Buffy:  "When She Was Bad"

an original fan story by Julie Fortune

This story is a work of original fiction; however, it is set in the universe created by Mutant Enemy productions and the Warner Brothers Television Network. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This work is written entirely for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of friends. Please e-mail the author with comments.

Please do not reproduce or copy without the author's permission.

"I don’t know what I’m going to do with these," Joyce Summers sighed. She ran fingers through her brown hair, lacing it with strands of stray packing material. "We just have too many things to exhibit, and they keep coming. Take this one, whoever packed it didn’t even put a return address on it! How am I supposed to keep up with all this? It’s just – "

She sat down and threw up her hands, a Hallmark drama-queen moment. Buffy looked up from painting her toenails a particularly icy cool shade of chartreuse and said, "Maybe the address is in the crate."

"Maybe," Joyce said. "Boy, I'm tired. Look, would you be a dear and open it up for me? I’ll go order pizza."

"Pizza?" Buffy, whose mood had been sagging toward depression despite chartreuse toenails, perked. "Can we have one with fish?"

"Anchovies. And yes, we can, so long as you keep them from swimming over to my side of the pizza. I’ll make the call. You – " Joyce handed Buffy the crowbar. "You open her up, and try not to destroy anything in the process."

Buffy stood, careful not to smudge the positively Da Vinci job she’d done on her toes; maybe a little glitter on top, or a floral motif, but that was just icing. It was the first coat that made all the difference, ask anybody. Ask Cordelia, she was the Goddess of Great Manicures. Provided Cordelia was talking to anyone ever again, which varied from day to day.

Buffy twirled the heavy crowbar expertly, an iron blur flying from hand to hand. Don’t destroy anything. Speaking of destroying, she was scheduled to meet Giles just after midnight and get with the Slaying program. It was supposed to be another Night of Power, or Prophecy, or something – she got tired of keeping track. It lately seemed like every other night some major supernatural emergency festered. Buffy Summers, Psychic Trauma Surgeon.

"Scalpel," she said, and jammed the forked end of the crowbar under the heavy wooden lid of the crate. It had that lived-in look of something that had flown halfway around the world; a lot of her mom’s packages for the gallery looked like that. So did a lot of Giles’ packages. The Sunnydale Post Office had to be a hotbed of gossip.

She leaned her weight on the crowbar. The lid of the crate squealed up, revealing nails like iron teeth; she kept pushing, hardly noticing the strain, until the lid popped off. It might have smashed into the 14^th century Chinese vase her mother had just unpacked, but she reached out and caught it in mid-air, avoiding the sharp gleaming fangs of the nails.

"The operation’s a success," she said, and dumped the lid on the floor. Inside the crate lay layers of straw-colored excelsior, the same kind that littered the floor for days after one of Mom’s Grand Openings. And, under the packing -- "Too bad the patient's another box."

She started pawing excelsior out in a happy mess to the floor. No return address floated to the surface. She lifted the second box out, frowned at it, and noticed it was old. Old, dark, covered with those kinds of non-readable letters that gave her the heebies and made her want to immediately toss it at Giles. There was a simple catch on one side, not even a lock.

Might be something bad, of course. If it were one of Giles' packages, no way would she flip the catch. That would be just begging for hell on earth, or something.

But this was Mom's package. Art. Knick-knacks. No world-destroying artifacts, at least not lately.

So she flipped the catch and opened the box.

It was a mirror. Gleaming, silver, beautiful. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed, misty; there was some kind of white veil over the mirror.

"Wow," she said, and set the box down to step back to admire it. It really was beautiful. Not a huge mirror – just big enough to show her head and shoulders – square, with that kind of really intricate silver stuff around the frame that probably made it mondo expensive. Mom would get a charge out of it, even if she was overstocked.

There was some kind of smudge on the mirror’s surface, like a fingerprint. Buffy took hold of the white gauze cover and rubbed it lightly over the surface, but it didn’t seem to help.

For a second she hesitated, thinking, I really ought to show this to Giles, and then she moved the gauze just a little bit, just enough to see the mark for what it really was.

A moving point of black.

Growing larger.

The gauze whispered, lifted in an invisible wind, fluttered moth-wings against Buffy’s cheeks. She grabbed it and dragged it away from her face –

And saw herself in the mirror. Unshrouded. But not – not herself –

The spot in the mirror became a whirling tunnel, reaching out of the mirror, a miniature tornado licking at her.

She still had the crowbar next to her. One good hit would shatter the thing –

But she couldn’t move.

The tunnel found her. Licked her face, her eyes, slid over her like a tongue, sucked her down a throat of darkness.

She never made a sound.

She couldn’t.

"Buffy?"

Joyce emerged from the kitchen, holding the phone in one hand. No trace of her daughter, but the stomach-turning shade of nail polish was where she’d left it, along with the all-important cotton balls and polish remover. Excelsior littered the floor like torn Christmas paper. Oh, thank you, Buffy. Joyce sighed and tried not to think how long it was going to take to clean that up. I’ve gotten old. When I was her age, I wouldn’t have let a little cleanup get in the way of throwing confetti.

The crate was open, and there was a mirror propped against the wood. It was draped in a thin white veil, maybe cheesecloth, something to protect the glass. Joyce hardly gave it a glance; there were a dozen mirrors already in the gallery, larger than this one. This one had backstock written all over it.

Joyce edged by it to angle a look down the hallway.

No Buffy. She turned her attention back to the pizza delivery service, and the problem at hand.

"No, I think we’d better make it a large. Half anchovy and mushroom, half Canadian bacon, black olives – yes – a two-liter bottle of --"

Her voice died in her throat as her daughter came around the corner. She wasn’t sure why for a second – it was Buffy – but there was something, something –

It was the way she walked. Under normal circumstances Buffy moved like a normal teenaged girl, a little more graceful than others, a little stronger. But now she glided. It was a catwalk, a smooth flow of muscle and purpose, and as Joyce stood there frozen, with the phone held forgotten in her hand, she saw Buffy’s eyes catch the light. They looked – metallic. Brighter than they should. Focused to an unnerving intensity.

"Buffy?" she asked. Her voice sounded weak and thin. Without thinking why, Joyce took a step backward, into the kitchen.

Buffy’s lips parted in a grin. Her face deformed.

Long ivory canines gleamed.

Joyce screamed, threw the phone at her, and ran for the back door, but of course that was useless, even human Buffy could have caught her, and this – this creature was faster than Buffy. Faster than Joyce. Faster than anyone.

It cut her off from the door.

"Buffy," Joyce said again, but she wasn’t trying to make this – this thing her daughter, she was trying to deny that it was happening. "Buffy, please – "

"Please what?" the thing that was not Buffy asked, in exactly Buffy’s bored-teen voice.

"Please don’t – "

"Don’t what? Kill you? Well, much as I'm loving this quality time experience, that's exactly what I'm going to do. As slowly as possible."

Joyce yanked open a kitchen drawer, where Buffy kept what she called her kitchen emergency kit. She took the cross in her left hand and the stake in her right, and prayed – prayed – that she wouldn’t have to use but one of them. She turned the cross on Buffy as her daughter came for her, felt the power cascade down her arm and slam into Buffy’s chest, knocking her backward. Buffy’s metallic eyes widened and caught hellfire.

"Gee, we were getting along so well, Mom," she said. "Well, I’ll be back. You know I will, sooner or later. You always hurt the ones you love."

As if she had all the time in the world, Buffy threw open the back door and stepped out into the night, looked up at the moonlight, and laughed.

Joyce sank down to a sitting position in the corner, cross held to her chest, fighting to breathe against the terror. She heard the annoyed buzz of the pizza delivery person on the other end of the phone, but it meant nothing, nothing.

"Buffy," she whispered numbly.

It took her several more moments to begin to cry.

She landed face-down in water.

Buffy rolled and came bolt upright, gasped in a breath of murky air. She was sitting spread-eagled in a six-inch-deep puddle of water. Underground. In a cavern like the ones that ran under Sunnydale, the ones where the Master –

"This is not good." She stretched out her arms and looked at the outfit she was wearing. It was soaking wet, but even dry it was right out of the Vogue for Vamps catalogue – the black leather corset was poster-child Goth, and the miniskirt – and the torn fishnet hose – and the boots, God, in a lot of towns those boots would have been sold under the counter in a brown paper bag. Mom would have a heart attack if she ever –

She had to stop stressing about the ‘drobe, because somebody was coming at her out of the shadows. Coming fast. Vamp. Big time. She didn’t recognize him, but he was big and bad and would have been ugly even unvamped. She jumped to her feet – the four-inch heels were a little more difficult than she’d counted on – and balanced there, fighting stance ready. Water dripped in her eyes, but she’d learned not to let that bother her. God, if the clothes were bad, she was terrified of what her hair might look like –

The vamp started to say something to her, probably some crack about her corset, but then somebody else vaulted out of the shadows, quick, a blur. Knocked the vamp down. A delicate feminine hand produced a honking big stake and slammed it home, right in the heart.

The vamp exploded in a shower of ash. Buffy brushed vamp from leather and said, conversationally, "Wow, thanks, but I pretty much had that one."

The vampire slayer looked up, face gleaming pale in the shadows. Big dark eyes, high sharp cheekbones. Dark hair worn back in a businesslike ponytail. Great. Another one. First Kendra, then Faith, now – who?

"Don’t freak," Buffy said. She was overly familiar with the freaking. "I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m Buffy – "

The other woman threw a stake at her. It spun end over end, streaking for Buffy’s heart. She caught it out of the air between two palms, looked at the construction, and said, "Not bad, but look, if you shave a little more here, you’ll get a lot better – "

"Buffy!" Willow’s voice, half-frantic; Buffy turned and saw her standing there, Willow but, well, not, Willow gone Goth, her long red hair curled into ringlets, her face white, heavy on eyeliner and black lipstick, black-painted nails. Oh, God. Not again. Weren’t they all done with Vamp Willow? And who the hell had brought her back this time? If it was Anya, Buffy was going to wring her skinny little demonic neck. "We have to get out of here!"

Somebody appeared behind Willow just as she bent to offer Buffy a hand up. Blond guy – familiar – kinda cute, a dyed-blond haircut sharp enough to slice diamond …

"Sorry, love," he said, and the rich round Cockney accent gave him away. Spike. She was looking at Spike, but – Spike wearing plaid? And blue jeans? Hiking boots? Now, that was just plain wrong.

Spike shoved Willow, and she fell, screaming. Buffy grabbed for her and broke her fall, felt something cold hiss by her neck. Another stake. Damn it. This was getting annoying.

"Hey!" she snapped, and spun around, toward the would-be slayer. God, she looked familiar too. She and – and Spike –

It was Drusilla. Drusilla …

… the vampire slayer?

"Spike, stay out of it!" Drusilla yelled. Buffy looked up to see Spike leaning over the ledge, staring down; Willow looked, too.

Willow’s eyes flashed red.

She vamped and launched herself up, onto the ledge, after Spike. Okay, that was a minor wig, Buffy had already seen Willow vamp out before – though it still made her brain run in little rat circles screaming Willow?!? The problem was …

Spike wasn’t vamping.

Because Spike was … mortal.

Not happening. Absolutely never ever happening. If she just had a second to think, to sort it out –

Willow slammed Spike against the wall, snarling; her teeth gleamed ivory in the pale light.

"Uh, Will?" Buffy said. Pathetic, it sounded pathetic and lost. She looked back to see Drusilla aiming a crossbow at Willow’s back. "Hey!"

She knocked the crossbow out of the way, sent an arrow flying off to shatter against rocks. Drusilla lost the weapon and took on fighting stance.

She looked hairily competent at it.

Well, this is different, Buffy thought. But at least it’s something I can fight. She made a little bring it on, sister gesture and took a step back as Drusilla obliged her. Big time. Flash-kicks, feints, a blur Buffy couldn’t even track. So fast …

Too fast.

It was over in two strikes. The first one caught Buffy on the side of the head – she didn’t even see that one – and as she reeled to the side, still trying to figure out whether it had been a hand or a foot, the follow-up open-handed strike slammed into her chin and sent her flying into the wall.

Ow. Oh, God, ow. She rolled onto her side and tried to breathe through the pain, come on, you’re the Slayer, it’s just a little pain, but this was – different. Really different. This hurt, in regular human non-Slayer ways.

Drusilla stood over her. A pretty, striking, intense face, lit up now with a bit of killing joy. Focused, scary ecstasy.

She lifted a stake and said, in that familiar dreamlike purr, "This one’s for my Angel."

Spike landed on her, hurled from somewhere above; they both went down with a splash and a couple of cries.

Willow’s hand grabbed Buffy’s and pulled her to her feet with one effortless yank. Willow was breathing hard, her human face alight with excitement. This wasn’t Vamp Willow, who'd been way weirder. This was her Willow … vamped.

"Better get out of here," Willow said. "Before you get in any more trouble. I told you not to play with them. I'm telling you, he's not going to be pleased."

And she dragged Buffy back into the dark.

Giles had gotten accustomed to a certain rather comfortable routine, insomuch as one could have a routine in Sunnydale, home of chaos and terror. He arrived home at six, after training sessions with Buffy; he fixed himself a lonely dinner and enjoyed a single glass of wine, or sometimes a good British ale, and sat down to read.

These were books he would never allow Buffy or any of her friends to see; the prospect worried him considerably that in one of their frequent visits to his home they’d discover this neatly concealed bookcase inside of his armoire. He could only just imagine what hay Xander would make of learning that Rupert Giles – mild-mannered librarian Rupert Giles – enjoyed reading romance novels.

It was a vice he’d developed because of Jenny. Jenny had been an avid reader of what he’d considered to be low entertainment – science fiction, mystery, romance. He’d been alternately charmed and exasperated by her tastes, and she’d taken a delight in shocking him by reading particularly lurid passages to him in moments of great seriousness.

On the second day after her death, he’d found one of her novels lying on the floor by his bed – put there by Angel or dropped carelessly, he’d never been sure . She’d turned down a corner in the middle. That almost destroyed him, that turned-down page; she'd never unfold that corner, read that page, and the next, and the next.

The book was the final evidence that Jenny was gone forever.

Perhaps it was because she'd never finished the book that he picked it up and read it – read it straight through, stopping occasionally to stare into the distance when the heartache grew too heavy to bear. When he'd finished it, he'd gone to Jenny's executor and asked for all of her books. He was reading them in no particular order, just as the fancy struck him, and it seemed he could feel some of her whimsy in him, some of her delight. He still thought that the majority of them were a disgrace – but enjoyable.

When he reached the end of the library, he knew he would have to let her go. By then, perhaps he might be ready. Perhaps.

He had just settled in his chair with a half-empty bottle of Samuel Smith’s Pale Ale and opened Jenny’s well-thumbed copy of Scarlet Whisper when a knock exploded on the front door. Not Buffy’s knock – hers was aggressive but more cheerful, somehow. This sounded frantic, a Xander-knock, perhaps. In any case, it was irritating and altogether the wrong time. Emergencies rarely happened so early in Sunnydale.

He sighed, took a small sip of ale and put the book aside to answer as the knock came again.

"Joyce," he said, a blurt of surprise at the sight of Buffy's mother on his doorstep. At night. Unaccompanied (unchaperoned?) by Buffy. In the next instant he took in her pallid, shocked face, her tear-streaked face, and all lesser considerations melted. "My God. What's – "

Dread struck him to the heart like a glittering shaft of ice. Please, no, let it not be about –

"Buffy," Joyce whispered. "A vampire – "

The word triggered him to realize it was not the safest place for her on the open doorstep. He drew her in and shut the door before he asked the question he dreaded.

"What's happened to her?"

She took his hand, a shocking breach of personal space between them – they'd been ruthlessly circumspect about that – and her skin felt cold to the touch. She shivered violently, though the California evening was warm enough outside. He retrieved the afghan hung on the back of the couch and tucked it carefully around her shoulders, and tried again, his voice sharp with tension.

"What's happened to Buffy?"

Joyce began to weep again, hopeless lost tears. She melted into his arms, her head on his shoulder. He felt the agony surging through her and wanted desperately, oh so desperately, not to hear what she next said.

"She's become a vampire," Joyce whispered. "Oh, God, Rupert, what can we do? How do we help her?"

Something broke in his heart, something fragile and irretrievable. He felt the shockwave of it, but strangely little pain; a heavy numbness settled over him. He knew the feeling. He'd felt it before, when he'd stood in the doorway of his bedroom amid fallen rose petals and seen the horror that Angelus had left for him.

Jenny's eyes had been open, he remembered. Open and so very blank.

This feeling was shock, of course. An old, familiar friend. He slowly pulled back from Joyce and held her at arm's length, staring at her face.

"Did you hear me?" she asked. "We have to help her!"

"You're sure about her -- condition," he said, though he knew she was.

"I saw – her eyes – and the teeth – she tried to – " Joyce stopped, shivering harder. "I don't know what happened. Someone must have – "

"Yes," he said quietly. "Someone must have. Please sit down, Joyce."

"How can you be so calm?" she screamed at him. The afghan fell to the floor as she buried her face in her hands. "Buffy's become a vampire, don't you understand that? She's – she's – "

He understood it all too well. "Was she at your house?"

"Yes. Yes, and then she left, I don't know where she went – "

"We must warn her friends. She'll go first to the easiest victims, to houses where she already has invitation. Or perhaps to the Bronze. Stay here, call Willow first." Yes, she'd go to Willow, to trusting, sweet, Willow whose friendship would blind her to the immediate horrible truth. Second, Xander, who might be unable to resist her even if he knew the truth. Third –

Third, she might come for him, if he couldn't find her first.

"You have to find her," Joyce said, as if she'd read his mind. He blinked at her, momentarily losing his thought. "There must be something you can do. Some spell or something. To change her back."

"Yes," he lied. "Yes, of course there is. We'll immediately start to work. I must get to the library. Call Willow, if you would. Has Buffy ever been to Cordelia's house, do you know?"

"I don't think so."

"Tell Xander and Willow to go there. Call Cordelia and give her strict instructions not to allow Buffy inside no matter the provocation. Include Oz as well. Get everyone together and then go there yourself, I need you out of danger." He had some calls to make of his own, but they weren't something he could do in front of Joyce. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said faintly. "I think – Rupert – you will find her, won't you? Before something terrible happens?"

He didn't know how to begin to tell her that it already had, more than she might ever imagine.

All right, Willow was a vampire. Buffy had been there, survived that. It wasn't Willow who scared her right now, it was Buffy. Or rather, who Buffy was supposed to be, as implied by a leather corset and fishnet hose and thigh-high boots.

Buffy didn’t like where the thought was taking her. No, she definitely did not want to go there.

Except she wasn’t. As Willow ran ahead of her through the dark, Buffy felt her own heart pounding, heard her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. She was alive.

How long before, oh, say, Willow figured that out? Not good.

Buffy saw her chance at a side tunnel, and darted down it, away from Will and whatever might be down that road. She needed some time to think, dammit. And to find Giles. Giles would know the sitch. Except, er, she couldn't show up as the foldout from Hooker Monthly. He'd totally freak. At least, she hoped he would.

Clothes, first. Then Giles. She'd just made a plan, and a pretty fine one if she did say so herself.

Which became moot as she rounded a corner and got slammed face-first to the damp concrete, a knee in her back and a hand squeezing the back of her neck like a vise.

"Should have been more careful," a Cockney voice said, rich with contempt and satisfaction. "Here you go, Dru. This the one you wanted?"

Spike. Spike was on her back. Oh, perfect. The footsteps coming toward her, that would be Drusilla the non-vampire. The Slayer, emphasis on the slay.

"Can we talk about this?" Buffy squeaked. She didn't seem to have any special strength; Spike's weight felt like a ton of steel, and she had absolutely no leverage. "Look, I'm not – "

"Not a vampire," Drusilla said. "I know."

Spike let go of Buffy's neck. She raised her head at a painful angle to look up at Drusilla, who was staring down at her with wide, haunted dark eyes.

"The question is," Drusilla continued, "do I care?"

"Dru," Spike said. His weight eased off of Buffy's spine just seconds before vertebrae popped, or so it felt. "Let's go easy about this."

"I haven't killed her yet."

"So you haven't." Spike stood up, leaving Buffy unpummeled; she cautiously got to her knees, which was actually a lot more comfortable than getting to her feet, given the boots. Spike's attention came back to her, focused more on the corset than her face. Same old Spike. "You're not Buffy Summers."

"Matter of fact, I am," she said. "I guess I'm just not your Buffy Summers. Where I come from, I'm not a vampire, and I have way better fashion sense. Let me guess – you must be Spike."

His face went through a set of expressions she didn't think she'd ever see – horror, shock, recognition. And then back to watchful. "You've got me confused with somebody else, love."

"Yeah, sure. Let me go out on a limb here and say – you're a Watcher."

He was very silent, very still. So was Drusilla, who'd never taken those glowing eyes off of Buffy. Jeez, she was just as unnerving human as she had been vampire. What was up with that?

Spike said, "And who's she?"

"Drusilla's the Slayer." Spike opened his mouth, shut it, and looked at Drusilla. She looked back. "Look, much though I like Kreskining for you, it's not magic," Buffy said. "Where I come from, I'm a Slayer. I've got a Watcher. You're not him, by the way."

"That's impossible," Spike said.

"Yeah? If I'm a vampire, how come I'm breathing? Pretty much not a vamp thing, at least where I come from." Buffy looked past him at Drusilla, who was stalking around the tunnel like a lithe cat, watching her. "You said you knew I wasn't a vampire. Can you tell I'm a Slayer?"

"Yes," Drusilla said petulantly. "I don't like it. I'm the Slayer, Spike. Tell her I'm the Slayer."

"Of course you are, Dru, let's not take it to heart." Spike shot Buffy a warning look. "Yesterday Buffy Summers was on the list of top ten things to kill in Sunnydale, and she was bloody well not walking around with a pulse."

"Couldn't tell it by the wardrobe. Look, analyze later. I need to find a way out of here and back to where I belong. If you're a Watcher, you're Knowledge Guy. Find me a rabbit hole to fall down back to my own universe, where I can get back to slaying -- " People like you. " – the bad guys."

"I'm not that kind of a Watcher," Spike said. "I'm more the physical trainer. You'll need to speak to the boss."

Buffy looked at Drusilla, impressed and amazed. "Wait, you've got a staff? How come I don't have a staff?"

Drusilla's eyes flicked briefly behind her, narrowed, and she smiled. A full-frontal Drusilla smile, just the way she'd been when about to kill or maim. It gave Buffy a serious wig. And then Dru attacked. Instincts were not Buffy's friend – instead of ducking she braced herself to fight – but Spike tackled her out of the way just as Drusilla drop-kicked a vampire who'd lunged out of the darkness. Buffy landed hard and saw stars; she felt Spike roll her over on her back and said hotly, "Again, ow!"

"Get up," Spike said. "We need to get out of here, we're too close to the nest."

"Nest?"

"The Master's lair. Or don't you have a bloody Master Vampire back home?"

"Did," she answered, and blinked back double images. "Pretty much smoked him."

Spike gave her an appraising look – stopping, again, at the corset for just a second too long.

"What? Never seen a Slayer in vampwear before?" she snapped.

He grinned, and she caught the edge of his charm – something he'd always had even as a bloodsucking fiend, unfortunately. "Can't imagine Dru in it, myself."

"Never think you're not lucky." Buffy fought her way to her feet and had to duck again as Drusilla's latest victim sailed over their heads to smash violently against a stone wall. Dru was there before he could fall down, stake in hand. Buffy winced at the war cry. Great. Another Slayer who took too much happy from killing.

What was more interesting, though, was that Spike was wincing, too. He moved toward Dru carefully, coming up slowly, and even so she whipped around with the stake held high, that glow in her eyes. He spoke to her gently, the way you'd speak to a Rottweiler on guard duty, and finally put his hand on her shoulder. She was vibrating all over.

Slayer or not, Dru was a quart low in this universe, too. There was something very sad about that.

"Let's go," Spike said, and reached back to grab Buffy by the elbow. She made herself ungrabbable. "Fine. Wait here, we'll fetch back what's left at a later date."

"Just don't handle me."

Spike frowned slightly and shrugged. He took Drusilla's arm instead, and led them down the tunnel.

Well, Buffy thought. It could be worse.

And, shortly, it was.

If there was no hope, at least there was the dry, sterile comfort of duty. Giles packed a bag at the library and drove to the Summers house. He had no real expectation of finding Buffy there, but it was a logical place to begin, and he was a logical man. He couldn't afford to be an emotional one, not to face what he knew was coming for him.

After a thorough search, he failed to turn up any sign of her. Even so, he revoked her invitation to the house and sealed all the doors and windows with garlic and crucifixes before going on to his next destination. Willow's parents were, as usual, out of the country. He found the Rosenberg house locked tight and – once he'd gained entry nevertheless – reassuringly empty. He reviewed Willow's spells to be sure they were properly done and went on to the Harris household.

Where he found what he was looking for. Or, rather, it found him.

Buffy sat on the branch of a winter-stripped tree outside of Xander's house, perched on a limb far above the ground. Her golden hair spilled pale over her shoulders and fanned like China silk the wind, and it struck him unprepared how very beautiful she was, how very very young. The sight of her made his heart freeze and shatter.

"Been waiting for you," she said without even glancing down at him. "Did you miss me?"

He backed away as she dropped lightly the twenty feet or more to the grass and strolled casually in his direction.

"Hey," she said. "I was starting to think nobody loved me around here -- "

She must have sensed his horror and despair. Her smile faded, and just for a second he saw doubt in her eyes. And fear. And then something like devastation, as if she'd caught a glimpse of her own personal tragedy.

He didn't trust himself to speak to her. He took his large silver cross from his jacket pocket and held it out between them. It was a foolish thing, but he still had a second of hope, a second in which he was blindly sure Joyce had been mistaken, and Buffy would wrinkle her brow and toss some offhand remark, and it would all be all right, thank God.

He cried out when Buffy's eyes blazed red and her face deformed. As his last bit of hope burned to ash.

"Fine. We'll do it hard," she snapped, and leaped for him. He twisted aside, barely able to avoid her, and tried to keep the cross between them. With his other hand he fumbled for a stake.

"You're kidding, right?" she said, and took another step toward him. "Gee, Giles, after all we've meant to each other? What about all the good times? What about all those hot nights you spent thinking about me, dreaming about me – cute old guy like you had to have a few thoughts about it -- "

"Stop!" He choked back sick rage. It was the demon, searching for a way to get under his guard, he had to remember that. It might use Buffy's voice, but it was not Buffy speaking. "Let me help you, Buffy. Please."

"Ooo, pass," she said. "Don't need that staking kind of help. But thanks for playing our home game."

She lunged and knocked the cross away. He tried to bring the stake up between them but she was horrifyingly strong, the strength of a Slayer and a vampire, the worst of all possible evils.

It was why he was sworn on his immortal soul to kill her if she turned. And if he failed, it was why the Watcher Council would expend every last member in seeing that it was done.

She slapped his defenses away as if he were no more than a child, grabbed him and wrenched his neck to one side. He felt her cold lips against his flesh and knew he was seconds away from death. Strangely, all he felt was regret – regret and a little anger. Things should have been so very different. It wasn't his life that flashed before his eyes, but hers, all the rich life she should have had, all the love and kindness.

All wasted now. All destroyed. He should have done a better job, kept her safer. It was his duty –

A sharp agony bit into him, and he felt his knees buckle. The sensation was incredibly horrible, a violation unlike anything he could have imagined, and he half-fainted from it as strength and resolution fled. This was not the seduction some people imagined it, this was a terrible rape of spirit and body. He was being eaten alive, silently screaming. With all he knew, how had he ever underestimated vampires so bitterly? Had he imagined this might be a relatively kind death, slipping quietly into darkness?

There could be nothing harder than this.

Through fading eyes, he saw a stark pale face regarding him over Buffy's shoulder. Xander Harris stood empty-handed, struck speechless for once, and Giles felt a black wave of despair. He couldn't stop her. She'd slaughter him, fall on Xander, and Willow, Cordelia, Oz … his failure would mean all their lives.

"Buffy?" Xander faltered, and in his voice was all the horror, all the pain Giles couldn't allow himself to feel. "Oh no. No, this isn't happening."

She dropped Giles. He gagged and coughed and flailed weakly for the wooden stake as Buffy turned toward the boy. Xander was tall, deceptively strong and lithe, but against a Slayer – and a vampire – he might as well have been a toddling child. He wouldn't stand a chance ...

… and yet he didn't run. He backed away as Buffy turned toward him, and fear glittered damp in his eyes, but he didn't run. How much courage did that take, Giles wondered. He knew he couldn't have managed it at eighteen. He was only barely managing it at more than twice Xander's age.

He couldn't allow this to happen, even thought it would mean throwing himself into the terrible darkness from which Xander had rescued him. Better he die than allow Buffy to prey on her friends. His children, or the nearest to it he might ever come.

Xander wet his lips nervously, one hand held out as if he was planning to fend Buffy off – foolish hope – and said, "Uh, Giles, maybe you better book. Now."

"Yeah, that's better. Just the two of us," Buffy purred. She was turned away from him, but Giles knew she'd reverted to Buffy's face, the face that Xander had nearly worshipped for the past three years. "You and I need to have a little quality time, Xander. You won't believe the things I can show you."

"Actually, yeah, I would." He tried to smile but it looked sick and terrified. "Ah, God, Buffy. Who did this to you? Angel? Was it Angel?"

The name made her miss a step, a fact Giles filed for reference as he stood up, the stake held tightly in his right hand. Perhaps she wasn't ready to face Angel, then. Perhaps that might be the answer.

Could he ask Angel to face this? Could he ask anyone, even himself?

God, he felt so hideously weak, so terribly empty. No one should know these things.

"Foreplay's over," Buffy said. In the instant before she leaped for Xander, Giles threw the stake, end over end, a hard, accurate throw just as he'd taught Buffy to do it. The problem was he was a wounded mortal man, not a Slayer, and though the wood thudded home in Buffy's chest, it was high and to the right.

Not fatal. Oh, God. God help us all.

She screamed and fell, writhing, and her screaming went on, and on, tearing his heart like a sun-rotted curtain in spite of what he knew. Giles stopped himself before he could rush to her side, took a firmer grip on the crucifix and somehow managed to grab hold of Xander before the boy could take the bait. Xander stopped, shivering.

"Don't," Giles said, his voice gone rough and thin. "It's not Buffy."

"She's hurt!"

"No, damn it!" Giles shook Xander hard. "It's a trick!"

The screaming dissolved into laughter, rich, cruel laughter. Buffy – the thing that had been Buffy – reached behind her back and pulled, extracting the stake as if it were no more than a splinter. She tossed the stake idly in the air, spinning it the way she always did when bored. Giles pivoted to keep the cross between them.

He was watching for it, but even so he almost missed the sudden uncoiling throw. Giles lunged, blocked the thrown stake with the crucifix. The effort made him sway drunkenly toward unconsciousness, but Xander held him upright.

She'd been trying for Xander's heart.

"That was cheap," Giles said raggedly. "And beneath you. It's me you want to punish, not him."

"Exactly," she said. "And nothing's beneath me, Giles. Except maybe you, when I get down to business. But I guess you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

He willed himself to say nothing. It was hideously hard to stare into those eerie metallic eyes, into that face that he loved so much, and not at least let some of his rage show.

But he managed. There was no other choice.

"Boring," she sighed. And then she was gone, as if she'd melted into darkness.

Giles held still for several breaths until he was sure, then let go of Xander's arm. He knew from the ragged rhythm of Xander's breath that the boy was crying, but he didn't know what to do to comfort him. Hold him? An impossibility, for Xander as well as himself. A man of his age didn't cradle an eighteen-year-old boy, no matter how much one might wish to take away the pain.

He didn't mean to but suddenly he found himself sitting on the grass, miserably weak and on the verge of tears himself. Practicalities, then. Always practicalities.

"Did Joyce call you?" Giles asked. Xander gulped air and nodded. "Then what the devil are you doing out here in the dark? Didn't you realize how dangerous it was?"

"I couldn't – I had to see for myself." Xander squatted next to him. "You okay?"

"Yes." It was a lie, of course, but one did lie to children in times like these, didn't one? Pretend strength when the heart was rotten with terror? "I must ask you to go to Cordelia's house, Xander. You shouldn't be a part of this."

"You're going to kill her," Xander said. His voice shook uncontrollably. Of course, he would work it out – Xander had always been the quickest of his peers at things like that. Brighter than his grades reflected, or than he wished to appear. "Like any other vampire."

"Hardly." Giles retrieved the stake from where it lay on the grass. "She's a great deal worse than any other vampire."

With Xander's help, managed to regain his feet. He held the boy's arm a moment longer, searching Xander's face, and in that unguarded moment, his heart.

"Protect them," Giles said. "If things go badly – promise me you'll protect the others. I shall depend on you."

Xander swallowed and nodded. Giles squeezed his arm.

"Then I'll see you later," he said.

He desperately hoped that it was true.

"Wait," Buffy said, and braced herself against a slick concrete wall, breathing hard. They were in the utility tunnels somewhere – God knew where, she'd lost track miles ago – and they'd been running for a long time. No problem for Slayer Girl, of course. Drusilla was cruising in indestruct-o mode. Buffy had a sudden flash of insight about how not-fun it must be for her friends tagging along on all those running and fighting gigs.

Spike was tired, too – sweat darkened his shirt and gleamed on his face – but he didn't slow down for her.

"Can't stop," Spike said hoarsely. "They're on the move. Stay here and we're transfusions with legs. Keep up or get sucked."

"Let her rest." Drusilla had come to a stop, not even breathing hard; she cocked her head and listened. "I don't hear them. I think they've taken a wrong turn."

"Bloody well hope so, or it's free sample night at the blood bank," Spike said, and sank down to a sitting position. Buffy joined him. "Tired?"

"Nah. Exhausted."

Spike smiled. "Yeah, well. Dru's a tough one to follow, don't take it to heart. You're not half bad, considering."

"Considering I was doing it in four-inch heels? Thanks." Buffy reached down and unzipped the red leather boots, wiggled out of them and stretched her sore feet gratefully. Spike pretended not to notice. "Getting tired is a new fun for me. A not entirely fun new fun."

"I can see your point." Spike took a deep breath and held it, then let it out explosively. "Good news is, we're only a bit away from home now. Won't be long and we can sort all this out."

Drusilla had taken up her pacing again, a nervewracking back-and-forth like a tiger in a cage. She was still watching Buffy with those big dark eyes. It's a territory thing. I'm in her space.

But then she read it like a teenager, not a Slayer.

Oh.

Point taken. No way to look demure when dressed out of the Fredrick's catalog, but Buffy edged away from Spike. Drusilla's pacing lessened in speed. She finally stopped and listened, then moved off down the hallway.

"Dru?" Spike called after her.

"I'm just looking," she said. "I'll come back."

He watched her go, brow furrowed, real worry in his eyes. Buffy said, "So you and Drusilla, the two of you are – "

"Not," he said sharply and just a tad too quickly. "I'm her Watcher, just as you said. Watcher means I watch, not touch. Besides, Dru needs guidance. She's – "

"Crazed," Buffy murmured. Spike glared at her. "Sorry."

"She's fragile, our Dru. Hell of a Slayer, though. It's just the pressure gets to her after a bit, she needs rest."

"Then you don't love her."

She hit the nerve, and they both knew it. Spike looked away.

"If I did," he said, "I couldn't very well do anything about it, could I? She's got enough on her mind without worrying about that. I help her. I train her. I keep her as safe as I know how. That's what a Slayer needs, not – schoolboy crushes."

"You know, I really didn't come here to play Dr. Ruth, but in my Sunnydale, you and Dru, you're – " Twisted? Sick? Codependent? " – good for each other." In a really disturbing sort of way.

"Yeah?" She had his interest for a second. "Pity this isn't your Sunnydale, then. So what's the story on your side? If you're not fighting the Master anymore, who are you fighting?"

She gave him pretty much the entire autobiography even up to the mirror and the rabbit hole. Didn't intend to, not really, but she needed to tell somebody, and frankly Willow wasn't the best audience right now, with that vampire look she had going. Or Xander, God only knew what she'd find when she got to Xander. The mind blew at the prospect.

"So," she finished, "this mirror thing, ringing any bells for you? Because I'm definitely certain it was a mirror deal. Hence the reverse factor and the bad clothes."

Spike had a strange glazed look on his face. He had to blink several times to focus on her again.

"I'm a vampire?" He sounded half-thrilled with the idea. "Well, that's a twist, innit? Me and Dru, vampires. And doing well at it. And Angel …"

His face closed up, as if he remembered she was there. She felt a cold stab of panic.

"Angel?" she prompted.

Spike looked briefly, impersonally uncomfortable. "Sorry, love, but he's dead."

A world without Angel. That sounded horribly empty to her, and yet it was at the same time a relief. If she'd seen him here, human and alive, that might have destroyed her heart forever. Just the promise of having a day with him, a night with the touch of his hands and without the fear, without the awareness of what they were risking –

But it wouldn't happen. Not here. Be realistic. Not anywhere.

"He ran foul of the Master," Spike said. "He was helping Dru, but he traded his life for hers. Heard he lasted a long time, too, before they staked him."

"Staked him? But if everything's reversed – "

Everything but Angel, caught halfway. Flip the world, and he was still in the middle, a vampire and a human at once. Poor lovely Angel. She closed her eyes at the thought of what the Master must have done to him.

"Up." Drusilla's voice floated back down the corridor. "It's clear, we should be moving now."

Buffy climbed to her bare feet and winced at the chill on sore skin. The boots lay there like shed skin. She started to leave them, then went back and tossed them over her shoulder.

"Like the boots, eh?" Spike said archly. She sent him an oh please.

"Might come in handy."

"Doubt we'll get to clubbing, love, but by all means."

They ran on into the darkness.

Willow was deeply in denial, and it made Oz ache to see it. He did everything she asked – even the drops of blood for the Witchlight spell she'd conjured up – but he knew it was just a matter of time before Willow admitted what they all knew.

Buffy was gone.

And she was not coming back.

"Oz," Willow said; she was preoccupied, focused the way she got when faced with a crisis. She was completely cute when she did that. "I'm going to need some toadroot. You know, the squiggly kind? The one that smells like spoiled meat?"

"Spoiled meat, coming up," he said. He went to her big floppy satchel and rummaged through jars and neatly labeled baggies, came up with one and took a cautious sniff. Yep. Definitely back-of-the-refrigerator. As he came back to her he said, gently, "Willow – "

"Um, I need to concentrate on this." She sent him a quick glance full of apology, and fear. She didn't want to hear any bad news about Buffy. He totally knew the feeling.

"I love you," he said. She blinked, caught off guard, and it jumped between them like a shower of sparks, that heat that made him half-crazy with anticipation. Down, boy. He wanted to reach for her, but he contented himself with touching her hair, running his finger gently down her cheek.

She kissed him. Not a blow-off kiss, not a leave-me-alone-and-let-me-work-my-spell kiss. A real serious kiss that came up from her toes and blasted down through his, stopping to light a few fires along the way. He managed to turn it gentle and lingering, and wanted to kiss her again when she whispered, "Buffy's going to be all right."

"I know," he whispered back.

Want turned to need. He was kissing her again when he heard a disgusted sound behind him and looked back to see Cordelia hanging in the doorway, looking every inch her own personal Barbie, complete with fun fashion accessories. In her case, it was a designer cross and a couple of lacquered chopsticks she'd used for hairpins – as good as stakes at close range.

She shot them both a withering look.

"If you two are finished grieving, I need you to give me a hand in here," she said. "And don't touch anything, okay? My dad is going to totally wig when he finds out I loaned out the office."

Oz handed Willow the toadroot and turned back to Cordelia. "Problem?"

"Hello, where were you when we got the syllabus? Buffy vampire, us dead?" Cordelia billed herself as the steel-plated fashion bitch, but mostly that was just good marketing. Oz had always seen the scared girl behind the glossy finish. And she was scared now, it made her move too fast, snap too hard. "I need you to talk to Xander."

She walked out of the office. Oz followed her and shut the door to let Willow use stinky roots in private. "If you want me to referee, I need a striped shirt and a whistle."

He meant, was she fighting with Xander again. It was the normal state of Xander-Cordelia relations since the declaration of the not-in-love war. She caught the reference.

"Not that. I just need somebody to talk to him," she said. She looked up and down the plush elegant hallway and scuffed a toe in the teal-blue carpet. Oz leaned on a narrow piece of wall lacking expensive art. "Because he's not talking."

"To you?"

"To anybody." Cordy's dark eyes flashed up to meet Oz's. "He's been quiet since he got here. It's – it's not normal. For Xander. For you, sure, you could sit there like Yoda – Yoda's the fat gold guy, right?"

"Buddha."

"Whatever. You could sit there and zen out and nobody would think anything. Well, I wouldn't. But Xander – " She studied Oz closely. "You understand? You'll talk to him?"

He nodded, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strolled past a couple of Picasso sketches – he knew they were Picassos because Cordelia had made sure to point them out – into the withdrawing room. In which the rest of the Scooby gang waited. Mrs. S. was asleep on the red-and-gold striped sofa, covered with a thick blanket. She was dreaming. Not a good dream, from the whimpering.

Xander stood at the windows, looking out at nothing but a big slice of darkness. Oz walked up beside him and stopped, shared the view for long enough that Xander said, "Cordy send you?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm okay."

There was no way Xander was okay. Oz heard it in his voice. There were probably things to say in situations like this, things they taught you in college or middle age, but Oz didn't know any. And he'd long ago learned that when he didn't know, it was better not to say anything. Sooner or later, somebody would speak up and make it unnecessary.

"I saw her," Xander said. His voice shook, and it sounded suspiciously cloudy, with a strong possibility of tears. "I wish I hadn't. I wish I hadn't seen her like that. She looked like Buffy but what she did – what she said --"

"Scary," Oz said. Xander nodded. "Willow's on top of the spell thing."

"Yeah, Will's – Will's good. That'll be – " Xander's voice faded out as if somebody had turned down his hope knob. "That'll be something to try."

Oz waited. Xander pulled down a shuddering breath.

"I love her, you know."

"Willow?" Oz asked it with no particular heat, but he saw Xander flinch.

"No! I mean, yes, of course, but – not in a full-contact kind of way. Anymore. You know. I meant Buffy. I love Buffy."

"Full contact?"

Xander considered it as if he never had before. And said, with something like wonder, "No. Color me wacky, but – no. But I'd die for her."

"Yeah," Oz said simply.

"I don't mean in principle. I mean in a throw-myself-on-a-bullet kind of way."

Oz nodded. He was tired of looking at the dark – he had the feeling it might be looking back – so he turned to face Xander directly.

Xander looked bad. Pale, shaky, definitely not in full smart-ass mode. He looked more alone than Oz had ever seen him. Deep inside Oz was scared pretty often – once a month, for sure, when he felt the wolf thing coming on him, when every human thing he was or knew drained out of him – but he'd learned how to bury all that where others didn't see. Xander didn't have that skill.

Oz had never been big on having friends. In his experience friends usually asked a lot and gave a little, and he'd always felt like there was something more important waiting for him than hanging at the drive-through or downing beers with the jocks. At first being part of Buffy's crowd had been a chance to get to know Willow, but then he'd seen what was going on. And he'd known this was what he was waiting for. This cause, these people.

These friends he he'd learn to love.

He remembered, for no particular reason, that Xander was always there for Wolf Watch when Oz was just a hairy beast in a cage, capable of anything. And whether or not they both loved Willow in a non-brotherly sort of way, that counted.

"Dying won't help," Oz said. "Not last time I checked. Giles is looking for her. Willow's spellcasting. Cordelia's – hosting, which is good, 'cause she's pretty much got the snack thing going. You and me, we just need to coast for a while."

"Coast. Yeah. I'm not that good with the coasting."

"Then I'm your native guide."

Xander smiled. One thing, Oz had always noticed; guys did not spend a lot of time smiling at each other. It sometimes got misinterpreted. But this was an smile not subject to misinterpretation, and he smiled back.

"Take the lead, bwana," Xander said.

They were on their third straight game of Name That Bad Japanese Movie when Xander suddenly stopped and said, "Angel."

"Sorry, wrong answer," Oz said, and then got where Xander was going. "Didn't you call him?"

"Didn't you?"

Oz felt cold, suddenly. He looked at Xander and said, "Better do it now."

Buffy had been expecting to come up at the high school, of course, but when she climbed out of the manhole – with no help from Drusilla – she found they were standing in a deserted alley she recognized. Halfway across town.

About a block from the Bronze.

"Move. It's not safe," Spike said. Drusilla had already taken off. Buffy moved, her feet slapping pavement in rhythm with Spike's as she scanned rooftops. Slayer habit. Vamps came from anywhere and everywhere, and you just had to be prepared.

"Shit!" Spike yelled, and went down with a vamp attached to his back. He slid face-down along the pavement for five or six feet and rolled over, trying to shake his rider. Ahead, the slender shadowed form of Drusilla stopped running and started back, but dark shapes dropped down and popped up.

The fight was on.

Buffy waded in and grabbed a handful of vamp hair, yanked hard. That, and a well-placed kick to the vamp's midsection separated him from Spike, but that was not a big improvement, except for Spike. She retreated when the vamp turned on her, landed a couple of strikes and a kick, then fell back again.

Moonlight fell on his face.

Oz. She'd been expecting Bad Xander, somehow, but Bad Oz – she couldn't get her mind over it. He looked like her Oz, all right, even to the dyed hair, but the look on his face, the shine in his eyes – well, it was bad. Plain bad.

And she really didn't want to hurt him.

Spike rolled, came up to one knee, and delivered a stake perfectly on target. Oz, leaping for her with fangs gleaming, exploded in a shower of dust. Buffy watched what was left of him blow away with a strange sense of numbness, then snapped back to here-and-now as Spike grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her toward Drusilla.

Oh, God, Oz –

Dru finished with the last of her attackers and spun back into a run. They made it to the doors of the Bronze without any more jumpings, and just as they did, the doors rattled and swung open.

It took Buffy a second to recognize the man holding the door, because he had lines on his face and weariness in his eyes, and he was wearing a neat dark suit. Drusilla passed him without a second glance, and so did Spike. As the light dawned, Buffy came to a stop in the doorway and locked eyes with Ethan Rayne. Ethan Rayne, master of chaos and mayhem, former friend of Giles, who'd nearly fed her to a demon once or twice just on general principles.

That Ethan Rayne.

"Buffy," he said. "I'm glad to see you."

She punched him in the face.

"Thanks," she snapped. "Likewise. Now get me the hell out of here."

He staggered back, one hand pressed to his mouth. Spike started to get in the middle, but Ethan waved him off and wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Nice shot," he said. "For a girl. I'm afraid I can't send you home quite yet. Not until you do what I brought you here to do."

It occurred to her, several seconds too late, that this Ethan Rayne was probably the opposite of the one on her side. Not a vamp, though. Some other kind of opposite.

He was Drusilla's senior Watcher.

Therefore a good guy.

Another mind-boggler.

"You brought me here," she said, fist still cocked. Ow. It felt like her knuckles were full of broken glass. Wouldn't stop her from hitting him again, though. "Why?"

"I had no choice. We need you to help us stop the Master from opening the Hellmouth." Ethan shut the door of the Bronze behind her and locked it. "Mocha? I can whip one up for you."

"Excuse me? Hellmouth? Been there, had to die to do it. Not interested in a rematch. Besides, you've got your own Slayer, why import?"

The Bronze was eerily the same, trashily cool, lit right now by harsh spotlights. Drusilla sat under one near the stage, inventorying a load of crossbows and stakes. Spike disappeared toward the bathrooms.

She couldn't help thinking how come they get the cool clubhouse and I get the musty old library?

Weird how Ethan looked like Giles now. No glasses, but some of the same crow's feet, the lived-in look that made Giles so easy to trust. The same warmth in his eyes, like he really cared about what went on around him. Definitely not her Ethan, who would have sold her to the vamps at a dollar a bite for no better reason than the entertainment value.

"I discovered the existence of other universes several years ago," Ethan said, and walked over to the coffee bar, where he took down cups and saucers. "About the same time my counterpart on your side was messing about with forces he really couldn't control. We had some interesting chats through our mirrors, but nothing too informative. Since then, I've been following your career – your Sunnydale – with great interest. Many of your problems get echoed here, and seeing how you deal with them has always been helpful."

"I feel an 'except' creeping up," Buffy said.

"Except for Dru. She's unquestionably the Chosen One, but fragile. I was lucky to find Spike and make him her companion – "

"Based on my Sunnydale again."

Ethan nodded. "Having him with her has helped. Not enough, but some. And then, a month ago, Drusilla was captured by the Master. Angel traded his life for hers, but not soon enough, I fear; she endured some tremendous abuse. She's coming apart. All of Spike's best efforts to help her are unraveling, and soon she won't be able to function at all. A mad Slayer is worse than none."

He said it matter-of-factly, but Buffy read between the lines. Watcher or not, this Ethan felt something for his Slayer, the way Giles felt for her. And he was hurting.

"She held together okay out there," Buffy said. Praising Drusilla felt weird. "I told Spike maybe she needed him to be something more than just her Watcher. Romance-wise. Hope I didn't break any big Watcher codes."

"As a matter of fact – "

"Well, oops. Whatever."

Ethan mixed mochas with silent efficiency, adding a dollop of whipped cream, a sprinkle of chocolate and cinnamon. She took the cup and sipped. It was sweet and dark and perfect.

"I need you to help," Ethan said. "If we fail now, our world falls to the vampires. We have to stop them, and it must be soon. Tonight. The Master is very close to achieving his freedom."

"Look, nice plan, but this transfer thing, it left my Slayer powers along with my wardrobe. I'm just Buffy Summers, girl adventurer. Not what you need." She watched Ethan's face as he took a sip of his own drink. "Right? So you can send me back."

"No."

"No? I don't think I liked the no part of that answer." She reached out and wrapped her hand around his throat. Even human, she was pretty strong. "Think fast."

He broke free, but she noticed the red marks on his throat and felt a flush of satisfaction. It was always good to keep Ethan Rayne – any Ethan Rayne – off balance. Because as sorcerer or Watcher, he was likely to have bigger things on his mind than the safety of Buffy Summers.

"No," he repeated. "We have a plan. And we need you to carry it out, Slayer or not. If all goes well, you won't need your Slayer powers in any case. The element of surprise will be all that's necessary."

Buffy hadn't heard Spike return, but he pulled up a stool next to her and reached for Ethan's mocha, which he gulped down with evident satisfaction. Ethan glared.

"But when does everything go well, my lovely?" Spike asked. "Tell her the truth."

Ethan said, "We want to send you inside to the Master. Buffy Summers was one of his favorite vampires. Your face and clothes will make sure you can get close enough to kill him without anyone suspecting."

Drusilla had gotten up from the weapons table and was wandering the club now, whispering to herself. Buffy kept an eye on her as she said, "Uh, I hate to be the bringer of bad, but you have noticed that I'm not a vampire? Hence not trustworthy to vamps anymore?"

"I have a spell that will give you the outward appearances," Ethan said. "You'll be indistinguishable from the Buffy Summers they know. The Master himself won't be able to tell you're not Undead. All you have to do is find him and kill him, and go home."

"That part sounds weak."

"Not so," Ethan said. "In fact, it's built into the spell. Kill the Master, you go home. Automatically."

Buffy pushed her cooling mocha aside. "And if I say no?"

Ethan Rayne smiled, and it was exactly his counterpart's smile, all delight, no mercy. "Then I expect you'll have to learn to like this world," he said. "And live with the idea that our Buffy Summers has taken your place in your own."

The thought froze her in place, then made her explode with rage. "A vampire? You set a vampire me to Sunnydale? With my friends? Into my house?"

"And the faster you do your job, the sooner that can be over," Ethan said. "Choose."

As if there was a choice involved.  As if she could believe a thing he said.   Spike was very carefully not looking at her, and she thought that there must have been a very good reason.

"I'm going to need some tools," she said. "And when this is over, you're going to need major medical."

Angel paused in the act of towel-drying his hair to listen. Something had changed in the house, something he couldn't quite identify. Air pressure, maybe. A door opening and closing. A telephone was ringing somewhere, but even as he pinpointed the sound, it vanished.

Why did these things always happen when you were in the bathroom? One of the great mysteries of life. He picked up his pants from the floor and stepped into them, draped the towel around his neck, and opened the bathroom door to take a look outside.

Buffy was standing beside the huge blazing fireplace, soaking up the warmth the way she liked to do. He thought about stopping to put on his shirt, since the emergency was over, but part of him didn't want to. She might touch his skin, if he gave her the opportunity. And that was the kind of thing that made continuing his life worthwhile.

"Hey," he said, and walked out to join her. "I didn't expect you."

"Nobody called?" she asked. He was still a few feet away when the wrongness hit him. He should have felt the heat of her skin at this distance, heard the whisper of her breath and heartbeat, smelled the warm human perfume of her.

She was – gone.

She turned to look at him, and he saw it in her eyes. Or rather, he saw what was missing from her eyes.

He saw the void where her soul had been.

"No," he said. The word sounded raw, scraped bloody out of him. "Oh God."

"People say that a lot," Buffy said. "It's getting old. God must be tired of hearing it by now."

"What – " His voice didn't seem to want to work right. "What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

"You did," she said. "Long time ago. Oh, come on, Angel, don't be like that. We can have it good here. Angel and Buffy burning up the town. Together. Together forever, the way you always wanted us to be. All we have to do is do what we want to do."

She came closer, moved him back to the cold stone wall, and in spite of everything he knew, every horror he felt, she was still Buffy, and his body still knew it. He shuddered when she touched him, and it went through his mind in a mad screaming rush that he really could have her now, no guilt, no risk, no pain.

She put her hands on him to prove it, and for a blind endless time he let himself give in to that, to the pressure of her lips on his, the soft stroke of her skin.

And then he felt the pressure of her canines against his lips, and sanity came back. He shoved her off, hard.

She laughed and wiped her mouth. She had Drusilla's eyes, he realized. The eyes of something that was no longer human, and no longer sane.

"Too bad, Angel," she said. "You had your chance. Now I'm going to destroy you with the rest. Because I may be a vampire, but I'm still the Slayer."

"Take the shot if you have to, but I'm not going to let you do this. Not to your friends. Not to your mother. If I have to stop you, I will."

She clapped her hands mockingly and blew him a kiss.

"Then let's do it," she said, and came at him.

Oh, God, she was fast. Maybe twice as fast as he was.

And it didn't take long for her to put him down.

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