direction of Amara’s cabin.  He wasn’t expecting to see her, though he hoped he might.  Instead, he thought that a brisk walk might tire him out enough to help him finally fall asleep.  When he reached her cabin, he was disappointed but not surprised to see that the lights were out.  I guess I could act like a stalker and try to wake her up anyway, he thought, but quickly rejected the idea.  He still wanted to see her tomorrow and not scare her off.

            Xander jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder—he had been so sure he had been alone outside, except for Cordelia and Chad, of course.

            “It’s only me, silly,” said Amara.  She was dressed just as he had seen her that morning, and looked ready to jump on a board and fling herself down the slopes at any minute.

            “Amara!  Hi,” Xander gave a nervous little laugh to relieve the tension he felt.  “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would walk about a little.”

            “And stare at my cabin?” she said with a grin.

            “Exactly.  One of my favorite hobbies really: standing outside of some girl’s house, staring at it for hours on end with a creepy look on my face.  Explains why I’m so popular back in Sunnydale.”

            “Doesn’t it though?” she said rhetorically.  “Well, I’m up too.  Come on then,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the cabin.  “We can go exploring.”

            “Exploring?”

            “Yeah.  The lodge has been closed down for years.  Who knows what’s in there?  Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

            Xander hesitated.  “Amara, have you heard the stories about the resort being haunted?  Poking around a strange place after midnight is sure to bring any ghosts right down on us.”

            “You’re silly,” she said, smiling at the look of earnestness on his face.  “Ghosts aren’t real.  And if they are, you’ll be there to protect me, right?  Besides—it’ll make the whole experience that much more fun.”

            He still wasn’t exactly keen on the idea.  The lodge looked strangely menacing in the moonlight, and he spent enough time back home walking into spooky places and encountering dangerous things.  But this is not the Hellmouth, he reminded himself.  And if she wants to go look around, why not?

            They walked around the building a few times before finding that one of the boards covering a window at the side of the building was loose enough to pull off.  With a solid pull, Xander also managed to wrench the window up, enabling them to peer inside.  Even with the moonlight, it was so dark they couldn’t see anything but a small patch of the floor.

            “Wait here,” Amara said, sprinting off into the night, only to return a few minutes later with a gas lantern in hand.  “Isn’t this exciting?” she said.  “I feel just like Nancy Drew in one of those old books.” 

Xander had already been in enough “exciting” situations to last a lifetime, but he couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.  In fact, his experiences made him feel like an old pro at this “skulking-about-spooky-places-at-midnight” game.

            They climbed through the window and lit the lamp--it illuminated only an area about twenty or thirty feet away.  They noticed that the floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, which they kicked up everytime they walked, causing it to swirl about them and be reflected in the lamplight.  Around them, couches, chairs, and small tables were all covered with dingy white dust cloths.

            “This must be the lobby,” Amara said.  “See, there’s the bar.”  She pointed at another object covered with a dust cloth.  “And there’s the fireplace.”

            Man, Chad would be pissed if he found us here, Xander thought, but then caught himself.  Good.  He can go crying to Cordelia all about it. 

Amara grabbed his hand again and left it there this time.  “And up there must be the guest rooms,” she said, pointing to a curved staircase, which led to a balcony overlooking the lobby.  Doors must have led from the balcony to the guestrooms, but they were too far away to be seen with the lantern.

“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow,” Xander said, becoming unnerved by the place.  “More skiing—or breaking and entering?  You know there’s this great restaurant we found down in the town and—“

“Oh Xander, didn’t I tell you?” she said, apologetically.  “This is my last night here—I have to leave in the morning.”  Her face looked odd in the lamp light—almost translucent.

“Ah,” he replied, obviously disappointed.  “Well, we can still write, right?  I am mighty with the pen,” he joked lamely.

“I . . . don’t think that’s a good idea.  You how it always works out.  It’s okay in the beginning, but then we start receiving letters from each other less and less often, until one of us simply never writes back and then . . .  It’s better to just end it on what we had—a great day together, something memorable.”

“Of course, you’re right,” he said, trying to smile.  The award-winning Xander jinx comes into play once again, he thought, but then resolved to try and make the best of it.

They started up the stairs slowly, still holding hands.  Xander held the lantern with his other hand and shone it about every few steps.  The lamp jiggled as they stepped on one stair that creaked loudly, just like in an old horror movie.  They chuckled a little at their own hesitation and continued up the stairs to the balcony.

Suddenly, they heard that same stair creaking and realized that they weren’t alone.

 

 

            Meanwhile, Cordelia and Chad were having a great time on the slopes, enjoying a midnight ski.  Cordelia was still shaky, but Chad was there everytime to steady her.  She was attracted to him, partially out of the belief that Chad was simply much more mature than boys her own age, including Xander.  In fact, when she was away from Xander, she had difficulty remembering what it was she ever saw in him.  It sure issn’t his taste in fashion, she realized, watching Chad ski quickly down the slope in front of her, showing off as if it were a slalom race.

            She plunged her skipoles into the snow and pushed off, hoping to catch up to him and surprise him.  He had turned by then though, and stood watching her as she wobbled in his direction.

            “You’re learning fast,” he said admiringly when she finally reached him.  “But it’s getting cold and we’ll have to walk back up since the lifts are turned off.  You know, I have some hot cocoa in my cabin—we could warm up there.”

            She smiled to herself at this obvious line.  But still, hot cocoa and Chad didn’t sound like a bad combination.  Even with the “Slayerettes” along, this trip isn’t turning out so bad after all, she thought, as they turned to begin trudging back up the slope.  All of the girls in Sunnydale are going to be so jealous when I tell them about Chad.

            They heard the loud whine of the snowmobile coming towards them before they saw it.  Chad didn’t know what to think—he kept one locked up securely behind his cabin for maintenance of the resort and emergencies, but he was pretty sure no one else in the area had one.  And besides, they weren’t allowed on the slopes.

            The pair stood waiting expectantly as the snowmobile approached.  Chad could see that it was his, but he didn’t recognize the two curious looking figures who were riding it.  They were dressed completely inappropriately for the weather, as far as Chad was concerned, in not much more than jeans and leather vests or jackets with T-shirts underneath.  As the snowmobile grew closer, they realized it was going fast and headed towards them.

            And then they realized it wasn’t going to stop!

            Chad panicked and stood there frozen, with his mouth gaping open, but Cordelia pulled him out of the way just in time.  The pair of skiers fell on the snow, with Cordelia finding herself on her back, half buried in a soft spot, and Chad struggling to extract himself from Cordelia’s skis and poles.

            He managed to reach his hands and knees just as the snowmobile came back for another pass.

            “Duck!” Cordelia shouted, but it was too late.  The man on the rear of the snowmobile thrust his hand out and grabbed Chad by the back of his jacket, and incredibly, held him aloft for several dozen feet before throwing him face down in the snow.  The man on the back of the vehicle jumped off on top of Chad, while the driver turned the snowmobile around and headed back towards Cordelia.  Still unable to get to her feet, she screamed as she realized the man planned to ram her with it!  She screamed again when she realized from his face that he was a vampire.

            From out of nowhere, a blur of pink and blue jumped towards the vehicle’s driver and tackled him, knocking him off of it and into the snow.  The snowmobile careened wildly and then tipped over on its side, its tracks still moving in the air as its motor continued running.

            “Buffy!” Cordelia shouted.  She could hardly believe her eyes.  Buffy was there rolling around in the snow with a vampire in nothing more than her pajamas.

            “Now’s . . . not really a good time for conversation,” Buffy spat out, as she struggled to gain the upper hand on this vampire.  He was on top of her now, trying to sink his fangs into her throat.  He was incredibly strong, but she knew how to use her leverage.  She kneed him in the stomach and then put both feet on his chest and kicked out, sending him sailing into the air only to land relatively softly in the snow near Cordelia.

            Buffy jumped to her feet and sprinted after him, landing a solid kick to his jaw as he tried to stand up.  With one quick motion, Buffy grabbed the top of one of Cordelia’s skis, still attached to the latter’s foot, and kicked it hard.  It broke with a snap.  Buffy held the broken piece and turned it away from her just as the vampire leapt on top of her.  He disintegrated as they landed on the snow, covering her with a fine shower of dust and ash.

            “Get it off me!” shouted Cordelia, trying to wipe scattered remnants of the dust off of herself.  “And then go help Chad!”

            Buffy ran over to where the other vampire was, but it was too late for Chad.  The vampire got up and looked at Buffy, his teeth and lower jaw dripping with warm blood.  The Slayer! he thought to himself, suddenly unsure—but it was too late to back off now.  He deftly stepped to the side as Buffy charged him, and thrust his elbow out, hitting her with a glancing blow on the side of the head.  She staggered slightly, but spun around and drove a fist into the small of his back and then executed a perfect jump side kick to the back of the head, knocking him into the snow.  He rolled down the hill several feet, before slowly standing up and running for the snowmobile to escape.

            Buffy pulled the same trick on one of Chad’s skis, arming herself with another makeshift stake before she headed down the slope after the vampire.  She reached him just as he had started to push the snowmobile back on its wheels, which were still spinning.  She aimed carefully with the stake, but he dodged at the last second and the stake slammed into the vehicle, splintering into useless pieces.

            He backhanded her with a vicious swipe, but Buffy managed to roll with the blow.  She wasn’t sure what she was going to do now though, unarmed.  There simply weren’t many ways to kill a vampire—a stake through the heart, sunlight, holy water, decapitation.  None of those are an option she realized as the vampire, seeing her vulnerability, changed its mind and decided to attack.

            He grabbed her with both hands around her throat.  She thrust her hands straight up between his, and broke his grip.  She punched him quickly in the solar plexus with a solid right uppercut and then swung her left fist around, catching him the jaw.  She saw the snowmobile still on its side, spinning ineffectually, and instantly devised a plan.

            The next time he lunged for her, she clotheslined him with her forearm and simultaneously swept his legs out from under him.  He landed on his back right in front of the snowmobile.  With a powerful kick, Buffy tipped it over.  As soon as its treads found traction, the snowmobile zoomed forward.

            Ugh! thought Buffy as the vehicle crushed the vampire’s skull.  I hope that counts in the  decapitation category, she thought, because if it doesn’t that thing is going to be so disgusting to fight. As the snowmobile kept on running driverless down the slope, the small explosion of dust and ash from the vampire’s corpse told her that her fears were groundless.  She ran over to Cordelia and helped her up.

            “How did you know I was here?” Cordelia said, glad that Buffy had come but slightly disappointed that she hadn’t been as sneaky as she had thought.

            “I heard the snowmobile motor and woke up and saw that you and Xander were gone.  And then I just followed it.”  With the stress of the combat over, Buffy finally realized how much she was freezing—she wasn’t even wearing shoes.  “Chad’s dead.  I’m sorry, Cordelia.  But now we have to think about Xander—have you seen him?”

            “Huh?  Xander?” Cordelia said, still trying to process Chad’s death.  “No . . . I don’t know.”

            They hurried back up the slope to their cabin, and Buffy hastily pulled on some warm clothes and boots while Cordelia locked the door securely and began piling firewood onto the fire.

            “Hey Buffy?” Cordelia said.

            “What?”

            “Where’s Willow?”

            Buffy looked around frantically.  “She was here.  I know she was.  I told her not to go anywhere!  We’ve got to go look for them.”  She ran over to the bundles of firewood, trying to find anything that would suffice for a stake.  If only I would have brought my Slayer bag . . . I thought that by leaving it, I was leaving the Hellmouth behind.  It was stupid to think that I could ever escape the horror movie that has become my life simply by leaving Sunnydale.

            Something heavy hit the door, causing its hinges to groan.

            “They’re coming!” Cordelia shouted.  “Buffy, they can’t come in here unless they’re invited, right?”

            “I don’t know—we don’t really live here, we’re just visiting remember?” she said, as she began pushing one of the beds towards the door.  The door splintered open before she could reinforce it—but she was ready.  She picked up one of the makeshift stakes from the mantle where she had left it and flung it at the door just as a vampire stepped through.  It disintegrated and Buffy readied for another.  But all was quiet.

            “Enough of that, Slayer,” she heard a voice call from outside.  Buffy peeked out the windows and realized the cabin was surrounded by vampires.  “We have something you might want,” the voice continued.  Castillo was furious that two of his employees broke with the plan and had attacked the Slayer on the slopes.  He had had this “Buffy” watched long enough to know that she was a match for any random attack—only a careful, orchestrated plan would defeat her. 

After all, he hadn’t lured her all the way to Arctic Ridge with tickets she had “won” just to have his employees mess it up at the crucial moment.  But his underlings had received a fitting punishment for their disobedience, he realized, and he could always adjust his plans to fit changing circumstances.

            “Oh yeah, what’s that?” shouted Cordelia sarcastically.  “A trip to Bermuda?”

            Willow’s face suddenly appeared in the door, with a large hand on the back of her head.  She didn’t look hurt, but she certainly looked scared.  She was still wearing her pajamas and shivered from a combination of fright and the chill air.

            “This,” said Castillo, in a voice as cold as the world outside.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:  THE PRESENT

 

            Although the rally wouldn’t start for a few more hours, by late afternoon hundreds of dedicated First Principles members had already arrived at Weatherly Park, determined to stake out the best places to watch.  For the next hour, people slowly trickled into the park, but then suddenly it was if a dam had burst and hundreds and hundreds of people hurried to secure a place.  By sundown almost four thousand people gathered before the stage, surrounded by tall speakers, electric lights, huge “First Principles” banners, and several crews from Sunnydale’s television and radio stations.  Although far smaller in size than the crowds that assembled annually at other Sunnydale events—such as the Thanksgiving Day parade—First Principles was considered quite the phenomenon by most reporters, especially considering the organization was barely three weeks old.

            Anticipation was in the air.  Many in the crowd had already attended at least one First Principles meeting, but most of them had also brought a friend or a relative, and some had even brought their whole family.  Non-First Principles people had found it hard to turn down something that promised patriotism and community, especially since the Fourth of July was just a few weeks away.  Many of the reporters in the audience considered it remarkable that the crowd was in such high spirits considering how warm it was--Sunnydale was always warm in the summer, but today, as predicted, was the hottest day the town had suffered yet.  On the outskirts of the crowd, vendors set up stands charging exorbitant prices for bottled water, while other vendors sold hastily manufactured First Principles T-shirts.  The vendors were in perhaps the best spirits of anyone—the organization had given them carte blanche when it came to merchandising, and had even taken the unprecedented step of refusing a cut of the profits.  It was as if money simply didn’t matter to First Principles.

            The crowd continued to swell.  Dedicated First Principles members grew even more tense and excited as the beginning of the rally drew closer and closer.  They walked around excitedly  and often jumped up and down to get a better view of the empty stage.  Energetic conversations regarding the importance of community, vigilance, and all of the other tenets of First Principles took place throughout the crowd.  When the beginning of the rally was less than half an hour away, the crowd began chanting “First Principles! First Principles! First Principles”  Slowly at first, but then faster and faster.  Within minutes it was loud enough that several networks had to cut to commercials  in the middle of their live broadcasts.

            “Will, you sure picked a great day to make us stand in a crowd of several thousand people,” Xander said as beads of sweat rolled down his face.  His shirt, half-unbuttoned and with rolled-up sleeves, was soaked with perspiration.

            He looked over at her.  She didn’t respond, but instead kept her attention focused raptly in the direction of the stage.  He didn’t think she could actually see it, considering how many people stood between her and it, but she stared intently all the same.  He kept a hand on her arm, both to make sure they weren’t accidentally separated and to keep any First Principles goons from snatching her away.

            He shifted his weight and looked around, hoping the damn thing would get started already.  He scanned the crowd and something nagged at the back of his mind.  He looked around again, and then gently pulled Willow with him as he squeezed through the crowd and walked around for several minutes, eyeing everyone carefully.  It was as he had thought:  Every single person here is white.  Sunnydale’s no Philadelphia, but it’s not Finland either.  And not a single wheelchair or cane or seeing-eye dog—no disabled people.  No gay couples holding hands.  It’s like Mayberry, only Barney Fife’s about to get up on stage.

            The crowd had been chanting loudly and rhythmically but hushed instantly when Wittingstone appeared on stage, dressed as always in his dark suit and pinstriped shirt.  He was momentarily dazed by the spotlights, but quickly found his way to the microphone and adjusted it.  Thank the gods this is the last time, he thought, looking out over the crowd.  He glanced to the side and saw that Michelle was pouting—she was slated to introduce him, but Wittingstone had decided to go it alone.  It doesn’t matter anymore.  No more niceties or shaking hands with strangers or having to smile as idiots yabber on.  Just one more speech—a very special speech—and I can go back to being myself.

            He looked out at the audience again and began to speak.

 

 

            Castillo was nude.  It was what the ritual required, and although his entire body was covered with deep scars that even a vampire could never fully heal, he felt no hesitation or embarrassment.  He walked, with a slight limp, around the summoning circle and carefully checked for the slightest error.  This was no mere spell of communication with other planes like he had cast before—this was to be a full-scale manifestation, and the ritual had to be carried out with precise attention to detail or serious problems could result.  Still, the fact that he was a relative novice at magic did not dissuade him from undertaking the dangerous ritual.  He’d come too far to stop now, when what he had been waiting four years for was finally within his grasp.

            When he had checked the circle and was satisfied, he paused for a moment to look out over the city.  He stood on the top of Kingman’s Bluff, a place of great mystical power in Sunnydale.  He had been surprised to find that the hilltop had been damaged somehow, with trees uprooted and grass overturned.  It hadn’t been like that when he had scouted it several months ago, but this would not disrupt what he was going to do. 

With all of the lights coming from the busy city below, he couldn’t tell where Weatherly Park lay.  But he knew the crowd would be assembled and that Wittingstone would be delivering the proper speech, as instructed.  It was time to begin.

            The ritual was long and complex.  It included recitation of several difficult incantations, but Castillo had studied them carefully and did not stumble.  One portion of the ritual required the fresh hands of young men.  He removed these from their jars carefully but gleefully—he had handled their collection personally, disposing of troublemakers within First Principles at the same time.  He interlaced the fingers of two of the severed hands—one from each man—and continued with the ritual.

            The wind picked up as he completed the summoning spell.  He stood back and waited patiently.  Soon the wind grew stronger and stronger.  The smallest speck of white appeared in the center of the circle.  It was really there, however, not a representation or a blurred image as Castillo had communicated with before.

            He watched as the speck slowly, very slowly, grew larger.  A thin smile showed on his face as he contemplated the enormity of what he had done.  It worked—the barrier is weakened.  Once the hatred comes—and enough of it will, if Wittingstone does not fail me again—Solasheyk will be strong enough to shatter the rest of the barrier.  Of course, this little box had better do as promised or the frost demon will melt as soon as he arrives.

            Castillo walked over to the wooden chest.  It was sitting unceremoniously on the hilltop, several yards away from the summoning circle.  Except for the runes carved carefully into it, it looked like little more than a child’s toybox.  He bent down to examine it one final time.  The Cask of Winters.  The power to unleash the very essence of cold itself, to chase away one season and replace it with another.  And everyone thought it was just another Norse myth.  When will they learn that every myth is a forgotten fact?  Perhaps when Sunnydale in summer becomes like Moscow in winter.  When everything Buffy Summers loves is buried under a dozen feet of snow and trampled on by a demon from the netherworld.  When I am finally satisfied and avenged.

            He cast the spell of opening he had obtained from Anya days before.  It was a simple incantation, and completed in seconds.  The runes of the chest began to glow a bright white in the darkness.  Castillo looked back to the summoning circle.  The white speck had grown larger, pulsating slowly, and was now the size of a fist.  He reached down and with a steady hand flipped the lid of the chest open.

            He was blown back several feet as a mystical blast of cold and ice shot streamed forth from the chest and headed towards Sunnydale.

 

 

            Dawn breathed a sigh of relief as she noticed that the oppressive heat was finally starting to dissipate thanks to the cool breeze that blew through town.  She picked up her pace, feeling  energized in the cooler air.  It was still warm—but better.

            “So I still don’t get what the big deal is about this guy.  Vampire?  Okay.  You’ve slayed like a hundred thousand of them.”

            Buffy shrugged.  “I’m not sure why Spike’s freaked out either.  I mean, I’m surprised Castillo’s back too—usually when I throw bad guys off cliffs, they stay down.  But I wouldn’t worry about it.  Castillo’s a powerful vamp, but nothing really special.  I don’t really even remember that much about him.  I think he was smart—like maybe he stayed awake in World Lit while I napped?  But I can handle him.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yep.  This time I’ll just plunge a stake in his chest before I throw him off a cliff.”

            Dawn smiled as they hurried through the streets of Sunnydale.  They had left Spike to his own devices back where the tunnel had collapsed and were now planning a quick stop at home to clean up before heading to the rally.

            “Well, he has to have something up his sleeve,” Dawn observed as they turned on to Revello Drive.  “I mean, organizing First Principles and all that—a lot of trouble just to have groupies.”

            Buffy’s reply was cut off by the shriek.  She turned and readied a weapon, only to see an  hysterical woman rushing towards them, tears streaming down her face.

            “Isn’t that your friend?” Buffy asked.

            “Ex-friend.  Jamie.”

            Dawn stood there with arms crossed but was almost knocked to the ground as Jamie crashed into her.  The larger girl wrapped her arms around Dawn and sobbed.  Dawn rolled her eyes at Buffy, who shrugged slightly but looked concerned.  Buffy knew what Jamie had said about Willow, but she hated to see someone in such obvious distress.

            Dawn was disgusted by the feeling of Jamie’s tears running down her neck, and pushed the girl away.  She wasn’t one to forgive easily, and as Buffy well knew, she could hold a grudge.

            “What do you want?” Dawn snapped.

            Jamie blubbered incomprehensibly but Buffy managed to pick out a few words.

            “Who’s dead?” Buffy asked, suddenly becoming alarmed.

            “He—he said he didn’t need me, but that the other’s had ca—caused trouble by drawing your att-atten—attention!” Jamie sobbed.

            “What others?  Where?” Buffy demanded.

            She pointed feebly towards a side street.

            “We’re just a few blocks from the house,” Buffy said, looking at her sister.  “Take her home and get her cleaned up.  Call her mother maybe.  I’ll check this out.”

            “I don’t want to take her home--you know what she said about Willow and Tara.  I hate her!”

            “First Principles is messing with people’s minds, Dawn.  Like it did yours.  She probably didn’t really think all that stuff, but right now I don’t care.  We can’t just leave her wandering around at night.”

            Buffy strode quickly down the street, her senses alert and ready for action.  It took several minutes for her to find what Jamie had spoken about.  Two crumpled forms were on the ground in a narrow alleyway behind a row of houses.  Buffy knew corpses when she saw them, and these two were definitely dead.  She walked over to get a better look--it was difficult to make out details in the darkness.  She checked their necks first and found the twin puncture marks she had expected.  This one looks like that guy Dawn liked—Timothy.  Not sure about the other one.  She crouched down closer and then looked around.  What happened to their hands?

 

 

            “This is all about the whole Spike thing, isn’t it?” Anya asked indignantly.  “So Xander  sends the first pretty girl he can get his hands on to come here and show off that he’s found someone too.  Well frankly, I don’t care.  I’m over him, and I just don’t care.”

            Anya held her chin high but couldn’t help noticing how pretty this girl really was.  She regretted the fact that it had come to this, but she put a hand to the door and prepared to slam it in the girl’s face.

            “Listen!” Amara said, jamming a foot into the doorway.  “I’m not dating Xander.  I swear.  But I can’t seem to find him and I’ve been trying to tell him he’s in danger.”

            “Danger?”  Anya opened the door slightly.

            “Yes.  This guy I used to work for—Castillo—is back in town.  He’s planning on unleashing this big winter demon thingie.  But first he has to get enough people in town mad enough, because that’s where the demon gets its power.  But as long as it has a human to channel through, the demon can use its power to influence people—get them to hate each other, and make itself stronger.”

            “Listen lady, I know demons okay?  I am one.  And this all sounds—“  Very possible actually.  I remember being told the stories as a child.  “Solasheyk the Frost Demon, also known as the Winter Wraith and the Norse Scourge?”

            “I don’t know,” Amara replied impatiently.  “But once Castillo makes it cool enough for it to fully manifest, and I’m sure he’s figured out a way, Sunnydale’s going to be flattened by the worst blizzards it has ever seen!”

            “I don’t think Sunnydale has ever seen any blizzards,” Anya replied.  “Though I’m not sure.”

            Amara shook her head in frustration.  “Just tell Xander, okay?  I’m leaving, and I won’t be coming back.  Just let him know.”

            “Why do you care so much,” Anya asked, narrowing her eyes.

            “He’s a sweet kid,” she answered simply.  “He made me laugh once, a long time ago.  I owe him one.  That’s all.”

                       

 

            Xander slipped the earplugs in just as Wittingstone began to speak.  He had purchased an ample supply of them for construction work, but he had never been so grateful for them as he was now.  Although he couldn’t hear what the speech was about, he didn’t see any reason to end up like Dawn or Willow, and prepared accordingly.

            Willow and every single other person in the audience was listening carefully, however.  No one was chatting away in the audience or thinking about what they were missing on television.  They were all focused on Wittingstone, registering every word he spoke.

            “One way or another, this is the last meeting of First Principles,” he announced, gathering their attention immediately.  “Tonight will see either our greatest victory or the realization that it is too late for First Principles to triumph.”  He paused momentarily while several in the audience shouted out “Greatest Victory!”  “My friends—no, my community, we are on the cusp of something special tonight.  We have a chance—or should I say it is our destiny—to make Sunnydale a First Principles community through-and-through.”

            The crowd cheered wildly as Wittingstone worked to remember the next portion of the speech.  He knew that Mr. Castillo would not be forgiving if he were to fail.  Not that that’s likely, he thought.  Nothing in the world exists for them now but me.

            “Yes,” he continued.  “The time for waiting, for talking, for contemplating is over.  We’ve talked before about the importance of being proactive.  Well tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I want each and every one of you to be proactive.  In fact, I want you to consider yourself as soldiers, fighting a war to protect your community from those outsiders who even now surround our homes and threaten our way of life.”  Wittingstone stopped briefly to allow the audience to boo and jeer “outsiders.”  This lasted several minutes, and he could tell the crowd was becoming angrier and angrier.

            Xander noticed this as well, and started edging Willow towards the edge of the crowd.  He was surprised to see that she didn’t carry the same expression as the others, however.  She just looked . . . defeated.  He saw her lips move and realized she was trying to speak to him.  He removed the ear plugs and put them in his shirt pocket.

            “I said I’m tired.  I’m ready to go home.  It’s getting chilly.  Why did you bring me here?”  They were the first words Willow had spoken since they had left Xander’s house.

            He looked at her carefully, confusion evident on his face.  “I’ll get you out of here,” he shouted, unsure of whether her sudden change of heart was a good thing or a bad thing.

            Wittingstone continued on as Xander and Willow pushed through the crowd.  “Yes, warriors,” Wittingstone said.  He noticed the breeze and knew Castillo had actually gone through with it.  “Warriors are who you are.  And the war is going on right now, between community and loneliness, between tradition and experimentation, between morality and degeneration.  There is a war going on, right now, between First Principles and outsiders.  These outsiders are dangerous—they don’t share what makes our community great.  They envy us.  And given a chance, they will tear us down.  But there’s still time to win this war—if each of you begin to fight it right now!” 

            The crowd reacted to Wittingstone’s last words as if a bomb had gone off.  They cursed “outsiders” at the top of their lungs and started reaching for anything that could double as a weapon—folding chairs, tree limbs, baseball bats.  Seconds later the enraged crowd surged en masse towards the street.  Wittingstone left the stage quickly and motioned for his driver.  “Bring the car around.  I’m finished here.  We’ll wait things out in Los Angeles.  Be quick about it!”

            “Why aren’t we moving?” Willow asked.  Xander held her close to him as they stood with their backs up against a tree.  The crowd flowed around them, holding weapons aloft and scanning for “outsiders” everywhere.

            “I’ve got two answers for that, Will.  The first is that I’m glad you’re back to normal—at least considering everything that’s happened—and I want to make sure you’re okay.  The second—well the second is that I think this crowd is going to riot, and I don’t want to be on the streets of Sunnydale when it starts.  Anyone who’s not a believer in First Principles is going to be in trouble.”

            “Where’s Buffy?” Willow asked dreamily.  She rested her head on Xander’s shoulder.

            “Somewhere on the streets of Sunnydale,” he replied.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Giles saw Michael run out of the room after Angel, but knew he wasn’t fast enough to catch up to the techno-slayer before he reached the hallway—he just had to hope that Angel had managed to escape and hide somewhere.  Giles quickly stuffed his pockets with stakes and a cross, just in case more vampires happened to show up, and rushed towards the riddled door.  As long as this Michael thinks I’m on his side, Angel and I have an advantage, he thought.

            Just as he reached the double doors and pushed them open, everything went dark.  The power is out—an accident or?  A generator somewhere distant kicked in, and the hallway was lit by the eerie glow of “Exit” signs and emergency lights.  He heard muddled voices and a door slam somewhere in the distance.  He thought about running for the exit, but decided against it.  If Angel is still alive, he might need me.

            Giles walked slowly along a hallway in the direction of the gymnasium.  He cautiously stepped across an open area where two hallways intersected, when suddenly his face was illuminated by flashlights.

            “There he is!” he heard a voice shout, and then the rumble of automatic weapons.  Wooden projectiles began bouncing off the floor and walls all around him—it looked like the rifles lost much of their accuracy and power when fired at anything more than twenty or thirty feet away.  Giles caught just a glimpse of his attackers and sprinted down the corridor—they were dressed exactly like Michael.  He panicked and choose hallways at random.

            Again, the darkness and silence pooled around him.  Have I lost them—or are they still after me?  And why are they firing at me anyway?  Maybe they thought I was Angel. He realized that he must be near the cafeteria as he edged along carefully, his back to a row of lockers.  He heard another door slam in the distance, and then a slow creaking noise quite nearby.  One of the lockers! Giles realized, just before a hand covered his mouth from behind.

            Giles, although a Watcher and not a Slayer, was still trained to defend himself.  He thrust his elbow straight back, catching his attacker in the stomach, doubling him over.  Giles turned and was about to bring his fists down on his assailant’s head when he realized who it was.

            “Angel!” he whispered, perhaps too loudly.  “Oh dear.  I’m dreadfully sorry.  I thought you were—“
            “Never mind,” Angel croaked, still holding his stomach.  “We can’t talk here.  Follow me.”  Angel limped along as he led Giles to a small closet he had found earlier in one of the classrooms, screened from the hallway by a bookshelf.  It was dusty inside, obviously unused for quite some time.

            “He’s still out there?” Angel whispered.

            “Not just him—I think he’s part of a group.  They’re all after you Angel, each equipped with those weapons.”  Why doesn’t the Council equip a Slayer with such equipment? Giles wondered idly to himself.  “But I think if we reach the cafeteria, which should be just around the corner, we can use the doors there to escape.”
            “No,” Angel said. “I don’t think we can run.  They’ll keep hounding me until they’ve caught me, and who knows how many people will be hurt along the way.  I don’t know why they’re after me, and I don’t want to kill them, but I will if I have to.”

            “The one in the library told me his name is Michael Tintsman.  He thinks you killed his family several months ago.”

            “That’s absurd,” Angel said.  “Listen.”

            They heard a door slam, and then a few moments later another door slammed.  The slamming was moving closer to them.

            “He’s going from room to room, checking each one.  He’s headed our way,” Angel said grimly.  His neck was still sore from where the vampire had bitten him earlier, and his leg ached from where the dart had embedded itself in his calf.  His body would heal these wounds faster than a human’s could, but they still hurt.

            “We have to think of something.  He and the others won’t stop until you’re dead,” Giles whispered.  “But maybe . . . do you know where the science lab is?” he said, his face lit with inspiration.

 

 

            Angel opened the door to the high school’s basement as quietly as he could.  He remembered that it wasn’t that many months ago he had rescued Giles, Xander, and Willow from the boiler room when it was filling with toxic gases.  He felt sorry for the kids attending Sunnydale High.  Centered right on top of the Hellmouth itself, it seemed that pretty much anything that could go wrong did go wrong, and Sunnydale High students usually suffered the brunt of it.

Tonight, of course, he was entering the basement for a rather different purpose.  Giles had told him that there were two main doors to the basement, one on the west side of the school and one on the east side.  By entering the basement through the west door, and coming out the east door,  he could traverse almost the entire length of the high school without setting foot on the floor above, and thus, presumably, avoid the vampire-hunters that were after him.

The plan seemed to be working out well.  Angel crossed almost half of the basement without hearing the slightest thing.  Even in the complete darkness, his eyes allowed him to make out shapes nearby, and so far he was the only thing moving.

As he drew closer to the far side, he could see the other door sitting at the top of a set of stairs.  A very faint light shone through cracks in the door-frame.  He reached the bottom stair just when the east door started to open.  He rolled out of the way, and pressed his back against the side of the stairs.  Looking up, he could see that two of the vampire-hunters were coming down the stairs, both armed like Giles had said.  Something about one of them seemed familiar however.  He certainly wasn’t Michael, but . . . then something clicked, and Angel realized it was one of the vampires he had fought just a few hours ago at the warehouse district. 

Vampires teamed up with humans to hunt other vampires?  It sounded strange to his ears, but then he realized that was exactly what he and Buffy did together on occasion.  Still, he knew that these vampires were soulless creatures bent on murdering him.  He wondered how it all fit together as bootsteps echoed through the small basement and the pair of hunters descended to the basement floor.

Angel considered trying to sneak up the stairs and out the door, but if they heard him, he would be cut down with nothing to shield him.  Instead, he followed softly behind the pair as they advanced across the room in the direction of the west door, the one he had come in through.

He waited until one of the vampires stood directly in front of the other.  Carefully edging himself to a position just a few feet from the rear vampire, he leapt on top of him, his left arm wrapping around the vampire’s neck while his right hand reached for the vampire’s hand holding the rifle.  Angel squeezed the vampire’s neck and hand simultaneously, causing the vampire to jerk around and fire his rifle in a wide arc all across the room.

The other vampire, although lucky enough to avoid being shot in the heart by his companion’s rifle, was burned horribly when the impact from one of the projectiles shattered the small container holding his tank of holy water.  He began writhed on the floor in agony, oblivious to what was happening around him.

Angel held on for dear life as the vampire bucked like a bronco, spinning around wildly in every direction trying to shake him off.  He’s incredibly strong—stronger than I am! Angel realized.  There weren’t many vampires that had been alive as long as he had been, or could match his strength.  What Angel didn’t know was that the exoskeleton the vampire wore increased his already-formidable strength to even greater levels.

The rifle clattered to the floor when the vampire let go of it and reached up with both hands to grasp Angel’s shoulders.  With a herculean tug, he flipped Angel over his back and sent him flying into the air, only to crash into and through the east door, which shattered like a pane of glass from the force of the impact.  The vampire picked up his dropped weapon and advanced up the stairs, ignoring the moans of his companion.  He reached the doorway and thrust the rifle out quickly to the left and then back to the right, but it was no use—Angel was gone.

 

 

Agony jolted through Angel’s bones with every step he took.  He looked like a hunchback in the corridor, bent over and using the walls for support.  He had heard something “pop” in his back when the vampire had thrown him through the door--combined with the wounds he had already suffered, he knew he couldn’t take much more punishment like that.  I’m close to the lab though, he thought, just a little further.  I have to get the timing just perfect though.

The door to the science lab was at the end of the hall, and Angel reached it just as Michael Tintsman emerged from another doorway nearby.  Angel hesitated just a moment to make sure he had been seen, and then plunged through the doorway and into the lab.  This better work, he thought.

Michael yanked the door open.  He raised the rifle just as he saw Angel leap at Giles.    Angel’s claws and fangs were out, his face contorted into the visage only vampires wore.  Giles screamed out in fright and backpedaled behind a desk as Angel rushed towards him, saliva dripping from his fangs.  Michael wanted to take a shot, but he couldn’t risk hitting the librarian—the wooden bullets would kill a human just as easy as they would a vampire.  Even worse, he only had a few shots left and his supply of holy water was already exhausted.  If the vampire caught him weaponless . . .

Giles screamed again as Angel grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and sunk his fangs into his neck.  The librarian’s hands scrabbled for any weapon he could find on the desk, knocking beakers and containers off it in his panic.  Finally his hands found a wooden ruler some student had left there.  Giles adroitly snapped the end off on the edge of the desk and plunged it into Angel’s chest.

From the angle, it was difficult for Michael to see exactly what happened, but he knew the result when Angel gave out a bloodcurdling scream and then fell behind the desk as a thick burst of ash and dust flew up, covering Giles and the desk top.

Michael ran over and joined Giles behind the desk.  The floor left a faint ash outline of a human figure.  Giles was holding a hand to his neck as blood trickled through his fingers.

“You . . . you killed him!” Michael said shocked that a librarian could destroy the creature he had been hunting for months and which had escaped him twice.

“Yes.  I ah, guess I did.  What a vicious creature that Angel was.  It was close, wasn’t it?” Giles said, his eyelids fluttering slightly from the loss of blood.  “I suppose we should be leaving then, now that it’s finally all over.  And I guess you can tell your ah, friends, that Angel is finally dead,” Giles said helpfully, as he and Michael walked towards the door.

“Friends?” Michael said when they emerged into the hallway.

Giles dropped to the ground instinctively and pulled Michael down with them, as more projectiles flew right over their heads.  Giles had seen a band of the vampire-hunters out of the corner of his eyes coming from the left.  He glanced quickly to the right, intending to run in that direction, before realizing it was blocked as well—several of Spike’s bunch of vampires were rushing towards them.

They were trapped between two armies.  And Angel’s not around to help us anymore, Giles realized.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:  THE PRESENT

 

            Buffy shivered slightly as she stepped away from the corpses and returned to the street.  She was worried she was getting sick—it seemed to her that the temperature had dropped substantially in just a few hours, and she knew that was impossible.  She resolved to worry about it later—vampires first, flu bug second.

            She strode purposefully towards home, meaning to check on Dawn and Jamie.  She felt sorry for the latter—the pain of having one’s precious illusions about life shattered in such a horrific way would not be easy to deal with.  Buffy herself knew this better than anyone, after assuming the role of the Slayer and growing up much too fast.

            The streets seemed quiet and deserted, but it wasn’t long before she heard a dull roar coming down the street.  She thought it must be a garbage truck or maybe a semi until she made out human voices mixed with the sound.  She recognized the noise from her days as a cheerleader in Los Angeles—there was a crowd, and it was angry.  She idly wondered where it could be from.  The baseball stadium was across town, and the only other thing happening tonight was the rally at Weatherly Park, also blocks away.

            She noticed that the sound grew louder and closer as she turned back onto Revello Drive.  She spun around to see if she could get a better idea of where the clamor was coming from, and then she saw it: hundreds and hundreds of people brandishing weapons, rushing down the street, screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs.  Their eyes were wide and their faces wore masks of pure hatred.  It reminded her of the mob scenes from old Frankenstein movies, except this crazed group wasn’t after a monster—it was headed straight towards her!

Fight or Flight.  Me versus ten-thousand nutcases or me sprinting home?  Good call, she thought as she turned and raced down the street.  She began breathing harder after a few blocks, but the mob didn’t falter.  Still, she was keeping ahead of it and knew she would reach safety—home—before it caught up to her.  She raced across another intersection, wondering where the police were.  She passed a few more houses and then, reaching her own, slowed down, and risked a glance over her shoulder.

The mob was paying no attention to Buffy.  It had stopped in front of a house about a hundred yards away.  With angry shouts of “This is the one!” and “This is where the outsiders live!” the mob broke through a fence and trampled onto a lawn.  Buffy watched as it surged against the front wall of the house like ocean waves rocking a small boat.  For now, the front door was holding steady, but she knew it wouldn’t for long.  She recognized the house.  It belonged to the Jocerta family..

She looked at her own home.  The porch light was on, and Buffy knew her sister was inside.  It would be easy for her to walk right in and plop down on the couch.  They would be safe there, and Buffy could pretend that nothing had happened.  But she knew that was impossible.  Being the Chosen One meant more than slaying the occasional vampire or keeping the Hellmouth sealed.  It meant doing the right thing, even when it seemed crazy.

She dashed towards her new neighbors’ house at top speed, hurdling a bush and skillfully side-stepping a lawn ornament.  She reached the edge of the mob and plunged in, keeping low but using her strength to push her way through.  It was difficult to duck around all the elbows and hands, but she persevered.  She emerged on the Jocertas’ front porch a second later and turned to face the mob.  Her presence didn’t seem to register on their senses, and she could see the group was about to surge forward again.

She drew herself up to her full height, which she knew wasn’t terribly impressive.  “Stop this!” she shouted.  The crowd seemed to hush for a second.  Encouraged, she went on.  “This is insane.  These people,” she pointed her thumb over her shoulder, “are good people.  They’re no threat to you.  All of you should go home.”  Her voice was already getting hoarse from shouting so loudly.  “And beside, the only way you’re getting in here is through me!”  She smiled as the crowd drew back slightly, and then frowned as she realized they were about to rush her.  She backed up as close to front door as she could and assumed a fighting stance.  She didn’t want to have to hurt anyone—she knew these people were being controlled or influenced somehow--but at the same time, she couldn’t let them tear the Jocertas apart.

She was saved from having to choose when the front door abruptly swung open.  She fell backwards onto the carpet of the Jocertas’ living room.  The door was quickly closed, and then bolted.  Buffy leapt to her feet to see the entire family staring at her.  She could tell they were nervous, and with good reason.

“We knew you weren’t one of them,” Mrs. Jocerta said confidently.  “Although we were hesitant after your sister’s . . . behavior.”

Buffy looked ashamed.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to—“

The front door buckled, and Buffy could see the wood was cracked and straining.  “We’ve got to get out of here!” she said, taking charge.  The sound of breaking glass told her that the mob had decided to try the windows.  “Is there another way out of here?”

“Th—through there,” said Mr. Jocerta, pointing.

Buffy pulled the frightened family to the rear of the house.  Just off the kitchen, down a few steps, stood the back door.  Buffy hastily pulled it open and shepherded the family through just as she heard shouts and curses coming from the living room behind her.  The mob was in the house, and only moments away from finding them.  She heard sirens in the distance.  Great timing, she thought ruefully.

“Go, go!” Buffy yelled, pointing towards the alley that ran behind the Jocertas’ house.  “Three houses down and then through the fence.  Tell Dawn I said to stay put and lock the doors!”

Buffy watched as the family sprinted down the alley, and then she turned back towards the living room, only to see that it was too late to escape herself.  She rolled with the first punch and ducked the second, only to be clipped by the third.  Before she could even react, she was knocked out into the alley, and then they were all over her.  Dozens and dozens of townspeople—many of whom she knew and liked—cursed and screamed as they attacked.  With an insane fury in their eyes, they punched and kicked at her from all directions.  Their sheer weight pressed Buffy to the ground until she could hardly breathe.  With one last, final push she tried to stand up, but there were too many of them—they held her down and continued attacking.  Why’s it so cold was her last conscious thought before darkness came.

 

 

“Why’s it so cold?” Willow asked softly, hugging herself tightly.

“I’m not sure,” Xander replied.  He was relieved to notice that it really was getting chillier and that Willow wasn’t just going crazy again.  “Listen, just stay put and lock the doors, okay?  If any First Principles fellas come by, you have my express written permission to get all veiny and black-eyed.  But only until they leave again.  I’ll be back when everything’s quieted down, okay?” 

He shut the door securely and headed back towards his car.  When everything’s quieted down.  Right.  Thousands of nutso-First Principlers rioting, attacking people left and right.  I’m sure everything will be quiet soon.  He flipped the car radio on and listened.  Mobs had trashed the International Students Union and GLBT Resource Center at Sunnydale College, and partially burned down the Multicultural Affairs Office.  Several people had been attacked on the street and even in their homes based purely on the way they looked or dressed.  He quickly turned the radio off--the reports were depressing. It sounded like the police and fire departments already had their hands full, and no one knew when all the violence would stop.

Xander sped towards Wittingstone’s condo, intending to figure out what was going on.  He was relieved that Willow seemed safe, and more or less back to normal.  But someone was manipulating or even brainwashing people to hate each other—and Wittingstone seemed like the likely suspect.  

“We need to talk, Xander.”  The voice seemed to come from right next to him.  The car lurched into the other lane as he looked over and saw Anya suddenly sitting in the passenger seat.  She started to talk again, nonchalantly, but Xander slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a halt along the curb.

“What are you doing!” he shouted, slightly panicked and breathing heavily.

“Attempting to talk to you,” she fumed.  “Or is that not an option any more?”

“Listen Anya, you can’t just come teleporting into people’s cars—“

“Sure I can.  Moving targets are just slightly harder.  But I’ve had plenty of time to practice teleporting—being a Vengeance Demon has its perks, you know.”

Xander shook his head.  “Listen Anya, I know things are messed up with us right now.  But as if you couldn’t notice, there’s other things going on.  Like Sunnydale turning into Beirut, for example.”

“You think I’m here because I want you back?  That is so typical of you!”

Xander rested his head against the side window.  He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.  It was then he noticed that the glass was starting to fog up.  He decided action would have to be taken and did something he wasn’t sure he had only done oncebefore in his entire life: he turned on the defroster.

“Anyway, I just came by to tell you that your little girlfriend came to see me,” Anya continued.  “And I want you to know I don’t like being your message board, okay?  But anyway, she said you should know about this Castillo vampire, and his summoning frost demons and everything.”

“What?!” He heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense to him.

“Solasheyk the Frost Demon.  It’s like a cycle.  He influences people to get them angry—and then the angrier they get, the more powerful he becomes until he’s able to break his way through.  And the colder it gets, the more he’ll manifest.”

“Castillo’s back?”

“I just told you that.  Try to stay with me.  And so, if you want Sunnydale not to freeze over . . .  Well, whatever.  Good luck.”

He looked over again and she was gone.  Teleporting.  She just likes to get the last word is all.  Castillo.   Buffy fought him a long time ago.  Back at that ski resort.  Where Amara was, too!  But frost demons?  Add another name on the list of Hellmouth crazies.  He started the car up as yet another fire truck, alarms blaring, sped down the road past him.

 

 

            Dawn tried to smile, but she felt totally uncomfortable.  The entire Jocerta family was in her living room and a mob raged outside.  She could hear the sound of broken glass and sirens all around her, but it looked like they hadn’t focused in on the Summers’ house yet.  Still, she wasn’t sure what was worse: the mob outside, or the sheer agony she was feeling from being around the Jocertas after what she had done to them.  She had tried to explain—akwardly blathering on about how she wasn’t really like that, it was mind control and so forth—but she wasn’t sure they had believed her.  And she wasn’t quite sure whether they should.  Deep down she knew the hatred she had felt before had not been her own, had been somehow placed there by Wittingstone and First Principles.  But she still felt guilty about it.  Guilty and ashamed.  Her one relief was that Jamie’s mother had been by and had picked the girl up before the rioting had started in earnest.

            “Well, I better go check on Buffy!” Dawn said, standing up suddenly.  She knew her sister could take care of herself, but a little help never hurt and it was a good excuse to avoid having to sit with the Jocertas any longer.

            “It’s very dangerous outside.  Maybe we should call the police?” Mrs. Jocerta offered.

            “I think they’re doing everything they can,” Dawn replied.  “I’ll be okay.”

            “I’ll go with her,” the teenage son said.

            Dawn looked at him carefully.  He didn’t look frightened anymore, as he had when Timothy and Brian—and me, she realized—had chased him away from the park, threatening to hurt him because he was an “outsider.”  Instead, he looked determined and anxious to help.

            “My name is Mark,” he said simply.

            Dawn didn’t know what to say.  She led him to the kitchen and peered out the backdoor window.  Everything seemed safe, but she jumped back with a gasp when a face appeared in the glass.  Before Mark could even react, Dawn angrily unlocked the door and pulled it wide open.

            “Xander, you scared the hell out of me!”

            He was taken aback.  “Well Dawn, I’m sorry about that.  I would’ve used the front door, but the friendly mob with pitchforks and torches mentioned I should try the rear.”  He looked at Mark and smiled.

 

 

Buffy awoke with a groan, seeing flashing lights in the darkness before the image resolved into the faces of her sister and Xander.  She groaned again.

“This is when you’re supposed to say something semi-witty,” Xander said.  “Like ‘Did you get the number of that truck that hit me’ or ‘I sure delivered some vicious shots to their fists  with my forehead.”

Buffy was in pain but couldn’t help but grinning in spite of it all.  “Xander,” she whispered, “I’ll let you say all those things when you wake up from getting beaten.”

She raised herself to a sitting position and realized they had company.  She smiled weakly at the Jocertas, still sitting patiently in her living room.  “Is it over?” she asked them.  They shook their heads slowly.  “Then help me up guys,” she said to Xander and Dawn.  “And then tell me what’s going on.  We need a plan.”

The pair helped her into the kitchen.  Her wounds looked terrible.  She was bruised, scratched, and her face was caked with dried blood.  But it was nothing serious.  As a Slayer, Buffy was more resilient than a normal human.  She was just lucky the mob had left her lying on the ground after she had fallen unconscious.  Mobs had been known to do far worse.

“I am glad you’re okay,” Xander said.  “No jokes.”

“Me too,” Dawn added.

“I know,” she said.

“So Dawn tells me you know that Castillo’s back,” Xander said.  “But apparently you haven’t been told about the big frost demon and the whole returning-Sunnydale-to-the-Ice-Ages thing.”

“But don’t worry,” Dawn added quickly, seeing her sister’s expression.  “We still have at least two or three hours before the demon manifests fully and it’s too late to stop it.”

 

 

Wittingstone was pleased.  The odious task he had been charged with was completed, and he would never have to address another crowd of badly-dressed suburbanites again.  Acting as the channel for that winter demon to focus its persuasive powers through was quite an unsettling feeling, one not kind to Wittingstone’s digestion.  The bit where he was forced to entrance the Rosenberg girl in just a few moments had been most unsettling of all, but at least it had kept her from being a threat.  Until it wore off anyway, which could happen at anytime.  Control over her was a temporary thing, unlike the more constant influence the demon exercised on the others.  Of course, once it had amassed enough hatred to break through the dimensional barrier, it would release their minds—but by that point they’d surely be dead anyway.  Wittingstone shook his head and tried to push such minutiae out of his mind.  It was all irrelevant to him now.

Yes, he was pleased indeed.  Not only was his task completed, but by all accounts it had been completed most successfully.  He relaxed and leaned back against the plush seat.  Looking out the sedan’s side window, he could just make out the first few faint flakes of snow.  He still hardly believed what his employer had done.  Not that it had worked—Mr. Castillo always achieved what he put his mind too—but that his formerly business-focused employer would devote the last few years to finding a rather . . . unique way to destroy Sunnydale and Ms. Summers along with it.  All because of a grudge.  Destroying cities, raising demons?  It just wasn’t profitable, and the old Mr. Castillo never would have gone for it.  But ever since his obsession with the Slayer began, his employer was simply not the same man.

A few minutes later, when his cellphone rang, Wittingstone shut it off.  He knew it was probably Mr. Castillo, but he preferred not to answer it.  Answering it might mean he would be wanted back in Sunnydale, and Wittingstone did not want to return to the city—at least not until all the excitement was over.  The risks were simply too great, and certainly not worth the gain,  especially since his task had already been completed successfully and his payment was waiting.  Instead, Wittingstone decided he would wait a few days before calling his employer.  He even contemplated a short vacation.

A few seconds passed, and then he heard another, fainter ringing sound through the glass panel which separated his rear compartment from the drivers’ compartment.  Suddenly, the sedan  slowed down, and then executed a perfect U-turn and began heading in the opposite direction.  Wittingstone unbuckled the seat belt he always wore—he was not one to take unnecessary risks—and thumped his fist on the glass.  The center panel slowly lowered.

“Yes, Mr. Wittingstone?” the driver said without looking back.

“What are you doing, driver?”

“That was Mr. Castillo on the phone, sir.  He said I’m to take you back to Sunnydale.  He said he may not be finished with you yet.”
           

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:  FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Buffy felt helpless as she watched Willow being led into the room, followed by Castillo and almost a dozen vampires.  The little cabin had literally become wall-to-wall undead, rendering all of the exits impassable.  Buffy wanted to do something, to strike out at this creepoid who thought he was so suave, but she couldn’t see any scenario where she could both take him down and keep Willow from becoming a midnight snack. 

Her hopes dimmed further when she saw that Willow was handcuffed, and that the vampires had brought extra pairs of manacles for her and Cordelia.  And what about Xander? Buffy thought to herself.  If he can come up with a plan to kill a baker’s dozen of vampires all by himself, we’re saved.

            “You see, we’ve been watching you for quite some time now, and I’ve heard of your exploits as a Slayer,” Castillo said as one of his employees secured the manacles on Buffy.  “And thus we have prepared accordingly.  You will find that not even a Slayer can extricate herself from handcuffs of that material.”

            Buffy tried anyway, and found that he was right—they were made out of some kind of plastic that tightened and pinched the more she struggled to get loose.  The three girls were forced to sit with their backs to a wall in a corner of the room as the vampires stood eyeing them and occasionally snickering to themselves.

            “What is this, Biker Vampires From Hell?  Well, anyway, let’s hop to it.  It’s getting late, and Cordelia needs her beauty sleep,” Buffy said, trying to regain some control.  “This is the part where Doctor Octopus tells the imprisoned Spider-Man about his plot to take over the world, just before Spider-Man escapes and destroys the Doomsday Death-Ray Laser Cannon, right?  So what’s your clever super-villain codename?”

            Willow and Cordelia turned and gave her surprised looks, but then relaxed visibly—they had been through this before too, and Buffy always came through for them.  She’s got a plan—she always does, Willow thought.  It’s like magic or something—as long as we’re together, nothing can ever really hurt us.

            Castillo’s lips pursed tightly, and he did not smile.

            “Feeble attempts at humor in the face of danger,” he said.  “Yes, I’ve been told about that too, and I assure you my men and I have a highly developed sense of humor—we will laugh heartily when tonight is over.  But since you asked nicely,” he continued, aware that everyone’s attention was on him, “my name is Angelino Castillo.  Some of my men call me Angel, because, so often, I am the last thing people see before they die.

            “And as for my ‘plot to take over the world,’ as you put it, I can put your fears to rest.  I have nothing so dramatic in mind--the world, so far as I am concerned, is four-fifths rubbish, not worth anyone’s time to bother with.”  He kneeled down right in front of Buffy.  She could feel his hot breath on her face and instinctively turned away.  “No, I am merely a businessman, Ms. Summers, looking to expand my operations from the east coast to the west.  Currently my company is developing some rather important weaponry for the government, which will be demonstrated on Sunnydale’s vampire population shortly.  Of course, the Slayer and her Watcher must be disposed of first.”

            “You create weapons to kill vampires?” Willow interjected, disbelieving.

            “Oh yes, it will be rather profitable.  Of course, the military does not realize that my employees and I are of the unliving as well, with full control over the weaponry and its activation codes.  But as for other vampires, what do I care?  This way, you see, I gain total control of any efforts to eradicate them—and therefore I can except me and my own from the process, ensuring a healthy profit all the while.”

            “This is all so cliche,” Buffy said.  “Some leader-vampire, stronger than normal vampires, tries to take over the Hellmouth.  Been there, done that.  Remember the Master?”

            “Yeah, Buffy pulverized him!” said Cordelia, scared, but able to speak up.

            “Literally,” said Willow, nodding at Cordelia.

            “The so-called ‘Master’ was a fool.  I knew him back when he was simply called Heinrich Nest.  And opening the Hellmouth to unleash pure evil upon the world?  What sense is there in that?  After a few decades of rampaging and blood-drinking, the novelty wears off.  Then what?  Now don’t get me wrong,” he spoke politely, as if he were rubbing shoulders with an old colleague, “a little mayhem and terror is enjoyable in short spurts.  But what about the Moliere, the Racine, the Chardonnay, or the Wagner?  The finer things—what would their place be in such a world?”

            Castillo sighed, as he realized from their faces that the girls, except for perhaps Willow, had no idea what any of the names he mentioned referred to.  He stood up and walked back towards his men, then faced his captives again.  This witless banter is pointless and almost depressing, he thought.  Best to end it now and be on our way.

            He walked over to Buffy and then kneeled towards her again, holding her still with his arms.  She struggled, but he had the strength to keep her in place.  His face contorted into a vampire’s visage as he opened his mouth and aimed his fangs for Buffy’s throat.  He could literally taste her as his teeth met the thin skin around her neck and prepared to plunge in.  But they stopped there, and he pulled his head back.

            “I believe you have convinced me, Ms. Summers.  This has been done before, perhaps in every instance when a Slayer has fallen to her former prey.  I would hate for your death to be repetitive—the least I can do is make your last moments the stuff of legends.  Yes, something more memorable, more . . . cinematic comes to mind.”

            He stood up and pulled her to his feet.  He turned towards two of his men and said “Watch the two girls while I’m gone.  Do not begin until I have returned.  The rest of you,” he continued, looking at the other vampires, “may return to the trucks.  Inform the drivers that we will be ready to depart shortly.”

            He pulled Buffy gently along with him towards the door of the cabin.  She hated to leave Willow and Cordelia behind, but I might actually get a chance to do something if it’s just me and this Castillo creep.  Outside, she saw a long row of motorcycles parked neatly in a row.  She hadn’t even heard them pull up, and wondered idly if they had been walked up slope.  Castillo pushed her towards the seat of the nearest motorcycle, and then climbed on behind her.  He was tall enough he could still reach the handlebars, even with her sitting on his lap.  The engine kick-started and he said loudly in her ear. 

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle down icy mountain roads before?  I believe you will find it most . . . exhilarating.”

 She didn’t answer.

 

 

            Xander turned and saw what could only be a vampire rushing up the stairs towards them.  The creature was dressed like the kind of ruffian that couldn’t get past the Bronze’s bouncer, but his fangs made it clear he meant business.  How did it get here?  Maybe Cordy was right—maybe Buffy is a vampire magnet.  Xander backed up and tried the doors to the guestrooms—they were locked, meaning he and Amara were trapped on the balcony with a vampire in between them and the stairs!

            “Amara, when I give the word, run,” he said, keeping a close eye on the approaching menace.  Amara was strangely quiet, but Xander didn’t notice as the adrenaline surged through him.  He was both relieved and distressed to see that the vampire’s eyes were fixed on him as well—it meant Amara had a better chance to escape, but it reduced his own chances.

            When the vampire reached the top of the stairs, it walked slowly towards him and then darted forward.  It was on Xander before he defend himself and punched him hard, knocking him against the wall.  He dropped the lamp and it skittered along the floor on its side, sending a cone of light rolling against the ceiling. 

“Run!” Xander shouted.  He was no Buffy, and being struck like that hurt.  The vampire advanced on him again but this time Xander was ready and landed a solid shot to the vampire’s jaw.  It didn’t hurt the creature much, but when Xander grabbed the vampire’s hair and slammed its head into the wall, it stumbled back several feet. 

Xander sprinted for the stairs, but the vampire recovered quickly and tackled him, wrapping up one of Xander’s legs and bringing him to the ground.  It started pulling Xander back, while the boy clawed at the floor to keep from going.  Xander looked behind him and aimed carefully with his free leg, smashing it into his attacker’s chest.  He got to his feet just as the vampire got to its own.

Xander noticed the lantern had rolled near him.  Grasping it with both hands, he brought it far back behind him as the vampire charged for the last time, and then swung it around hard like Sammy Sosa trying to set the home run record.  The lantern shattered as it violently struck the vampire right in the side of the head, knocking the unholy creature into the banister.  It crashed through as Xander lost his grip on the lantern, and everything—the vampire, the remnants of the lantern, and wood from the banister—struck the ground below.

            Xander barely managed to maintain his balance to keep from falling off himself.  On his hands and knees, he saw that the gasoline lantern had ignited when it struck the ground, and that the vampire and the floor all around it were starting to burn.  The vampire screamed as it ran around frantically, spreading the fire all over the dry wooden floor.

            Xander got to his feet and looked around frantically for Amara.  Where is she? he thought, trying all the doors and pounding on them.  They were still locked.  Did she slip past us?  “Amara!” he shouted.  He was already coughing from the smoke caused by the fire below.  “Amara!” he shouted once more.  Still nothing.

            He ran for the stairs, the bottom of which had just caught.  He hurled himself down them and leaped the last few steps, over the flames.  All around him was fire and thick smoke.  He crawled around, his eyes filling with tears and his throath spasming with coughs.  He couldn’t even see the exit and realized he was probably wandering around aimlessly.  This is it, he thought, burning to death in the middle of a ski resort.  Ironic, I guess.

            Everything around him grew dizzy and he was just about to pass out from the smoke when he felt something tugging at his shoulder.  He couldn’t see what it was, but he instinctively followed it.  The next thing he knew, he was laying on the snow outside the lodge, gulping in the fresh winter air.  Several yards in front of him, the lodge was an inferno of flame and smoke.  Well, if Buffy gets to burn down high school gymnasiums . . .

            “Good-bye, Xander,” a girl’s voice said, and he saw Amara leaning over him.  “I have to leave now.  It was . . . memorable.” 

He felt her kiss him gently on the lips and then she was gone.  He tried to call out to her, but speaking just made him cough more.

After a few minutes laying in the snow, he felt well enough to stand up, though still shaky.  For the first time since they had arrived at Arctic Ridge, it was snowing—a light but steady swirl of snowflakes.   If there’s one vampire . . . there could be more.  Xander started running for the cabin to warn Willow and the others before it was too late.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:  THE PRESENT

 

“You sure they’ll be okay in there?” Xander asked, nodding his head in the direction of Buffy’s house as he started up his car.  He had left it parked in the alley behind her house in the hope that it would avoid being damaged from the rioting, and so far his plan had worked.

“As safe there as anywhere, I think,” Buffy said.  She was worried too.  “The Jocertas are smart.  They’ll stay in the basement with the phone at the ready.  If something happens, they’ll call 9-1-1 and bar the door.”

“Maybe we should stop and pick up Anya,” Dawn offered from the back seat.  “You know, Slayerettes at full strength and everything?”

“I think she’s ‘helped’ about as much as she’s going to,” Xander replied bitterly.  He knew she would come if they asked, but he just couldn’t get the picture of her and Spike together out of his head.

As the car reached the street, none of the three spoke about the other person they were each thinking of: Willow.  Although their friend was undoubtedly useful, the thought of what she had done to Warren was foremost in their minds.  She could still be dangerous, and the temptation to use her dark magicks to defeat Castillo would be strong.  They didn’t want to lose her again.

Xander drove quickly, but took several side streets.  He could see several large crowds on the main streets, yelling and holding up burning effigies of various people.  Riot-control police had finally arrived and were vainly trying to disperse the crowds.  It seemed better to Xander to avoid as much of it as possible.  When snowflakes started hitting the windshield, he could hardly believe it.

“This guy must really be pissed at you, Buffy.  Changing the weather and everything,” Xander said.  “You have a knack for attracting the worst of the worst.”

“What can I say?,” she replied.  “It’s my job.”

“Looks quiet,” Dawn observed when they finally pulled to a stop outside of the condo Xander had seen Willow emerge from.

“Yeah.  Doesn’t look like the sort of place demons would manifest or whatever.  But you never know . . .”  Xander shrugged.

 “Remember,” Buffy reminded them as they walked towards the door.  “I’ll go in first, you two stay in the back and—“

“We know, Buffy, we know,” Dawn interjected, rolling her eyes.  “You’re the Slayer.  We got that.”

Buffy tried the handle and found it locked, as she had expected.  She backed up a few feet and then shuffled towards it sideways.  She brought her leg up on the final step and with a powerful sidekick knocked the door completely off its hinges.  She dove through and came up in a fighting stance, ready for anything.  The place was empty.

They searched it quickly.  It looked lived in—food in the refrigerator, liquor in the minibar—but every scrap of paper in the place was gone.  Nothing to identify who had lived there or what they had been doing there.  After a few minutes more of searching, Buffy threw her hands up.  “Looks like a bust.  Any other ideas?  If you were a really smart vampire raising a freaking demon, where would you be?”

“Wait a sec,” Xander said, walking to the phone.  He saw a blank notepad there and scribbled on it with a pencil.  Faint impressions of what had been written on the sheet above it appeared.  “Look: ‘11 p.m., Weatherly Park.’”

“Nice going,” Buffy said, obviously impressed.  “Very Hardy Boys!”

Xander nodded.  “I read like twenty of them in junior high until I realized they were all exactly the same.”  He looked at his watch.  “That’s like twenty minutes from now.  Why would he go back to the park again?  Willow and I were there earlier tonight—there’s no frost demon  there.”

“When we were just starting out, I would have raced over and stormed in, ready to kick some vampire ass.  But this is so obviously a trap,” Buffy said.

Xander nodded.

“So what are we going to do?” Dawn asked.

“Race over there and storm in, ready to kick some vampire ass.  We don’t have any other leads, and our time is getting short.”

“Don’t worry,” Xander said reassuringly.  “The Xan-Man has a plan.”

“Xan-Man?” Buffy said, raising a skeptical eye.  “I thought you stopped calling yourself that years ago.  Remember, you said it was lame?”

“Lame?  I never said that.  Who said that?”

When they got back to the car, they found a note lying in the passenger seat where Buffy had been sitting.  It was from Spike and printed in an odd, slanted handwriting.  Buffy was annoyed at the idea of him watching her all the time, but she read it anyway:  “Ran into a fellow I met a long time ago.  Had a word, cleared up some confusion in the lad’s head.  Should be quite the party tonight.  Now remember, don’t blame me for the lot of them—they’re not mine.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Xander asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Buffy replied.  “He’s just trying to make points with me.  But it’s too late for that.”  She crumpled the paper up in a ball and threw it out the window.  “Let’s head to the park.”

 

 

Wittingstone was not happy, and he cursed the fact that his driver had a cell phone.  He sighed as he paced back and forth, clearing a narrow strip on the snow-covered grass.  The wind had picked up, and it was coming down harder now.  The worst thing was that he hadn’t brought a coat.  He looked at the small gathering of figures milling around in front of him.  Dressed in simple jeans and leather jackets, they weren’t cold at all—in fact, they were rather immune to changes in temperature.  They shivered not from the cold, but from anticipation.  Since he had brought them to Sunnydale, Mr. Castillo had kept his crew of vampires hidden.  He had wanted to both make sure the Slayer was surprised and that he had a force held in reserve.  After several days of pure boredom, they were anxious for fresh blood.  Wittingstone knew they would be disappointed, however.  Mr. Castillo was not likely to share his hard-won victory with them.

Although he was expecting something like it to happen, Wittingstone was still startled when a crossbow bolt came hurtling out of the darkness to embed itself in a vampire’s chest.  It missed the heart, but the vampire still yelped in pain and tugged at it.  A second bolt struck precisely the right spot on another vampire, causing it to burst into ash.

“Over there,” Wittingstone said loudly, but without shouting.  He could see figures at the treeline about thirty yards away, hunched down.

The vampires rushed in the direction he pointed.  They weren’t used to running in the snow, and he couldn’t help but smile at their comic antics as they slipped and collided into one another.  The hail of crossbow bolts continued as the vampires advanced.  Wittingstone walked in the attackers’ direction also, but stood well to the back and side of the vampires—he wasn’t about to be shot.  As he drew closer, he noted that the attackers had a system.  The male and Slayer shot the crossbows, as the younger girl, Dawn, reloaded them with bolts.  It made a for a surprisingly effective attack, and three more vampires fell before the nearest were finally close enough to swat the crossbows away and engage hand-to-hand.

Wittingstone walked closer, slowly realizing that his feet were getting wet and that his shoes would probably be ruined.  Another thing to put on the bill, he thought.  He continued forward slowly, careful not to slip as the vampires had.  The melee began in earnest, and he could see that the Slayer and her friends had abandoned the crossbows for stakes.  Although almost a dozen vampires were still on their feet and attacking, he didn’t doubt that she would ultimately prevail.  Her fighting skills made the vampires look like rank amateurs, and even with the burden of protecting her friends, she still slew vampires quickly and efficiently.

When Wittingstone finally came within speaking distance, only six of the vampires were left fighting.  The boy, Xander, had been slightly wounded on one arm from a vampire’s claw, while the younger girl had been knocked to the ground and was just now standing up, guarded by her older sibling.  Wittingstone prepared himself.  He could feel the power of the demon flowing through him, ready to be released through his words.  He wasn’t looking forward to it, however.  If the process of completely entrancing just one girl earlier had been tiring, the consequences of attempting to do it to three at the same time could be quite painful.  Yet it was what Mr. Castillo wanted, and Wittingstone never disappointed his employers.  He had a reputation to maintain.

“There is no need to fight,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the din of the battle.  “We are all part of the same community, and members of a community never want to hurt each other.  We’re friends now, too.  Friends don’t fight.”  He watched as the vampires reluctantly took their cue and backed away.  They weren’t affected by his words, however.  Only humans could be influenced or controlled by Solasheyk’s power.

Wittingstone saw the male human tap the Slayer on the shoulder and then point in his direction.  All three looked at him curiously.  Wittingstone was confident he was getting through to them, and continued.  “Throw down your weapons, friends.  We can go for a drive, and meet some other members of our community.  I’m sure it will be an enjoyable experience.”

Buffy, Dawn, and Xander dropped their stakes to the ground.  Their jaws slackened slightly and they stared ahead, as if dazed.  “Excellent.  Right this way,” he said, motioning towards the street and his waiting sedan.  They began walking.  “We’ll see you back at the Hill,” he said to the vampires.  When they had left, and the Slayer and her friends were in the car, he put his hands to his head and doubled over.  The pain of channeling so much power was intense, and had given him intense headaches.  His nose began to bleed, and it took him a few minutes to focus enough to stand up straight again.  Mr. Castillo better be happy now, he thought, before getting in the front passenger side and instructing the driver to start the car.

There was only an inch or two or snow on the ground, but Wittingstone was no longer in a hurry and instructed the driver to take it slowly.  He looked over his shoulder.  The Slayer and her friends were quietly sitting in the backseat, staring straight ahead.  Twenty minutes later, the car turned onto the road which would take them up Kingman’s Bluff.

“Sir?”

Wittingstone looked up and over at the driver.  The driver nodded towards the road.  “We may have a problem,” he said.

Wittingstone looked as the car crawled forward.  A woman stood right in the middle of the road, facing them and holding something.  A second later Wittingstone realized it was a pistol.  He didn’t recognize the woman at first, but he never forgot a face—it was one of his fellow human operatives, a woman his employer used as a courier and for other odd jobs.  Mr. Castillo must have a message for me, he thought.

He instructed the driver to slow down even further, and they pulled to a stop next to the woman.  The driver lowered his window and the woman leaned in.  She smiled, switched the pistol to her left hand, and then with her right hand punched the driver right in the jaw.  Before he could stop her, she reached in and turned the car off, grabbing the keys.  Blood spurted out of the driver’s mouth—he moved to open the door, but the woman held the pistol up in front of her and he changed his mind.

Wittingstone heard the rear door to the car open and then slam shut.  He saw that the male from the back seat had gotten out and began talking to the woman.  He was confused: without direct instructions, the boy shouldn’t have been able to do that.  With the two so deeply involved in conversation, Wittingstone decided it might be a good time to leave.  He turned from looking to the left and looked to his right, a hand on the door.  He saw the Slayer standing there, arms crossed, and changed his mind as well.

 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Xander exploded.  Amara was about the last person he had expected to see, and the fact that she was holding a gun—a real gun, like the one Warren had used to kill Tara and shoot Buffy—made him nervous.

He saw her lips move in reply and then remembered the earplugs.  He yanked them out and heard her say something about rescuing him.

“We don’t need to be rescued, though I appreciate the thought.  This is all part of the plan,” he said.

Amara stared, disbelieving.  “Part of the plan?  You mean, to be captured and taken to the hill where Castillo is?”

“Exactly,” Xander replied.  “Clever, isn’t it?  You see, we had these earplugs and we knew Wittingstone thought he could entrance us or whatever, so—“

“Well, I guess you didn’t need my help after all.”

“What are you doing here Amara?  You’re involved in all of this, aren’t you?”

“Never mind.  I just came to make sure you’re okay.  I’m really leaving now.”  She shook her head and started to walk away.  The wind and snow swirled around her as she trudged off towards her car.  She was angry at him for being angry at her—after all, she had just tried to save his life.

He followed her.  “Listen Amara, I’m sorry, okay?  I know you’re just trying to help.  It’s just that we got things figured out here.  Except I don’t have you figured out.”

She turned and faced him, and decided to get it over with.  “I used to work for Castillo.  Still do, in fact.  Errands, messages, things like that.  Four years ago he asked me to go Arctic Ridge and make sure you and your friends stayed there until he arrived.  I didn’t know what he was then.”

“And that’s why you disappeared after the lodge?”

“Right.  I realized what was happening when the vampire attacked, and it all started to make sense.  So I left.  But a few months ago I get a call—Castillo has set up offices in a building here in Sunnydale, and wants people he can trust working for him.  I remembered that’s where you said you were from, so I decided to come.  I thought I might see you again—keep him from getting to you.”

Xander wasn’t sure how to respond.  He had known her only for that one day, and although he remembered it fondly, he had never expected to see her again.  Especially since he didn’t think she was really alive until just the other day.  “That was . . . a very cool thing to do,” he said finally.  “And maybe when all of this is over, we can—“

“Except I didn’t realize how much you would have changed.  You’re not the sweet boy I met at Arctic Ridge.”

“You kinda caught me at a bad moment,” Xander said.  “I mean, my best friend and my ex-fiancee are both . . . having problems right now.  Not to mention the stress of dealing with Sola-something the Frost Demon.”

“It’s more than that,” Amara said.  “You’re colder now.  Bitter.”

“It’s just that I’ve grown up.”

“I don’t think so.  But it doesn’t matter now.  I really do have to go.  Good luck up there, okay?”

This time he didn’t follow her when she walked away.  He watched as she reached her car and drove down the hill and out of sight.  She didn’t wave, and neither did he.

“Who was that?” Buffy asked when he returned.  She had already removed her earplugs.

“Just a ghost from the past,” Xander replied.  “Nothing that matters now.  But it looks like our nifty plan has been royally screwed up.”  He looked into the car and saw the driver’s split-lip and bloody chin.  The idea of taking Castillo by surprise by pretending to be entranced had been a good one, and he was disappointed to see it would no longer work. 

“I wish Giles were still around,” Buffy confided.  “He always researched great ways to destroy demon-thingies.  But I guess we did well enough against Castillo without Giles several years ago.”

“Yeah, other than that whole setting-the-resort-on-fire thing, we did great,” Xander replied.

Buffy made Wittingstone and the driver get out of the car and start walking downhill.  She wasn’t keen on the idea of simply letting them go, but they weren’t vampires and she knew there was no way the police would do anything about them.  Also, by the time they reached the city again, Castillo and the frost demon would either be defeated or Sunnydale would turn into  Antarctica.  Either way, the pair couldn’t do much more harm than they already had.

“So what’s the plan?” Dawn asked, as soon as Wittingstone and the driver were out of earshot.

Xander looked at Buffy, and Buffy looked at Xander.

“Well we better think of something else, and fast,” Dawn said.  “It feels like the temperature is dropping every second.”

Buffy motioned for them to get back in the car.  She slid behind the steering wheel and started it up.  When everyone was strapped in, she drove up the hill, desperately trying to think of a plan.  As they neared the top, she relaxed.  She knew she was good at what she did, and she had people she trusted along with her.  Plan or not, when the time came she knew she’d think of something and just do the best she could.  It had always been enough before, and with any luck, it might just be enough again.

           

 

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN: FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            Angel slowly pushed his head out from under the desk and looked around—the science lab was empty.  He rolled completely out and stood up, brushing dust and “ash” from his clothing.  He walked briskly over to one of the counters along the wall and cleared a place on it for him to stand.  The science lab was set lower than the rest of the building, meaning the only ventilation came from long but narrow windows set near the ceiling—students in the lab could  view only the feet of other students standing outside on the lawn.  Extending to his full height, he  pushed one of the windows opened and hoped he could squeeze through.  He had heard gunfire just outside the room in the hallway, and knew the vampire-hunters must be close.

            He was pleasantly surprised Giles’ plan had worked so well.  It seemed like such a cheap ruse, but the librarian had made it run without a hitch—pretending to attack Giles, Giles melodramatically scrambling for a weapon, Angel falling to the ground with a scream.  “Ash” and “blood” were created from simple ingredients in the chemistry cabinets of the lab.  The hardest part was the end—lying silently under the desk as Michael approached, and then rolling towards the door when he came around to the far side of the desk, and then back under the desk when he and Giles turned to leave.  If the hunter had caught him then, it would have all been  over.  But the terrible illumination provided by the emergency lighting made the difference.

            Angel pulled himself towards the window but paused midway up, listening to the gunshots again.  Just what are they shooting at? he wondered.  They wouldn’t attack one of their own, and with me “dead,” what is left?  He thought for a second, standing on the counter.  Giles!  How could I have forgotten—vampires were  after him too.  I was thinking so much of myself that . . .

            He jumped down from the counter and lurched towards the doorway, seeing that Giles and Michael were in the hallway, face down on the ground just a few yards away.  Wooden bullets flew all around them.  It took Angel a moment to realize Giles was not being aimed at—at least not yet.  Instead, the high-tech vampire-hunters were shooting at another group of vampires on the opposite end of the hallway.  Angel recognized them instantly as Spike groupies and hoped that their master really had died in the collapse of the church.  They had torn off locker doors to use as shields and darted from doorway to doorway to avoid the shots.

            Giles was safe now, but the two groups of vampires were rapidly advancing on each other, and would meet just about where he and Michael were laying.  I’ve got to help him.  But if Michael sees me, he’ll keep coming after me and we won’t fool him twice. 

Angel didn’t hesitate to make a decision—Giles was worth the risk.  Angel tried to find a lull in the gunfire and then rushed out into the hallway, the pain in his leg still bothering him.  The shooting started again just as he reached the pair.

“Come on, get up!” he shouted to Giles.  He crouched low to the ground as the projectiles continued to fly.  When the Watcher did as instructed, the pair awkwardly ran while trying to stay low to the ground and reached the doorway.  Angel pushed Giles through and turned back.  Angel had been grazed in the shoulder, but it wasn’t a serious wound.

But now that the vampire-hunters knew he was there, a second such stunt could be deadly.  Michael was still laying on the ground, with his hands around his head—apparently his exoskeleton increased strength, but did not provide any protection against projectile weapons.  I can just leave him—we’re free and clear now, Angel thought.  He tried to kill me.  But . . . he is an innocent—even if hopelessly confused.  Still . . .

Angel shook his head from side to side and rushed back out into the hallway.  This soul is really going to get me into trouble someday, he thought.  He dove towards where Michael was laying.  Out of the corner of his eye Angel saw one of Spike’s vampires disintegrate from a well-aimed shot.  They weren’t stupid though—they had sent some of their number around the school to flank the vampire-hunters, who would be in for quite a surprise as the others distracted them.

He shouted Michael’s name twice, but the figure didn’t respond.  Angel noticed his eyes were closed.  Is he dead?  No, he’s breathing.  Must be in shock or something.  Angel crawled over to Michael, grabbed his wrists, and began dragging him back towards the science lab door.  We need a miracle, Angel thought, as a bullet whizzed just inches from his ear.

It came in the form of a thick cloud of smoke that filled the hallway, making it impossible to aim accurately.  “Angel, this way!” he heard Giles shout.  Angel continued pulling in the direction of Giles’ voice until suddenly Michael’s hands grabbed hold of the vampire’s wrists as well, and began pulling in the opposite direction.

“Let me go!” the human growled.  “I won’t let you . . . do to me . . . what you did to them!”  With a powerful jerk, Michael pulled Angel off of his feet and slammed him into the wall.

Angel hit hard with a thud before scrambling to his feet.  The smoke was rapidly starting to clear, and he could see the other vampire-hunters taking aim at him.  He looked around desperately for Michael, only to see the door to the basement swing shut behind him.  He wanted to go after him, to explain, but there just wasn’t time.  As a fusilade of wooden bullets screamed through the air, Angel dove into the science lab doorway and Giles slammed it shut.

“I tried,” Angel said simply.  “Where’d that come from?” He pointed to a few tendrils of smoke emerging from underneath the door.

“A rather simple concoction really,” Giles said, “mainly water and a little sod—“

“Never mind,” Angel interrupted.  “We need to get out of here.  That door won’t hold them if they decide to come through.”

“It appears that our, ah, guest is mobile again,” Giles said

“We did what we could.  He’s on his own now.”  Angel walked over to the counter and lifted himself up to the window.

 “Come on,” he said, bracing himself on the ground and reaching his arms through the window.  He was strong enough that he could pull Giles up easily.

Sirens began wailed in the distance as they reached the parking lot.  I was wondering if they would ever show up, Giles thought.  One would think that with everything that happens at Sunnydale High, they would build a police station across the street.

They walked wordlessly until they reached Giles’ beat-up Citroen.  Across the parking lot, they saw a handful of the vampire-hunters jump into a waiting black car, while a small army of Spike’s gang made their way to a manhole cover, ripped it out of the ground, and jumped down.

“I still don’t understand what that was all about,” Angel stated.  His clothing was rumpled and dirty, but he still held his head high.

“Death . . . can make people do strange things,” Giles observed.  “Pray that we never have to face the tragic loss of a loved one as Michael did.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

“Most certainly.  But not for a while.  And perhaps then we’ll be prepared.”

 

 

            Buffy’s eyes were wide and she was scared—very scared.  The motorcycle almost flew down the mountain road, as Castillo took turns at breakneck speed and did not slow down, no matter how much ice was on the pavement.  She swore he was a maniac, but somehow, every time it looked like they were going to crash, he kept the bike on its wheels and continued going even faster.  What’s he have to worry about—vampires can’t die from car crashes, Buffy realized angrily.

            As soon as he finally started slowing down, Buffy tensed to make a jump for it, but Castillo kept an arm tightly around her shoulders.  He finally pulled over near the guardrail on a section of a narrow, one-lane road.  He removed his jacket and draped it over the handlebars.  The mountain continued to loom up above them, while only the guardrail stood between them and an almost six-hundred foot drop to a rocky slope below.

            “Now, was that not exhilarating?” Castillo asked, keeping a firm grip on Buffy and walking over to the guardrail.  He smiled broadly and was clearly in a good mood.  “It is one of the few worthwhile inventions of this century.  The wind in your hair, the –“

            “Bugs in your teeth?” Buffy interjected.

            “Ah, yes.  Uncooperative to the end—an admirable quality.  However, it is just you and me now—let us dispense with the formality, shall we?  Now, as I was saying, the brooding vampire characters in your silly American novels are just that—fiction.  Who would ever yearn to be ‘human,’ when one has an eternity to sample all of life’s pleasures with none of the pains?”

            “You know, right about now, I so do not care,” Buffy said.

            “Well.”  He turned her around so she was leaning against the guardrail and had to look at the rocks below.  “This is more cinematic, don’t you agree?  A cold windy, winter’s night—the moon casting the slightest hint of shadow as the stars flicker—an isolated mountain road—a cliff awaiting.  Indeed, did you know that this was how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle portrayed his great hero, Sherlock Holmes, perishing in mortal combat with his arch-enemy, Moriarty?”

            He sighed and turned her around so her back was to the guardrail.  “I regret that you do not appreciate it.  But, you are no Holmes and I am no Moriarty,” he said, almost wistfully.  “Still, I must apologize.  I was hoping that I would have something very memorable or witty to say to you to memorialize your last moments, but I fear that I cannot think of anything.  The simple fact is that you are about to experience a very long fall onto some very hard rocks.  Good-bye Ms. Summers—it was not as I had hoped, but still a pleasure.”

            He leaned over almost nonchalantly to push her over the guardrail.  Buffy reacted instantly and twisted the chain from her handcuffs around his left wrist and tugged hard—she thought she hard something snap.  Castillo cried out in pain and slammed into her, knocking Buffy over the railing.  The handcuffs were still twisted around Castillo’s wrist, however, and Castillo was jerked off of his feet and tipped over the railing as well.  He managed to grab one of the metal supports of the guardrail with his one free hand, though he felt he was being torn in two.

            Buffy’s legs dangled in the air—there was no way her feet could reach anything to get a grip on.  She held on tight with both hands as Castillo tried to shake her off, and then she dodged frantically as he kicked at her.  She caught a glimpse of the cliffside below and had difficulty drawing her eyes away—it was so far down!  There was no way she could try to climb—if she dared untwist the chain, he was strong enough to shake her off easily.

            She pulled her legs up and back and began to swing, slowly at first, and then faster, like a pendulum.  Castillo’s face contorted into a picture of agony as he was torn between holding on to the guardrail with one hand and Buffy with the other.  The bitch is trying to wrench my arm from its socket!  “Stop it, girl--you’re going to kill us both!” he exclaimed, the first time Buffy had ever seen him sweat.

            She continued swinging faster and faster and then, when she reached the highest part of her arc, she suddenly relaxed her grip, untwisting the handcuff chains.  Before Castillo could even realize what was happening, her momentum had lifted her up in the air, and with a mid-air tumble worthy of an Olympic gymnast, she had landed on top of the guardrail itself.  She stepped down onto the road and then turned to face the vampire, who was still holding onto the guardrail and swinging slightly.

            “I have a question,” Buffy said.  “Was this dramatic enough for you?” 

She aimed carefully and planted a kick at his hand, breaking several fingers.  She heard him cry out one last time and then watched his body plummet several hundred feet before crashing into the jagged cliffs below.

 

 

            Xander crashed through the cabin door and shouted “Guys! There’s vampi—“ before realizing he was staring two vampires right in the face.  Behind them, in a corner, Willow and Cordelia were sitting handcuffed.  “Why does this always happen to me?” he said dryly before sprinting back out the door.

            “Follow him!” shouted one of the vampires to his companion.  “I’ll watch the prisoners.”

            Xander ran out into the snow, knowing a blood-sucker was following close on his heels.  He ran around the corner of the cabin trying to think desperately of a plan—one didn’t come to mind, so he kept running around the building and before he knew it, he was back at the front door.  He decided to continue running and bounced off the chest of the vampire which had chased him and then doubled-back.  He landed on his rump right in front of the doorway.  Both vampires advanced on him, licking their fangs.

            “Willow!” he shouted.  “I need you to think up a plan for me really fast!”

            “I’ve got one!” she yelled back instantly, her eyes fixed on the portion of the road she could see through the doorway.  Soon everyone could hear the low rumble of an approaching motor.  “Keep them occupied while Buffy stakes ‘em!”

“Angel has returned, and soon the party begins,” one of the vampires said to Xander.  They were so confident that their leader had returned that they didn’t even turn to look in the direction of the approaching motorcycle.  They heard its engine stop and continued smiling at the captives until a leather jacket flew through the air and landed at their feet.

They turned and looked around then and saw that the Slayer was standing in front of them, her hands free and holding broken but sharp tree branches.

“Okay, scumbags,” she said.  “I’m tired, so we can do this two ways.  You can either a) jump on the bike and ride far, far away, or b) stand there politely while I jam these through your hearts.”

The vampires were shocked—Castillo had never failed before.  But after all the warnings they had heard about the Slayer, they were too intimidated to risk fighting her when even their master had failed.  They backpedaled slowly and then ran for the bike, taking off down the snowy road in a cloud of smoke.  Buffy unlocked her friends’ handcuffs with the key she had found in the jacket.

“I knew you’d come through,” said Willow, hugging Buffy.

Cordelia rubbed her wrists.  “Anyone else notice how she always saves the day after my hunk gets gored by the vampires?  I think there’s a pattern or something.”

“I’m glad everyone’s okay,” said Xander.  “Man, you wouldn’t believe what Amara and I just went through.”

“Amara?” said Buffy.

“Yeah.  You know, the pretty girl I was with all day on the slopes.  We waved to you, remember?”

“Xander, I remember seeing you once or twice, but I didn’t think you were with anyone.    We waved at you, but I wondered why you were spending so much time alone.  I thought maybe you just wanted some time to yourself.”

“But—” Xander looked perplexed and then cold fear hit him in the gut.  “Oh no!  Not again . . .” he said, rushing out of the cabin.

He jogged over to Amara’s cabin.  It was still dark, but Xander tried the door—it was unlocked and opened easily.  Inside, the cabin was empty and held no signs it had recently been inhabited.  It doesn’t look like its  even been used--but I was just here a few hours ago!  The rumors about the owner’s dead daughter.  I guess it makes sense.  The ever-present Xander curse.  He sighed and put his hands on his hips, kicking the bed frame desultorily.  He walked back slowly to the others’ cabin and resolved not to tell them about it.  As much as they tease me about women now, just think what they’d do if they knew I spent the entire day hitting on a ghost.

 

 

            It was early on Sunday afternoon when Cordelia pulled her father’s SUV into the high school lot.  They had jumped into the car as soon as they could cram it full of their gear—no one could sleep after the night’s excitement, and no one wanted to explain to the authorities how the lodge burned down and the resort’s caretaker died.  Plus, Buffy was worried about Giles—Castillo had mentioned something about eliminating the Slayer and her Watcher.

            Giles pulled into the lot from the other direction just as Buffy and the others were getting out.  The librarian had intended to spend the day cleaning up his office and was surprised to see his ward had returned so soon.

            “Giles!” Buffy called out and ran to him.

            “Ah, hello everyone,” he said.  “Finished your vacation early, I see.  Was . . . there anything wrong?” he said, a worried look on his face.

            “Wrong?  Us?  Of course not,” Buffy said innocently.  She knew that if she told him of the vampire attack, he would feel guilty for letting her go and not being there when she was in danger.  Fortunately, the others had agreed to keep her secret.  “Just boring was all.  How about you?  Anything pop up here while I was gone?”

            “Ah, no.  No, nothing ‘popped up,’ as you say.  A very quiet weekend, actually,” Giles said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.  He worried about Buffy’s emotional state enough as it was, and if she found out that a small army of vampires had come to town and that Angel was almost killed, she would blame herself—she might never relax again.  Fortunately, Angel had agreed to keep his secret.  “I’m, ah, sorry your vacation did not turn out as you hoped,” he said.

            “It happens,” said Buffy with a shrug.  “You know, sometimes Sunnydale isn’t really as bad as it seems.”  This is my place, she thought.  It may be a literal hell hole, but it’s where I belong.  And maybe that’s not so bad after all.  “Anyway,” she said, smiling, “I’m glad to be back.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE PRESENT

 

            Several minutes after a determined Buffy slid behind the wheel, the sedan crested the snow-covered hill.  It was coming down as hard as she had ever seen it, but Buffy didn’t slow down.  She knew they were running out of time, and wanted to get it over with—one way or another.

            The top of Kingman’s Bluff was a flat plateau with steep sides all around it.  Xander was familiar with the place.  It was here that Willow had raised an unholy temple from the ground and set about destroying the world.  It was here she had finally realized the enormity of what she was doing and had collapsed in his arms, the agony of Tara’s death flooding into her and racking her body with sobs.  Seeing the hilltop again put Xander into one of his rare despairing moods.  He missed Tara too, of course.  But what he hated was seeing his best friend in so much pain and not being able to help.  Willow wouldn’t let him, or anyone else, in.  She had distanced herself from the world, and he knew that no matter how many frost demons or vampires they destroyed, she wouldn’t suddenly snap out of it.

            Buffy hit the brakes hard, and the car slid for several feet in the snow and ice before coming to a stop.  She got out quickly, and the others followed.  She was staring into the sky above the hill, with a hand over her eyes to help deflect the glare from the snow.  She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

            “Is that what . . . it looks like?” she asked quietly.

            “I guess it is,” Xander replied.

            Buffy, Xander, and Dawn looked on as a giant, vaguely humanoid shape almost thirty-feet tall hovered over the hilltop.  Its body and limbs looked like they were composed of ice, and even through the swirling snow they could see its mouth was a gaping maw of icicle teeth.  It wasn’t complete yet—the left hand was a stump where the elbow would be on a normal human.  They could see it slowly filling in with ice and snow though, and knew that when the demon’s arm was completed, it would be fully manifested.  It would be free—and near impossible to stop.

            Buffy’s instincts told her to tell Dawn to get back in the car and stay there.  But Buffy had promised to stop trying to shield her sister from the dangers they faced.  And more, Buffy doubted the car or anywhere else in Sunnydale would really be safe from this monster, once it was set free.

            “And me without my flamethrower,” Xander cracked bitterly as they trudged towards it.  The snow was deep here--at least two or three feet--and made for slow going.

            The whirling flakes died down slightly, and they could make out a human-sized figure limping towards them from the far side of the hill.  It carried a small chest in its arms, with the lid open.  From the chest, a steady stream of ice flowed upward into the sky, and then spread out.

            Winter in a box, Buffy thought.  Handy.

            The approaching figure set the box down and limped closer.  It drew itself up to full height, and as it began to speak, the wind suddenly stopped and everything on the hilltop was deathly silent.

            “Ms. Summers,” Castillo said, “how nice of you to drop by.  And you brought company?  Excellent.  I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long, long time.  I trust you will find it suitably . . . dramatic?”

            Buffy looked at the vampire carefully.  She barely recognized him because he simply didn’t look much like the Castillo she had encountered before.  He was nude now, for one thing—but the terrible scars all up and down his body, and on his face, made him look like a disfigured monster.  Even his facial expressions were different.  When Buffy had seen him before, he was calm, confident, and in control.  Now his face clearly showed hatred and barely suppressed rage.  She decided she might be able to exploit it.

            “Dramatic?” she asked.  “More melodramatic.  Remember the bad comic book super-villains we talked about?  Well, congratulations.  You’ve become one.  What’s next?  You tie us up on some mechanized death-trap right before a hidden announcer says ‘Same Bat-Time, Same Bat—“

            “I’m only going to tell you this once, Ms. Summers.  Shut up!” Castillo said through clenched teeth.  “You are the most insufferable . . .  Ah, but I forget myself.”  He closed his eyes for a moment and then spoke again, more calmly this time.  “Can you imagine what it was like for me to linger at the bottom of that cliff, my body broken, for months on end until I was well enough to move?  Can you imagine the pain and the—“

            “Well it was your idea to do the whole cliff-thing,” Buffy interrupted.  “Remember?  Something about Sherlock Holmes or something.  I don’t really remember.  It was kinda lame.”  She judged her distance to the open chest as she said this, and decided she couldn’t reach it before he managed to intercept her.  At least not from where she was standing.

            “I remember,” Castillo replied.  “And what I neglected to mention was that after Sir Doyle’s famous protagonist fell to his apparent death, he was . . . resurrected, shall we say, just a few years later.”

            “That’s great,” Buffy said.  “Literature.  I like that.  Danielle Steele, V.C. Andrews, Stephen King.  I read all the great classics.”  She continued to goad him on as she edged closer.  Behind her, Xander and Dawn stood anxiously, not quite sure what Buffy was doing or what they should do.

            Castillo sighed at her words and put his hands to his face.  He drew them away and shook his head.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “But I’m going to kill you now.  However, unlike last time, I have prepared words appropriate for the occasion.  ‘For only in destroying I find ease/To my relentless thoughts.’  Milton, Paradise Lost.”

            Heeding their cue, a score of Castillo’s finest suddenly burst from underneath the snow where they had lain in wait, claws extended and fangs salivating in anticipation.  Castillo had kept them hungry, and now they were ready to tear something apart.  Buffy, Xander, and Dawn were surrounded and stood back to back, their wooden stakes looking pitiful.  The wind picked up again, the snow swirled, and a tremendous roar came from above—Solasheyk had almost completely manifested.  It was then that Buffy realized Castillo hadn’t intended the vampires to kill her, but simply delay her until the demon was ready.  She realized that judging by the fact that the demon was now missing only the tips of its fingers, his plan would probably work.

            “The chest!” Buffy shouted.

            The trio of friends fought like cornered tigers, slashing and stabbing with their stakes frantically as the vampires swarmed all over them.  They pushed in the direction of the chest, but the vampires knew what they were trying to do.  A moment later, scratched and bleeding, Buffy and her friends were only a few steps closer than they had been before—and it seemed like there were more vampires than ever.

            “Keep fighting” Buffy yelled.  She staked another vampire and dodged to the side, looking for an opening.  Two more vampires stepped in front of her, and she threw herself back to avoid a fist.  She dodged in low, kneeing a vampire in the chest and then brought her stake down and stabbed it in the back, piercing the heart from the rear.  She barely had time to breathe before another vampire stepped up in its place.

            Dawn and Xander were barely holding their own.  They had had some practice fighting vampires—most of it in the field, like this—but fighting a vampire one-on-one was something quite different than fighting a group of voracious vampires, each intent on scoring points with Castillo by being the first to claim a prized victim.

            Buffy staked another vampire and then looked up.  The snow swirled so hard she could barely see the demon, but she could tell she only had perhaps a minute left.  As soon as it manifested, Sunnydale could kiss itself goodbye.  She spun to avoid a high kick and saw that Xander and Dawn were still on their feet.  She knew she could get out of this crowd and reach the chest—after all, she could jump over fences and walls when she put her mind to it—but it meant leaving Xander and Dawn, and they wouldn’t last a second without her around.  It was a moment of choice she had never wanted to face—Sunnydale or her friends—but she made it without regret.  She stayed where she was and continued fighting, hoping against hope that something would happen to turn the tide of battle before it was too late.

            Dawn danced in place, stake held up high, waiting for one of the vampires to come within range.  Her jaw was sore—one of them had gotten in a lucky shot—but otherwise she was still feeling pretty good.  She saw one of the bloodsuckers stumble in the snow and shot forth, jamming the point of the stake into its heart just as Xander’s stake did the same thing, barely an inch apart.

            “Hey!” Xander said with half a smile.  “There’s enough to go around.  Get your own!”

            “My bad,” Dawn replied, swinging around to realize two vampires had picked her as their own.

            Several of the vampires suddenly started screaming, and Buffy wondered if the snow had turned to rain—liquid water was splashing all over her and the others.  The vampires surrounding them threw up their hands and fell to the ground, rolling around in the snow to try and cool off.  They didn’t know the terrible burning sensation was caused by holy water that had hit them and then frozen to their skin—try as they might, they wouldn’t be able to get the stuff off.

            Buffy staked another vampire and looked around for her next target.  It was then she realized there weren’t any more—all of the vampires had either been destroyed or were on the ground, screaming.  She looked around and saw a man dressed in green armor running full speed towards Castillo.  She recognized the type of armor from the woman in the caverns who had collapsed the ceiling.  And almost buried me and Dawn alive.  She didn’t know quite what to think when the man leaped and tackled Castillo, screaming something about “Maggie and Kate.”

            Castillo and Tintsman rolled around in the snow until, with a vicious strike, Castillo knocked his opponent back.  Castillo stood up, panting.  “Who the hell are you?” he said.

            Tintsman stood up as well, tears in his eyes.  “You’re Angel,” he said.  “The Angel of Death.  Spike was right.  It makes sense now—Electrotech, the project, all of it!” 

He rushed Castillo again, but the vampire landed a solid shot to Tintsman’s jaw and staggered him.  The vampire laughed dryly.

“Ah, yes.  I do seem to recall a pitiful bureaucrat standing in the way of the Sunrise Project.  Maggie and Kate did you say?  According to the activity report, I believe my boys had . . . quite a time with them.”

Tintsman bellowed so loudly that everyone—Buffy, her friends, even the remaining vampires—stopped what they were doing and stared at him.  His face was a mask of pure rage and although he tried to speak, no words would come.  Castillo looked surprised and, without intending to, stepped back a few feet.  Tintsman was blind to anything but his enemy now.  He charged forward again and slammed into Castillo like a freight train.

            “They both look insane,” Xander said, coming up behind Buffy.  He held his wrist, trickles of blood dripping into the snow.

            “Well good,” Dawn said.  “Problem solved.”

            “Not yet,” Buffy said.

            Solasheyk the Frost Demon had manifested fully, and it looked even larger than before.  It began to move, slowly at first as if flexing its non-existent muscles, and then faster.  It drew its head back and then pushed it forward.  A hail of razor-sharp icicles flew from its mouth like a dragon breathing fire.  Buffy barely had time to push her friends to the ground before a thick icicle embedded itself in her side.  She screamed out in pain and looked down to see her blood was already mingling with the ice and starting to freeze.  She desperately tried to think—she couldn’t remember if you were supposed to pull out arrows and things like that or leave them in.

            A shadow passed over her and she realized the demon was moving towards her and the others.  Castillo and Tintsman still fought, each delivering brutal blows to the other.  Buffy forced the pain away and stood up.  She started to get dizzy and knew she was going to black out, but willed herself to keep going.  There was something left she had to do.

            She moved as fast as she could towards the open chest.  Pain laced all the way up and down her left side where the icicle was still embedded.  She was grateful for the pain though—she knew it would help keep her conscious.  Blood dripped into each footprint she made in the snow as she half-jogged, half-ran.  In the back of her mind, she realized that Solasheyk had focused on her for some reason.  Better me than Xander or Dawn, she thought.

            Although she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help but look up at the demon.  Its sheer power was almost magnetic.  It reared up and inhaled, drawing snow and ice into its mouth.  A second later another volley of ice spikes, larger than the first, were flying directly towards her.  She jumped towards the chest, landing slightly behind it.  It shook slightly with the force of all the snow and ice still streaming from it.  She glanced at the deadly fusillade and then with one last, final burst of energy, she grabbed hold of the lid and forced it closed.

            It was like turning a light switch on and off.  It suddenly stopped snowing, the wind fell to a faint breeze, but most of all, the temperature reverted instantaneously back to normal.  It was suddenly a normal Sunnydale summer’s night, hot and humid.  The snow quickly began to melt, but the effect on Solasheyk was even more dramatic.  It was like he was being flushed down a drain.  The demon’s entire body started to shrink and spin, more and more of his mass sucked into the dimension he came from.  He gave a tremendous roar as his ice body melted, dripping water all over the top of hill. 

The razor-sharp ice spikes were still flying.  Even if Buffy had the energy, there was no time to run.  She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.  Tintsman, still locked in combat with Castillo, saw what was about to happen. 

“I won’t let you hurt anyone else!” he screamed, charging his foe again and knocking them both toward Buffy.  At the last possible moment, the pair fell in front of her and the thick volley of spikes embedded themselves into them instead of her.  Castillo was disintegrated and Tintsman torn into pieces, but she had been completely shielded.

She was still bleeding, however, staining the snow around her a dark crimson.  She tried to stand up but she couldn't.  She saw Xander and Dawn rushing towards her and heard sirens in the distance.  She knew she was going to be okay, but her side hurt like hell and everything was going blurry.

Xander reached her first and cradled her head with his arms.

“You know what?” Buffy said through pain-clenched teeth, a moment before unconsciousness came.  “Winter sucks.”

           

 

 

FIRST EPILOGUE: FOUR YEARS AGO

 

            The shrill ring of his cell phone jolted Castillo out of the stupor he was in.  He couldn’t believe the damn thing still worked.  The pain of the fall had been so terrible he had had trouble focusing at all and had largely blacked out.  He knew he had suffered many broken bones and massive internal injuries.  But he was alive . . .

            The phone rang again.  Castillo could barely move at all as he lay at the bottom of the cliff side, a jagged piece of rock tearing through his abdomen.  Although he had managed to roll far enough under a jutting rock that the rays of the sun could not reach him, he was in so much agony that he almost regretted the fact that only a stake through the heart or other special methods could kill a vampire.  Still, he managed to twitch a finger just enough to switch the phone on.

            “Mr. Castillo,” a voice said, again pronouncing every letter of his name.  Wittingstone.  When I get out of here, I’m going to teach him how to say my name if I have to pull his fingernails out to do it.  “Sir, there’s been problems,” the voice continued.  “The Watcher is still alive, and the men you sent are either dead or have fled.  I think we’ll have to put the project on hold as the prototype equipment has been largely . . .uh . . . destroyed, and I can’t get replacements in time for the military demonstration.  I hope you don’t think this was my fault, of course.”

            “Sir?” said the voice again.  “Sir?”  The query echoed a few more times before the caller hung up.

            The Slayer alive, the project in shambles.  It may take me weeks, or months, or even years, but eventually my body will heal.  And when it does, I will find her and then . . .I’ll have something sufficiently “dramatic” in store for her.

 

 

 

SECOND EPILOGUE: THE PRESENT

 

 

            Xander walked along the boardwalk, relieved that Buffy was going to be okay.  She had been hurt badly in yesterday’s battle, but as with so many injuries before, she would recover quickly.  What was harder to understand was why Castillo hated her so much to begin with, and who that guy was who had jumped Castillo at the last moment and saved her life, only to die himself.  Xander figured he would probably never find out, but he was okay with that.

            He walked past a couple of tourists and heard them talking loudly about yesterday’s freaky weather being caused by global warming and how it was weird that both it and the rioting had stopped all of a sudden.  He couldn’t help but smile a little smugly.  If only they knew, he thought.

            A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, and as soon as he passed the couple, the only sounds were his own footsteps and the lapping of the waves against the wooden supports.  It was a peaceful day, and although still perhaps a bit warm, a good day to be outside.

            He saw her a few minutes later, near the end of the boardwalk.  She sat up on the wide railing, a few feet over the boardwalk itself.  Her legs were curled under her as her light jacket fluttered in the breeze.  She was staring out over the water, and didn’t move when he walked closer.

            “Hey Will,” he said.

            “How’d you know I was here?” she asked, without looking at him.

            “I just sorta knew,” he said.  He knew that Willow and Tara had come here frequently.  The couple would hold hands, and laugh, and be alive.  “So . . . I just wanted to tell you that Buffy’s okay and everything, and stuff is pretty much back to normal.  The Abominable Frost Demon is gone for good, and Dawn buried the chest where no one will find it.”

            “Okay,” she said.

            “Yeah.  It figures, huh?  The only chance we’ve ever had to get a snow day off school happens after we graduate.”  He knew it wasn’t very funny, but it was all he could come up with.  He desperately hoped she would smile anyway, like the old Willow.  He knew that if she smiled, even a little, she was going to be okay.  He looked at her closely.

            She didn’t.

            He stood there and waited, looking out at the water with her as the sun set.

            Finally he spoke again.

            “There’s some other news too.  Giles got back into town this morning.  He finally took care of all those loose ends back in England.  He also called some people.  Do you see him down there?”

            She looked with him and they could see a tweed-jacketed figure standing patiently at the end of the boardwalk.

            “Uh huh,” she said.

            “Well, Giles has this idea.  I told him it was stupid, but he made me promise to ask you about it anyway, so here it is.  He wants you to go back with him.  To England.  I guess there’s a coven of witches there or something.”

            She didn’t say anything.  He waited, and then spoke again.

            “Yeah, I didn’t think it was a good idea either.  Well, listen, I’ll go let him know and—“

            “I’ll go,” she said, turning and looking at him for the first time.

            Her eyes scared him.  They weren’t angry, insane, sad, or happy.  They were just empty.

            “Are you sure, Will?” he said anxiously.  “I mean . . . well.  We care about you.  We all loved Tara, but I know that we can get through this.  It’ll just take a while is all.”

            She didn’t respond and he could tell she was thinking of someone other than him.

            He tried again.  “And really . . .what am I going to do with my best friend across the ocean?  I don’t think we’ve ever been that far apart.”

            She continued staring out over the water and didn’t trouble herself to wipe away the tears that flowed down her cheeks.  Xander felt like crying himself from seeing her like this.

“I have to go away from here.  To England,” she said finally.  It was the most words she had said to him in one sentence since Tara’s death—but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. 

            “You don’t have to go away, Will.  We’re here for you.  Buffy, and Dawn, and Anya.  And me.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.  “I’m not much of a friend right now, Xander.  I’m not much of anything, really.”  She climbed down from the railing and started walking towards Giles.

            Xander stood motionless, trembling as Willow walked down the boardwalk.  When she reached the end, Giles put an arm around her and with a nod towards Xander, led her towards his waiting car.  A moment later the car’s engine started and they were gone.

            Willow was gone.