Disclaimer: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much 
everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just 
wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…

Summary: Occurs after Brother, Unfortunately Mine. Rating 18 for sexual 
references. The sibling theme is not entirely played out … 

HOW TO KILL YOUR (PSYCHO) BOYFRIEND IN ONE HARD LESSON
(Part 2)

Illyria was a warrior-demon, victor of many brutal battles to obtain and retain its 
kingdom. It was therefore fully awake and alert within a second of sensing the change 
in air pressure near it. Finding no threat in the apartment ceiling above it, it turned it's 
attention to the empty space in the bed next to it, it's ears tracking the soft pad of it's 
mate's bare feet as he went down the steps from this sleeping nest. In complete 
silence, Illyria rolled this body to a different position on the bed and watched through 
the railings as it's mate walked to a large wooden cupboard and removed something, a 
scroll, that he laid on the kitchen table.

Illyria watched incuriously as it's mate carefully removed a small section from the 
scroll and then standing up, went and took down one of the photograph frames on the 
wall. Instead of images, the trio of frames contained faux parchment decorative scripts 
– one in a dead tongue called Sanskrit, one of little pictures called Egyptian 
Hieroglyphs an also extinct language, and one of little squiggles called Classic Greek. 
Removing this final one from the frame, Illyria's mate crumpled it and tossed it 
casually into the trashcan, before replacing it with the section it had torn from the 
scroll and putting the frame back on the wall hook where it hung next to the others, 
looking as if what was in it had always been there.

Illyria was indifferent, instead watching the pleasing motion of muscles over it's 
mate's skeleton. Humans had always seemed such a weak species, lacking any sort of 
offensive horns, spines or defensive armour; most of it's vital organs were crammed 
in the same small place, making it easy to kill. In theory that was; the species 
possessed an extraordinary resilience, surviving and recovering from injuries Illyria's 
own kind would have died from. Their fragile-looking skeleton was in fact more 
flexible than it appeared, and if given opportunity, would heal from even multiple 
fractures. Even with all limbs or most of it's body non-functional, a human could still 
be of use to other members of it's species. Like that 'Hawking' human that Wesley 
admired. Illyria's species would have killed anything with such a useless body, but 
though that human male's physical body was inoperative, he was revered as one of 
the greatest scholars of his species, possessing a rather remarkable grasp of the many 
dimensions, considering humanity's limited intelligence. 

Wesley-human sat down at the table and began to write something, tracing the scroll 
with his finger, but Illyria was not interested. What did was the fact that Wesley had 
taken the time to don on his briefs before he left their nest…or bed as he called 
it….even though only he and his mate were present. Illyria found this taboo about 
'underwear' very confusing.

In the morning, 'moving into' Wesley's apartment had caused Fred-human to reach 
such a state of agitation that Illyria had simply taken over the process, transferring 
Fred human's clothing and other necessities from her lair to Wesley's lair – apartment 
as he called it – by the time Fred and Wesley-human customarily went to the big 
palace where they worked with the dead-yet-living creature, Angel. 

Illyria had taken careful note of how much pleasure it's mate seemed to be 
experiencing from the fact that Fred-human was now staying in his la- apartment, 
even though Illyria was not doing mating things to his body, or even touching him. To 
Illyria's confusion, Wesley-human had seemed uncomfortable as he put away in 
drawers Fred-human's lan-jher-ay, even though the small scraps of smooth cloth 
seemed to carry no mystical power. Illyria had gone to the palace with it's mate, but 
when it had gone into Fred-human's 'lab' lair, it had changed it's mind and instead 
left the building to the places that human's got things they wanted from by giving 
other humans green paper.
            
As it examined many examples of this lan-jher-ay, which the humans wrote as 
lingerie in their funny scratchy language, Illyria became even more uncertain. 
Humans, at least in this land, were not in the slightest bit bothered by images of other 
humans that were nude; however, they reacted with startling fury when one of their 
kind inadvertently displayed these undergarments while wearing them. Humans spent 
a lot of time writing and talking about these things that were specially designed to 
cover the human sex organs, though Illyria had initially not been impressed by their 
flimsy construct and lack of protective armour. They were made of many things – 
synthetic human materials, plus plant and animal products like cotton and silk. Some 
were plain while others were decorated with bits of ribbon and lace. 

Large parts of the many books Illyria had read in the library when preparing to first 
claim Wesley-human as it's mate had dealt with 'lingerie'; wearing certain kinds of 
this lingerie could make a female even more desirable to a male. The 'best' kinds of 
lingerie were those of silk and lace. Eventually Illyria had located a place called 
Victoria's Secret, which specialised in these things, and had gone inside. After trying 
on many different types of this underwear, Illyria had found that the silky things were 
actually very comfortable against it's host skin, unlike some of the synthetic fibres 
that had rubbed. The female humans at the place had been very happy when Illyria 
had used Wesley's 'kre-dit ka-rd' and bought many of them. 

Bringing them back to Wesley's apartment, Illyria had left them there and returned to 
the big palace, and allowed the Fred human to take over when the other dead-but-
living creature, Spike, had come with the green demon and the warrior human and the 
young female human. As far as Illyria could ascertain as it allowed it's human host to 
temporarily control the body, the young female was being pursued by a male that 
wished to mate with her, but she did not wish to mate. However, the male would not 
accept this, and intended to force the female to mate. Illyria did not quite grasp why 
the female had not simply killed the male – none of it's own species would ever 
persist if another did not wish to congress, or it would have been slaughtered. 
However, apparently female human bodies lacked the physical strength of human 
male bodies and therefore the female had come to the males to help it killed the errant 
male that pursued it…        

* * 

"The staking attempt shows that Staavuz knows Spike's a vampire." Wesley had told 
the humans assembled around the big table as Illyria listened from within it's host, 
after they had heard how Staavuz tried to kill Spike. "I think that even now, he's at 
the hotel, testing Lorne's Sanctuary spell."

"It won't take him long to find out that the spell only covers just past the hotel's 
interior proper," Lorne predicted, "so he'll know that the gardens and the parking 
garage underneath aren't covered."

"He'll attack again in daylight." Gunn said, and everyone nodded agreement. 

"My guess is that he'll come at you at midday, in the parking garage under the 
Hyperion. Use hired muscle to occupy Spike while he gets you into sunlight."

"What's your idea?" Angel asked Illyria's mate.

"Tomorrow morning, me and Gru will take Dawn from the hotel – we have to assume 
that Staavuz will have a spy loitering outside from tonight. Since we're clearly human 
and able to pursue in sunlight, it's not likely Staavuz will risk attacking. While we're 
figuratively waving our arms in this corner to keep Staavuz's attention, you lot will be 
sneaking into the Hyperion from over there. We three will come back to the Hyperion 
about mid-morning, which will make Staavuz more confident about his noon-attack 
idea." Wesley put forward. "Remember, Staavuz has probably tracked Dawn and 
Spike here, but as far as he knows, this building houses nothing but a bunch of amoral 
lawyers…"

"…so he's not factored anyone from Wolfram & Hart into the equation," Fred had 
finished, smiling at her mate. 

"Exactly." Wesley admitted. "He'll only be geared up to take on Spike, because he 
thinks he's the only real threat. Me and Gru, two humans, he's not worried about. At 
noon, we all go down to the parking garage in the service elevator," Wesley carried 
on explaining his plan, "but we all hang back and keep still while Spike goes out first, 
with Dawn a few yards behind him. Staavuz and company will pop up out of the 
shadows. He will have ordered his goons to take out our blond deadly nightmare 
while he grabs Dawn. However, that's when we all make our entrance – Dawn, get 
back inside the elevator at that point. We clean house before they realise what's going 
on, and Dawn goes home to Sunnydale in time for tea."

Angel smiled. "Nice one, Wes. Remember – Staavuz is a Gulff-Osok, so he has three 
vital organs, which are equivalent to human hearts, one in each upper thigh at the 
front, and one in his head. You have to hit all three to kill him, but his body isn't any 
denser than human flesh and it doesn't have any protective armouring – you just have 
to know where to aim."

* *

Illyria had allowed Fred to retain control until the evening when the two of them 
returned to Wesley's, or rather 'their' apartment, but the female's instant alarm upon 
walking into the bathing room a few minutes later and seeing the Victoria's Secret 
had caused Illyria to re-emerge hastily in response to Fred-Human's agitation. 
Removing this body's dress, Illyria had begun to try on the garments, examining the 
host body in the many long mirrors from all angles, not seeing anything particularly 
of interest.

The bathroom door had opened and it's mate had entered, stopping dead as he saw 
Illyria. Comparing his reaction to what the books had claimed, Illyria discovered that 
it was indeed true, the garments had a most gratifying effect on it's mate. Carefully 
watching him, Illyria had tried them on in turn, noting that those in black and a pale 
blue were his favourite colour. He had been most appreciative of the things called 
teddies (though this word was also used to refer to a stuffed representation of a large 
mammal), and had also clearly liked the suspender things and stockings as opposed 
those 'nylons' that one simply pulled up to the waist. Wesley-human had enjoyed 
slowly removing the garments as they mated in the bathing room, suckling Illyria's 
nipples through the silk in a most pleasurable way. 

Now, Illyria ignored them as it rose from the bed; as it's mate had sat there writing, 
his posture had become more tense. Humans communicated mostly not by speech, but 
by moving their bodies in very subtle ways, however something else that baffled 
Illyria was that they ignored this communication, giving greater attention to what 
speech-sounds a human made than how they really talked to each other. The 
increasing rigidity in the way Wesley was sat and the frown on his face that Illyria 
could see reflected in the glass door of the 'microwave' oven indicated to it that he 
was not at ease. Silently the warrior-demon padded down the spiral staircase in 
absolute silence, heedless of it's nudity.

Having disposed of the suicide section in a way that made it instantly accessible yet 
completely unrecognisable to anyone except another mystical language expert, 
Wesley began to work on the tiny paragraph that had come back to his mind when 
Dawn had first arrived on Wolfram & Hart's doorstep, so to speak. It literally 
consisted of a few lines and was barely the size of a child's palm, squeezed in 
between a series of large colourful pictograms one side and an extremely complex 
demon language on the other. However, with the Scroll of Niamh, size was irrelevant, 
as if the author or authors had simply put everything down on whatever blank area of 
scroll happened to be in front of them at that point. 

Laying down his pen, Wesley looked at the English translation of what he had written, 
amounting to just six lines with all his scribbling out and re-phrasings:  

Defend the child of light, for she shall have no brother, nor of him shall there be 
another. By this you will know the Harbinger: the Key shall seek the Lock. Her 
Champion and the Champion shall be unto the Child of Light as a hiding place in a 
storm, and the Two-Faced One shall illuminate enlightenment to the Mahju, he shall 
see that the blood will tell.

Wesley grunted in frustration, uttering a potent ancient Scandinavian curse-word 
under his breath. He would have liked to have had tracked down his former Watcher 
colleague Rutherford Sirk, who sent Angel and Spike on their phoney quest for the 
Cup of Torment. Mainly to inflict some torment on the guy's person himself, but he 
admitted that Eve & Lindsay McDonald's stooge had been one of the few mystical 
scholars in the world whose skill equalled that of Roger Wyndham-Price, almost as 
good as Wesley himself. Lorne had revealed how Sirk had reacted so contemptuously 
to Angel's protestations that he had 'read' the Shanshu Prophecy. Using the 
illustration of someone reading the 17th Century English King James Version in 
comparison to reading the bible in it's original languages of Hebrew, Aramaic and 
Greek, Circ had scornfully claimed that unless one went to the original language of 
any text, all the 'subtlety, nuance and flavour' was lost. 

On an intellectual level, Wesley had to agree with the impostor's withering 
assessment of Angel 'reading' the Shanshu in English. The King James could not 
often be beaten for lyricism, poetry, and fiery words that stirred the soul, but large 
parts of it were inaccurately translated, inserting interchangeably words that actually 
meant different things, such as 'Leviathan', a poetic description of the ancient nation 
of Egypt in place of 'Dragon', a reference to the fallen Morning star, Satan the Devil. 
Likewise, the New Testament had originally been written in Greek, a language that 
had four separate words meaning 'love': agape; eros; philia and storge. Reading the 
New Testament as it had originally been written in Greek, a person always understood 
which sort of 'love' – principled compassion; romantic/sexual; platonic friendship or 
the affection for close family members – was being referred to as soon as they laid 
eyes on the page, whereas in English, the definition of 'love' had to be deduced from 
the surrounding context. 

Exactly his present problem; Wesley looked again at what he had written down. The 
small passage had mostly been written in G'shundi, bar certain key words. G'shundi 
had no plural suffixes, so singular or plural tenses had to be inferred from the 
surrounding text. The phrase 'child of light' followed immediately by a reference to 
two different genders indicated that the word 'child' should be translated as 
'children'. G'shundi did not use capitals to indicate importance or to start new 
sentences, using certain words to denote importance or rank. Instead of using the 
word for sunlight, G'shundi had indicated the equivalent of capitalising 'Child Of 
Light' by using a contracted phrase meaning 'bright mystical emanations'.

He had to assume that Dawn was the Key, since she had literally been a mystical Key 
to open the way between worlds. Two different words had been used for Champion, 
the first in a possessive G'shundi tense indicating that the first Champion had been 
specifically the Champion of the female child of light, whereas the second Champion 
had been a generic Champion of Light, a warrior for good, which could apply in 
theory to any being who served the Powers That Be. Logically, Spike was 'her 
Champion'. Dawn herself had said that Spike had been her defender against Glory. It 
was hardly unusual for a person to have, at least for a time, someone who was their 
specific Champion as well as a Champion of Light in a broader context. Angel had for 
a certain time period been Buffy's specific Champion; the Groosalug had been 
Cordelia's specific Champion during her short-lived Sovereignty of Pylea. 

Presumably, however, the second generic Champion of Light would refer to Angel, 
who with Spike would be a protection against the 'storm' of Staavuz attacks, but what 
about the Lock? Was Dawn supposed to meet someone else here in LA and lead him 
or her to Angel? Another champion they hadn't found yet?  

It certainly followed the established pattern of the Powers That Be. Instead of finding 
those of his own Circle of Nine as soon as he got to LA, Angel had come across them 
gradually. Doyle had been first, then Cordelia when Angel met her at a showbiz party. 
He hadn't got the next member, Wesley, until after Doyle died. Charles Gunn had 
been next, followed by Lorne who Angel had met through Wesley. After that had 
come Fred, trapped in Lorne's native dimension; the penultimate addition had been 
Angel's son, Connor, and now much later, finally Spike. Buffy Summers had 
experienced the same thing. Her Circle of Nine had consisted originally of Xander, 
Giles, Willow and Angel. These had been added to first with Cordelia and then Oz 
and then Faith, but Angel, Cordelia and Oz were out of the picture by the time Anya 
and Tara, the last two of her Circle, had arrived.

If Dawn was the female child of light, who was the male child? The text seemed to 
indicate he was not the same as the Lock. However, the text also seemed to imply that 
the children of light had no siblings, which in Dawn's case was obviously not so. 
Leaving aside that point, Wesley focussed on the one giving him the most trouble. 
Like 'Key' and 'Lock', 'Two-faced One' was not in G'shundi, being a phrase that 
was an ancient proto-Greek Ionian word. It was actually a medical phrase, referring in 
the mildest form to a birth defect where a baby was born with fingers or toes that had 
not separated into individual digits; the severest example being of course Siamese or 
so-called 'cojoined' twins. However, in the vernacular Ionian, the phrase was a 
cooking term describing the mixing together of two dissimilar ingredients to produce 
a foodstuff that was nevertheless edible. It had also been an insulting slang term used 
to refer to people with an obvious physical handicap.

None of which were very helpful, considering that this being would do or say 
something that would lead to Wesley – the Mahju – to figuring something important 
out. The final two words, 'will tell', were again not G'Shundi, carrying the 
connotation of imparting knowledge or providing information. The blood will tell the 
Mahju…something. What?

Wesley went back to the first lines. Staavuz and his little temper tantrum were part of 
the Harbinger to clue Wesley in. It was because of him that Dawn had come to LA to 
find Spike. However, though he was making a lot of noise and being a 'storm', he 
wasn't the main event, in the same way that the Beast and his fun raining fire and 
blotting out the sun had been pretty nasty but nothing in comparison to what came 
after…Angel's deadly granddaughter, Jasmine. This whole Staavuz circus was solely 
to flag up to Wesley: something important is about to be revealed, so pay attention.

Then there were the children of light…no brother, or another. Wesley brightened as a 
thought struck him – the female child of light would have no brother. Not that the 
female child of light would have no siblings, but specifically no male sibling, which 
did not preclude the existence of…a sister. Buffy and Dawn would certainly not have 
a brother from their parents, because Joyce was dead. Hank Summers might at some 
point sire a son on his current partner/former secretary, but the boy would not be 
Joyce's son. So…?

He nearly jumped as he became aware of something next to him and looked up to see 
Fred standing naked next to him in silence. Then Wesley became aware of her blue 
skin…Illyria.

The warrior demon looked without interest at it's mate's writings. It was not best 
pleased as the room was rather chilly when this body was unclad. "Daylight is for 
being a scholar, in the palace of the Dead One That Lives." Illyria instructed it's mate 
firmly. "Night-time is for sleeping in our lair."

"And mating," Wesley murmured wryly, recognising the intent in the warrior-
demon's expression.  

"Any time can be used for mating." Illyria pointed out. "This body is cold now. You 
will pleasure my Hraku with your mouth in the way that Fred-human likes, in order to 
warm it. You will not leave our nest during the time of sleeping." Illyria instructed.

"I did not mean for you to get cold." Wesley placated as he casually rolled up the 
scroll and placed it and the writing pad away from Illyria's eyes, before gently taking 
Fred's elbow to lead her body back to bed. "But this that I do is very important to me. 
Sometimes I will need to look at it, but I do it during the sleep-time because I do not 
wish to disturb you. If you stay in our ne- bed until I return, you will not be cold and 
you can carry on sleeping." 

Illyria allowed it's mate to take it back to the bed. "It is good to sleep next to my 
mate," Illyria said reluctantly, recognising the determination in it's mate's tone of 
voice, "you are very warm and have a pleasing smell when you are next to me, 
especially when we have mated."

"I will not do it often." Promised Wesley, his voice dropping into a lower octave 
when Illyria mentioned mating. Settling Illyria's host body into the bed, he knelt 
between it's knees as it reclined. Lowering his head to the juncture of this body's 
thighs, he murmured, "I apologise for letting you get cold…"

* * *

Buffy handled the People Carrier with a deft ease as they headed south to Los 
Angeles. Next to her sat Giles, the epitome of cool British savoir faire. In back, 
Xander, Willow, Kennedy, Faith and Robyn Wood sat in the seats and stayed quiet. 
Giving Buffy the driving job enabled her to utilise her energy for something 
constructive, but the others had no such outlet. 

Of them all, Robyn Wood recognised that he was the most rational of the group, part 
of the reason that he had decided to come along. Of course he knew about 'The 
Vampire With The Soul', or rather the original one, Angel, but only in a purely 
academic way, such as a devoted sports fan might know the entire history of his 
favourite baseball player, but never have ever actually met them. Though Faith sat 
next to him, her closed-off face and distant eyes showed she was miles away. Robyn 
wasn't upset or offended, he had gone into the relationship with his eyes open – Faith 
had been deprived of the happy childhood Buffy had enjoyed, and she wasn't called 
the Dark Slayer because she was a brunette. Much as he loved her, Robyn knew that 
Xander's wry description of her as, 'murderer, sociopath, champion' was more 
accurate than not. 

Robyn's lips tightened as he remembered everything that he had read about 
Liam/Angelus/Angel, and wondered if there might be some sort of bitter irony in the 
fact that while Angelus had made many other vampires, like his Sire Darla, daughter 
Drusilla, grandson Spike and even such as the Master, look like cuddly teddy bears in 
comparison to his acts of torture and brutality, yet Angelus had never fought or killed 
a Slayer. The fact that Spike had Sired and then been forced to kill his own mother 
when she attempted to have sex with him put an enlightening slant on the peroxide 
vampire's personality but he had killed Robyn's mother…the ex-Principal's eyes 
darkened from milk chocolate to nearly coal black as he unwillingly remembered the 
somewhat tense conversation he had had with Buffy on the subject of Spike, then her 
lover. 

Spike had claimed that all Slayers were 'just a little bit in love with death'… "' and 
he's right.'" The blond Slayer had looked at Robyn, her eyes unflinching as he 
bristled over what he perceived as a slur on his mother, "The Shadowmen's oh-so-
glorious legacy was a long line of girl-children whose only freedom from constant 
fear and terrible pain and unending loneliness and violent battle was death. All 
Slayers subconsciously have a death-wish." Buffy had looked away from his angry 
eyes then, her own looking into some middle distance, "Spike has a rare gift – perfect 
clarity. It's just like he told me: No Slayer has ever been defeated in battle, pet, it just 
came eventually to the fight where they yielded. There's a difference.'"

So there would be Spike, his mother's murderer to deal with, and then the legendary 
Angel…how could you adequately prepare yourself to make small talk with a 
'reformed serial killer'? Then there was all Angel's 'baggage' - Buffy's ex-lover and 
redemption seeking Champion of Light. Plus the 'assorted others' who formed 
Angel's personal Scooby Gang in the way that Giles and company did for Buffy. 

Ex-cheerleader and Bitch Queen Cordelia Chase was now dead, another casualty in 
the eternal war, like Tara Maclay, Robyn had never met either of them. Wesley 
Wyndham-Price, ex-Watcher; Robyn tried to reconcile the Scooby Gang's 
reminiscences of him as a sort of next-generation Giles-come-ultimate-nerd with 
Faith's succinct but telling advice to view him as her evil twin brother on a bad drug 
trip. Robyn found the idea of such a transformation plausible – it was their job to walk 
into the fire, and those that came through the other side would always suffer burns too 
deep to really heal. Charles Gunn sounded like a savvy street-tough but was Angel's 
legal eagle, though still the most normal sounding of the group. There was also an 
empathic demon, Lorne, bright-green-with-red-eyes-and-horns no less, and Winifred 
Burkle, super-genius physicist who might not be around much if her injuries had been 
as severe as Andrew implied. Robyn, however, found some comfort in the fact that 
Angel's little gang of homicidal maniacs referred to themselves as 'Team Angel' with 
the same dryly ironic attitude as Buffy's little gang of homicidal maniacs called 
themselves the Scooby Gang. It strongly hinted at a group of people not cursed by 
rampant egomania, with the always-refreshing ability to get over themselves. 

The exit sign flashed past and he sat slightly straighter in anticipation, a small smile 
curving his handsomely formed mouth: Celebrity Deathmatch…Scooby Gang versus 
Team Angel…

* * *

"You want I should do back flips down the pier?" Dawn asked eagerly. "I've been 
working out to make myself really nubile."

"No." Wesley rejoined succinctly, his eyes constantly scanning the area just in case, 
though he firmly believed Staavuz wouldn't attack until the demon thought he had the 
advantage; the collapsible sword strapped to his arm was reassuringly cool against his 
skin and his gun was so comfortable in the holster it was easy to almost forget he was 
wearing it…almost.

"I'm only kidding. I just wanted to see that wince you made when I said 'nubile'. You 
look exactly Giles, sort of all dyspeptic, like you've just wolfed down a really hot 
curry and suddenly realised you've got a stomach ulcer." Dawn confessed cheerily.

'Exactly like Giles'; Wesley suppressed a smile as he tried to give Dawn a quelling 
look that slid right off the exuberant girl's hide as she went towards yet another candy 
stall. He had no doubt many would snigger at him still having a slight case of hero-
worship when he was heading dangerously close to forty, but there were worse 
examples of the Watcher breed to choose as a role model. Roger Wyndham-Price 
sprang instantly to mind, for instance.

Dawn grinned at having made Wesley go 'all British', and turned her attention to the 
vital matter of sugary goodness. Let's see, what shall it be…

"Hi."

Jerking her head up, Dawn was aware of the amped up wattage of her smile as she 
looked into a familiar pair of eyes. "Connor!"

"I saw you come down here, thought I recognised you…" Connor held his smile, even 
as he examined her more closely and kept a watchful eye on the two rapidly 
approaching men, 'Gru' and a dark-haired stranger that something told Connor was 
the more dangerous of the pair. The dark-haired stranger looked at him and checked 
his forward motion, his face paling. Connor stared back uneasily as the stranger's 
grey eyes seemed to search his face as if desperately looking for something, before 
becoming impassive but not before Connor glimpsed a curious mixture of resignation, 
regret, anger and…love? …pass in fleeting sequence over the man's face.

"Wes…" Dawn shot the stranger an unsubtle command with her eyes.

"Is this…?" another step-brother? Connor swallowed the sarcastic remainder of the 
question. He doubted very much whether Spike was Dawn's step-anything. Who is 
Bad Tan? How come you're living in a massive abandoned hotel with the 
reincarnation of Sid Vicious, Conan the Barbarian's younger brother and a guy 
who's green? Instead of acting like a normal thug, why did Bad Tan go all Van 
Helsing on your step-brother-my-ass Spike? How were you able to do that Star Trek 
invisible force field thing? And why do you seem completely unfazed by the fact that 
you're living in the middle of this bizarre LSD trip gone wrong?

"This is Wesley." Dawn introduced, and despite his suspicion, Connor had to hide a 
smile at the obvious please-like-him glance she gave grey-eyes.

Wesley gave him an enigmatic look, his features briefly showing a sort of arrested 
realisation, as if he just figured out a problem that had been perplexing him, before 
smiling and saying, "Hello, Connor," in an accent that instantly revealed himself to be 
English, like Spike. 

"Do you want an ice-cream with me?" Connor asked the question generally of Dawn 
and Wesley since 'Gru', a few feet away, remained looking around him in a 
deceptively casual stance that nevertheless reminded Connor of a soldier on sentry 
duty.

A sentry expecting trouble; with a knowing smile, Wesley declined as Dawn 
accepted. Going to the stall, Connor hid his own knowing smile as he knew his acute 
hearing would not fail him at this distance, though he knew he blushed a fiery red as 
he listened in to Dawn and the Englishman. 

"He's so cute!" Dawn enthused.

"I'll take your word for it." Wesley's tone of voice made his attitude hard to 
determine.

"I met him at the Rosita Museum. He likes hanging out there." Dawn lobbied Wesley. 
"Come on," She wheedled, "what do you think?"

"I think…that you two were made for each other."

Despite ostensibly being out of hearing range, Connor couldn't help the betraying 
way he jerked his head around to look at Wesley, unable to decipher the undercurrents 
in the Englishman's almost-sardonic assessment. Fortunately Wesley was 
concentrating on Dawn, visibly wincing as she emitted an excited squeal and hugged 
him before stepping back and cheekily apologising for 'inflicting emotional 
mushiness' on his English self. 

Bringing back the ice-cream, Connor and Dawn began to chat. Dawn revealed she 
was at UC Sunnydale from the fall, and they started talking about college, but through 
it all, Connor was acutely aware of the fact that the two nearby men were bodyguards, 
not chaperones. Finally, Wesley cleared his throat and moved closer, telling Dawn 
that it was ten past eleven and that they had to be 'back for twelve'. Dawn, treating 
Wesley's words with a gravitas they seemingly far from warranted, said her goodbyes 
immediately and with none of the adolescent whiny go-away-can't-you-see-I'm-
talking-to-the-cute-guy-here attitude Connor had half-expected her to cop with the 
Englishman. 

Connor watched the three walk away, Dawn in the middle, her slim legs and neat 
buttocks really hot in those pants, with Gru on her left and Wesley on her right; 
they're both killers, Connor recognised, but they'll die for her, as well as kill for her. 
By the time he began to make his own way back down the pier Connor knew with 
absolute certainty that he would be transferring to UC Sunnydale as soon as he could. 
Looking in the direction Dawn and her two guardians had gone, though he could no 
longer see them, Connor suddenly recalled a tenth grade school trip his Sociology 
teacher had taken the class on, to one of the city's homeless shelters. It had made 
Connor and his classmates realise that they co-existed side-by-side with a whole 
world that they knew nothing about. I've just seen it again, Connor thought as he 
wended his way through the day-trippers, Dawn, Spike, Wesley, Gru – and whoever 
else she's got like that green guy. They walk right beside us, and they live among us, 
but they live – and die – in a whole different world that we know nothing about.

* * *

Staavuz bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as he heard the elevator start to come 
down, hissing softly in warning to his hirelings of the hour who hugged the shadows 
tighter. Staavuz had no idea what the vampire's gig was all about. Recognising what 
the homage to Punk was at the Rosita Musuem, Staavuz had initially stood back to let 
the undead eat the stupid little cow preparatory to swooping in and claiming credit 
himself, until finally it impinged that the blond vampire was protecting the girl…from 
him.           

Staavuz had to admit it had given him pause; after all, what kind of pull could a 
skinny human child like her have to get a vampire to go all Kevin Costner to her 
Whitney Houston? Maybe it was something to do with those Wolfram & Hart types, 
but Staavuz couldn't see it. Vampires were certainly amongst the brightest of the Evil 
types, though that came more from the demons inhabiting human hosts, but their 
Great Flaw was hunger, they became notoriously distracted when it came to the ruby 
red. For Wolfram & Hart to hand the job of protecting a tender, nubile young hottie 
like Dawn to a vampire was the famous proverbial fox being put in charge of 
guarding the hen house.  Perhaps the vampire's game plan was to sucker the little slut 
with a 'hero' act – kill the nasty demon, Dawn falls into his cold embrace, opening 
her heart and her legs, unaware that the vampire would drain her dry even as he f-

Staavuz hissed in warning as one of the demons moved restlessly in tune to the louder 
rumbling of the rapidly approaching elevator. Acquiring 'muscle' at short notice was 
always a tricky proposition, and Staavuz cast his mind back to his actions after his 
abortive attempt to stake Spike proved that the hotel had a major sanctuary spell on it.

* *

Staavuz blessed his species' lack of acute olfactory senses as he entered the seventh 
bar of his search. He was after hired thugs, heavy-duty muscle to keep the blond 
vampire busy while he grabbed his little prize and hauled her out into the sunlight 
where he could snap her neck like a twig in full view of the powerless vampire. 
Claiming to have been paid ten thousand dollars, a mere fraction of the two million he 
had been advanced from his four million dollar payday when little Dawnie was deader 
than a can of Spam, Staavuz was aiming for a definite stratum of demon underworld 
society. He didn't want those so far down the IQ ladder that you had to keep 
reminding them to breathe every other minute, they were far more trouble than they 
were worth. On the other hand, he didn't want anything intelligent enough to actually 
think for itself for exactly the same reason.

Carefully scoping the place out, Staavuz made overtures to three individuals, and by 
the time that he got back to the Hyperion with his goon squad in tow in time to see the 
Viper leave from the underground garage the following day, he had no less than 
eleven very strong but not very bright vicious looking demons grouped around him. 

"If they gotta Sanctuary spell, why we here?" One of the group had asked vacantly as 
Staavuz led his little reconnoitring group across and up the main path of the old 
building. The guy was all teeth and bony facial protrusions, his features contorting 
even more hideously as he struggled to get his brains working…a common problem 
with bi-cerebral species. 

"To find out just how far that blond bastard's mojo goes." Staavuz growled. "If 
making your world a nice safe little bubble with a Sanctuary spell was that easy, 
everyone would be doing it. They're complicated, require a lot of power and tend to 
go wrong, very easily…"

Within ten minutes, Staavuz had his little coterie of hell-fiends in the hotel's vast, 
deserted underground parking garage, and was laying out their instructions, which, 
simply, were to attack the blond vampire on sight.

"What'll you be doing?" Another of the group asked, a bipedal species with crocodile 
like skin, tusks and an unpleasant mixture of suspicion and more intelligence that 
Staavuz wanted in his voice.

"I'll take care of the girl." Staavuz said, his tone making it clear that this point was 
non-negotiable. 

Staavuz went on, pointing out optimum positions for them to make their rush on the 
vampire at noon the next day, keeping a weather eye on same one who looked 
increasingly unhappy, obviously brainier than his fellows. While a lot of other-
dimensional creatures talked down vampires as inferior or half-breeds, they didn't do 
so in the presence of the undead, because an angry vampire was in truth one of the 
most vicious, brutal, relentless stone-cold-killers in this or any other reality.

"How can you be sure that Sanctuary whammy doesn't cover the vamp down here?" 
Unfortunately Bright challenged looking around the garage unhappily. "While you're 
canoodling with the human spawn, he could be kicking our asses."

"Good point." Staavuz acknowledged, shooting the demon through his eyes without 
taking the gun from his suit pocket. Two others moved aside as the corpse toppled 
over backwards. "Guess we can pretty much guarantee the sanctuary spell doesn't 
extend down this far."        

* *

Staavuz tensed as a familiar lithe figure exited the elevator and headed straight for 
him, or rather towards the Viper parked slightly to the left of his position. Those 
bleached follicles were better than a flaming beacon. A good three to four feet behind 
him, looking distinctly unhappy, came the human kid.

In unison, the demons surged forward with grunts and growls, making Dawn stop 
dead, her eyes widening. Smirking, Staavuz moved left, intent on working his way 
around the edges to snatch her as they closed in on the outnumbered blond vampire.

"Staavuz, Staavuz," Chided a cultured voice from behind Spike and Dawn. The 
human man with the cold grey-eyes looked at the encircling monstrosities with 
contemptuous amusement. "You're so tediously predictable. Takes all the fun out of 
it, you know."

Unnerved by the use of his real name rather than his human disguise, Staavuz bared 
his teeth at the human, who looked amused rather than frightened. Dawn, a smug 
smirk on her fat human lips, was backing away rapidly towards the elevator she had 
just exited. Staavuz gave a warning snarl at his minions. If the man wanted to commit 
suicide, so be it –

"Yeah, Staavuz," a tall brown-haired ma- vampire, dressed just like the blond vampire 
all in black, glided to stand next to the human, "where's your pride in your plotting?"

"GET them!" Barked Staavuz, finally seeing the set up as he reeled in shock from 
recognising the infamous Vampire With the Soul, Angel, and gambling that his 
minions were stupid enough to automatically obey his yell instead of realising they 
were cannon fodder.

The two groups rushed together; what the demons lacked in speed of movement and 
razor-sharp reflexes they made up for in raw power. They swung wild haymakers and 
missed, but their advantage was that they only needed to connect once. Moving in a 
perfect complementing choreography as if they had practised such a routine daily, 
Angel and Spike met the brunt of the demons charge, and were like willo'-the-wisps. 
Dancing, ducking, spinning and kicking, they were ephemeral phantoms as the goons 
tried to land blows, but every action they made found it's mark in the snapping of a 
horn here, the crushing of a bone there. To the left, Charles Gunn, incongruous in a 
sharp suit, twirled a huge double-headed axe like it was a cheerleader's baton, a 
steadily growing pile of appendages and limbs around him showing his efficacy with 
the weapon. Gru's sword sliced and slashed as he gleefully did what he did best, 
while Lorne hefted Wesley's favourite pump-action shotgun and made short-shrift of 
anything that tried to sneak behind the fighters. By his side, Illyria's skin glowed the 
hue of a cerulean summer sky as the protective armour of it's original species 
managed to successfully transform it's host's softer female skin. With a single arm 
swipe, Illyria tore the head off an attacker, and looked towards it's mate.

Wesley raised the rifle and aimed with precision, over the fighters' heads. Staavuz 
shrieked in rage and pain as agony seared through his left leg; he fell forward flat, 
which made Wesley miss his shot at the creature's head. Before Wesley could correct 
his aim, a bellowing to his right telegraphed the attack of one of the demons who had 
managed to get past Angel and Spike in the melee, and who didn't realise Wesley 
wasn't as much of a threat to it as the others. He jumped back, the protruding spines 
from the thing's fist missing disembowelling him by millimetres as it overshot.

A blue barrier was suddenly between him and his attacker. Illyria ducked under the 
next clumsy blow and blocked the follow-through swing with one upraised arm, the 
demon howled as it's spines shattered against the strange blue armoured skin. Illyria 
ripped one of it's arms off, making it shriek hideously and stumble back. In the 
foreground Spike bent forward at the waist and Angel rolled over his back to land the 
other side of his grandson and block the attack of two more; Gunn lunged forward to 
support Gru, who was fighting off two more, while Lorne blasted the head clean off 
one who was charging straight at the elevator where Dawn watched, her fingers firmly 
on the DOOR HOLD button in violation of Wesley's instructions to shut the door and 
go back up to the lobby. 

Then, just as suddenly as began, it all over. The group stood victorious amidst the 
mangled remains of the ten attackers, completely unscathed with the exception of 
their clothing, most of which bore a variety of exotic spatter stains. 

"Damn." Wesley's tone was redolent with self-disgust. In the far corner of the parking 
garage, there was no sign of Staavuz, the clear trail of a strange, viscous rust-yellow 
liquid showing where the badly injured demon had made his getaway. "I only got him 
in one leg."

"It's enough." Angel straightened up. "Staavuz is a bully-boy counting on the fact that 
Dawn had no muscle on her team. I doubt he'll be back now he's had his ass kicked 
into next Tuesday."

Since Wesley could make no demur without alerting the listening Dawn, the 
Englishman merely nodded, but his eyes remained troubled as he looked at the 
splashes of coagulating rusty liquid.

* * *

The staff of Wolfram & Hart were an extraordinarily stoic bunch. Flying saucers 
landing on the White House lawns might raise the odd eyebrow or two, but then 
would just as likely not. Over and above this, however, they were simply accustomed 
to their vampire CEO walking through the doors looking like he'd just fought his way 
through an entire pride of starving lions to get here. Therefore nobody raised an 
eyebrow at the dishabille of the group as they exited from the elevator leading up 
from the CEO's private underground parking garage and made their way to Angel's 
office; everybody had all their limbs, nobody was obviously bleeding out, so all was 
right in their boss's world.

Angel sank into his chair behind his desk gratefully. Sometimes he really appreciated 
being able to just let the big chair take the weight. In spite of his exertions, Angel was 
experiencing a pleasant buzz within his body, the after effect of kicking bad guy ass. 
He only wished the demarcation between the good guys and the bad was always so 
clear-cut. Raising his head, he was snared by Wesley's amused eyes as, ignoring 
Dawn's vocal jubilation, the English ex-Watcher looked at both Angel and Spike, 
who was perched on the arm of the couch, grinning broadly. The three shared a silent 
but perfectly understanding exchange. That pleasant buzz was due, in part, to the 
change in Angel's diet from pork to Wesley. Both he and Spike were riding the action 
junkie 'high', wanting to feed, and Wesley was aware that his own adrenaline-
saturated blood would be especially sweet. Giving a pointed warning look at where 
Illyria had only just subsided and allowed Fred to emerge, the Watcher turned back to 
the others.

"You guys rock!" Dawn hugged Lorne enthusiastically, delighting as his face went 
greener still with embarrassed pleasure before grabbing the Groosalug for similar 
enthusiastic hugging.

"I'm too cool to cuddle," Gunn raised a hand warningly as Dawn released a beetroot-
faced Gru, "and I'm still hauling this bad-ass axe." 

"Spoilsport." Dawn stuck her tongue out at him. "Thank-you so much! You're so 
brilliant, and it's only two o'clock. I can be home in time for Attack Of The Fifty Foot 
Woman and pizza. Buffy –"

"Is right here."

There was one of those tiny hiccups of time, where each individual present 
desperately tries to rewind the last couple of seconds in the hope that maybe they 
haven't really happened.

Angel slowly stood up, the elation draining from him. Spike's posture slumped 
slightly as he retained his perch on the couch arm, but his face turned unerringly 
towards Buffy, his expression one of helpless adoration. They had thrown the double 
doors of Angel's office back with careless delight, the doors sticking on the carpet 
wide-open; the newcomers stood framed in the open doorway, bearing enough 
weaponry for several massacres. 

Gunn raised an eyebrow as he checked out the mean-looking black dude with Angel's 
Slayer love, Fred looked uncertain, Lorne casually laid a hand on the Groosalug's 
arm, easing the pair of them backwards whilst simultaneously squeezing the limb in a 
keep quiet warning. Not being nearly as stupid as he acted, Gru kept his lips firmly 
clamped together. Wesley shifted his body so he was between the Scooby Gang and 
Fred.

Staavuz licked his lips nervously, the pain in his leg incredible. He could only hope 
that the loophole still held. George had kept a plethora of guns in his desk drawer for 
that very reason – while Wolfram & Hart had impenetrable mystical safeguards 
against the disgruntled guy bursting through the door with a semi-automatic, or the 
guy bringing in a briefcase that was really a bomb, the safeguards did not 'recognise' 
any non-mystical weapon, such as a gun, that was already inside the building when 
the safeguard spells were cast. Of course, his mini-arsenal hadn't done George much 
good a few months ago when something Staavuz couldn't quite remember had 
butchered most of the firm's staff. After Staavuz had entered the building in a suit 
with a briefcase, he had known his way around sufficiently enough to be able to walk 
to George's office as if he had every right to be there. The office hadn't been snapped 
up yet and the dead man's fully-loaded collection of guns were still present, though 
very dusty.

Taking the Magnum .357 and placing it in his waistband at the back, Staavuz had 
placed the semi-automatic machine pistol in his empty briefcase and walked out, 
making his way to the floor that overlooked Angel's office, taking up position on the 
walkway, his task made easier by the fact that the doors were wide open, giving him a 
panoramic killing zone. Removing the semi-automatic from the case, he had taken 
careful aim at the girl. The sudden arrival of a posse who had swept up to take 
positions in the open doorway didn't bother Staavuz; the bullets would tear through 
their human bodies and still retain enough force to kill or injure whoever was beyond 
them. 

He glared; he would much have preferred to be having his leg seen to before making 
for warmer climes, like Acapulco, but he had no choice. Under any normal 
circumstances he would have cut his losses when his initial attack on Spike failed, but 
this deal was just too sweet to throw away. Besides, Staavuz had spent the two million 
he had been advanced for killing the little human bitch and the two million he would 
have when the job was done already.

Moving carefully and slowly so as not to draw notice, Staavuz settled his aim on the 
doorway so that while most of his load would hit Dawn, his arc of death would also 
cut down that smug English bastard and most of the others too. Thus, Staavuz made 
his last mistake, in that he failed to be aware at all times of everything that was going 
on around him. Forgetting that that even the most insignificant pawn can become the 
Queen, Staavuz made the fundamental error of focussing solely on his target; 
peripheral sight and sound became nothing more than a faint hum to him, instead of 
paying attention to what others were doing. They were nothing, just upright corpses 
that wouldn't fall until he pulled the trigger. He was therefore completely unaware of 
Harmony, who at her secretary's desk was doing what any sensible vampire would do 
with three Slayers standing less than six feet away  – looking around her for a likely 
escape route.

"Buffy." Dawn looked at her sister and her friends calmly.

The blonde Slayer was the centre of the group, flanked on either side by Faith, Giles, 
Willow, Xander, Kennedy and Robyn Wood. "Mind telling me what the hell you're 
doing?" Buffy ground out.

"I was being stalked by my murderous demon boyfriend, so I came to LA to ask 
Spike to kill him." Dawn answered promptly. "We kicked his ass this morning 
though, so we can go home now…unless you want to hit Rodeo Drive for an hour?"

"I already did the 'what is it with you Summers women and non-humans' gig." Lorne 
interposed as Xander and Willow exchanged glances. 

"Spike." Repeated Buffy as it were a word in an unfamiliar language, looking at the 
blond vampire, who raised a hand in a half-hearted wave before replacing it on his 
thigh. Her voice began to rise shrilly as she went on, "A demon was trying to kill 
you…so you came to Spike?"

"Spike is Dawn's Champion." Wesley answered Buffy as coolly as if discussing the 
likelihood of rain at Wimbledon Tennis, "Just as Angel was once your Champion." 

For an instant Buffy stared at Wesley, her jaw slack, then she looked past him at 
Angel for the first time, and she stiffened.

"DON'T be ridiculous, Miss Summers." Wesley's voice was a whip-crack that would 
have flayed the skin off a rhinoceros, "and I will thank-you not to drag the rest of us 
down to your level. Angel has been my Champion for five years and I do not, nor ever 
have had, any desire to have sex with him. A romantic relationship with a Champion 
is a rare, and entirely incidental occurrence."

Dawn straightened and glared at her sister as the group got it finally and Team Angel 
directed hostile looks at the Scooby Gang. 

"So I'm incapable of dealing with some testosterone-overloaded idiot?" Buffy had to 
struggle against the hard knot of pain in her stomach as she challenged her sister.

"Right now? In spades!"

The strident comeback was not the response Buffy or the others had expected and 
they stared at the young woman. Dawn moved forward, spoiling for a fight, glaring at 
them. "Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror lately, Buffy? You're the 
poster child for nervous exhaustion. Has any one of you people worked a less than 
eighteen hour day anytime in the last six weeks?"

"Dawnie," Xander gave her his patented goofy grin. "That's –"

"The whole point!" Dawn threw out a hand towards Buffy. "Look at her! She was 
only a size eight before she started the working-every-hour-without-food-or-sleep 
crash diet! I thought Stefan was cool, turns out he was a schmuck, and an obsessive-
stalker schmuck at that. But hey, no problem, why should I deal with my own mess 
when I've got the Slayer to clean up after me? I'm sure you could all have juggled 
your crippling workloads to deal with pathetic Dawnie and her scuzzy ex-boyfriend!"

"Yes, we could have!" Cried Buffy, "I'm you sister, I'm supposed to –"

"Be so terrified you're going to lose me too that you have panic attacks when I take 
the garbage out?" Dawn cut her off. "You protect me because you're my sister and 
you love me. That isn't a one-way street, Buffy. I protect you because you're my 
sister and I love you. I looked at the people I love the most and saw that they were 
overworked and exhausted, so I chose your solution. I turned to my Champion." 

"Dawn, just because Spike was my Champion when he closed the Hellmouth -"

"He was never your Champion."

"What?" Slowly Buffy turned her head to look at Wesley Wyndham- Price who had 
continued to stand, his arms folded across his chest, looking at her as if she were some 
undesirable ragamuffin who had wondered into his home from the street.

Angel moved forward but then paused as he reached a spot behind and to the right of 
Wesley, vacillating uncertainly as he faced protecting his best friend from the woman 
he loved, sending frantic telepathic commands to Wesley to 'shut up'. 

The Englishman obviously wasn't receiving. "Spike has never been your Champion. 
If the First Evil had succeeded in opening the Hellmouth, Dawn would have been 
killed, so her Champion ensured it was shut. That was the one thing that Wolfram & 
Hart didn't think about when they sent Angel to Sunnydale with the amulet, intending 
for him to be rendered a ghost within it and thus under their power. Like everyone 
else, they assumed that the Slayer was the only member of the Scooby Gang to have a 
specific Champion."

Angel and Spike, like everyone else, were exchanging shocked and uncertain glances 
at each other. Angel had been furious and deeply jealous when Buffy chose Spike as 
her Champion to close the Hellmouth. The blond vampire had taken the role for the 
sake of the woman he loved…

"Oh bollocks." Spike straightened as realisation, no pun intended, dawned. Finding 
himself the cynosure of all eyes he swallowed and went on. "I took the amulet 'cause 
I'm crazy in love with you. I thought I was being your Champion, but when it actually 
happened, the most important thing in my mind, the most overriding need in my head, 
wasn't saving you," he looked at Buffy, "it was saving Dawn. She had to live, at any 
cost."

"No." Buffy shook her head. Taking a calming breath, she opened her mouth – 

"Yes." Wesley Wyndham-Price forestalled her. "And before you start one of your 
epic, heroic and tediously self-righteous oratories, Ms Summers, do I detect a hint of 
pique?" He raised one eyebrow almost to his hairline sardonically, "Could it be that 
the reason you are so resistant to the notion is because, if Spike is Dawn's Champion, 
then you can no longer retain sole place in the mystical spotlight as the only woman in 
the history of everything to have as her Champion a vampire with a soul?"

Everybody stopped breathing as they saw both Buffy and Wesley's eyes change, sort 
of slip-out-of-focus-but-not as they each went to that strange mental place that a 
human goes to inside his or her head when they are about to kill. Angel helplessly 
prepared to throw himself between the two of them, vowing that if he came through 
this, he was personally going to take Wesley and beat him to within an inch of his 
clearly insane life –

"DOWN!!!" Screamed Harmony.

Normally the warning wouldn't have been enough.

But these weren't normal circumstances, and these weren't normal people. They did 
not simply gape at the crazy screeching blonde chick. Nor did they just stand there 
and look around wildly, as if expecting to see someone carrying a helpful placard: 
I'M THE EVIL BAD GUY.  

As the sound wave of Harmony's 'O' was still vibrating in the air, the entire assembly 
was hugging carpet like a lover, or diving behind whatever cover was available. In 
reflex action Staavuz fired, but his arc was aimed at the chest height level of people 
now imitating pancake. Glass, pottery, upholstery and wood were brutally slain as he 
sprayed the room with gunfire. Angel, having been involved in a war of nerves with 
the cleaners over the fact that he preferred his office couches flush against the wall 
underneath the outside windows, while they preferred to move them forward into the 
room a foot or so, mentally promised to apologise profusely as these gaps behind 
them provided ideal human-sized gopher holes. Over the hideous chudda-chudda of 
the gun, he heard tables and chairs crash over as they were turned into impromptu 
shields and Angel fidgeted as he tried to locate everyone's position, relief swamping 
him as he saw that there were no still shapes sprawled on the floor.

The din stopped abruptly to leave that brief, echoing silence where everyone tries to 
stop their ears ringing from the concussions and the stink of cordite obliterated your 
sense of smell.         

"OOOOH, DAAAWWNIIIEEE!!" Trilled Staavuz, hefting the semi-automatic and 
viewing the scene with glee.

Dawn hissed but didn't respond as she crouched behind one couch, the one that was in 
the top left of the office as you walked in. Buffy, Xander and Robyn Wood were on 
her right, the Slayer's face bearing an expression of fury. Xander retained his 
perpetual attitude of wry élan, but after all, being shot at did not rate that high a crisis 
on the Harris freak-o-meter. Robyn's dark eyes were unfathomable as he hefted the 
crossbow he held. To Dawn's left, there was the reassuring chill of her Champion's 
body. Dawn laid a restraining hand on his arm as she felt the thrumming need to kill 
surge through him, amazed that he hadn't gone vamp-face yet. Set slightly back under 
the walkway that Staavuz was standing on was the best hiding place – behind 
Harmony's desk, and for all the gravity of the situation, Dawn smiled inside as she 
pictured Harmony's face as the ditzy blond vampiress crouched down – right next to 
Slayer Kennedy and Willow. Where was everyone else?

Dawn relaxed slightly as she looked to her left down the back wall of the room.  
Behind the second couch that was situated along the wall more or less directly 
opposite the doors crouched Giles at this end nearest to Spike, with Faith next to him, 
then Fred, who amazingly hadn't – yet – turned into that weird blue Illyria thing, and 
finally Wesley. Angel's large desk actually swept round in three angle sections, and 
Angel and Gunn were crouched on the extreme right side, peering warily around the 
edge of the desk. Where was Lorne - ? Looking to her right, remembering that Lorne 
and Gru had been at the top end of the room, the opposite end to where Angel's desk 
was, Dawn sagged as Lorne gave her a little wave from where he and Gru were 
huddled behind a small conference table. 

Dawn licked dry lips; Angel or Spike could have turned Staavuz into a corpse within 
two seconds, the problem was getting across that large pesky expanse of open space 
providing him with a clear field of fire in order to get to him!

His back pressed against the back of the couch as he balanced on his haunches, 
Wesley pulled up his pants leg and liberated the handgun, automatically checking the 
clip; gambling that Staavuz's hearing was still recovering from his little display, 
Wesley pulled back the slide and released it, risking Staavuz hearing the familiar 
ratchet sound. 

"You carry a gun here?" Hissed Gunn from where he hunkered down next to Angel, 
drawing the others' attention to the couch.

"I carry a gun everywhere." Wesley adjusted the leather holder on his other shin, 
making sure he could pluck out the spare clip and insert it within a second if need be.

"You won't be able to make a shot from here." Robyn Wood and Xander Harris 
whispered simultaneously. 

As Wesley spared them a brief glance, Xander informed the room at large, "Turned 
into a Special Forces soldier by Ethan Rayne." Robyn Wood shrugged, "United States 
Marine Corp. First Gulf War."

"Wes-ley." The lethal sibilant emphasis Angel was able to inject into the single 's' 
available to him was impressive as he warned the ex-Watcher not to even think about 
doing anything stupidly heroic, like leaving the safety of the couch and drawing 
Staavuz's fire.                 

"You know about Jerry Henderson at the Watcher Academy, look what happened to 
him," Giles put in to Wesley, his tone light as he tried to send similar telepathic 
commands for restraint to the younger man, "and he relied on his gun so much he 
would only take it off to shower…"

Wesley's mouth muscles twisted in a way that gave the false illusion he was smiling.  
"This model is waterproof." 

Whatever response anyone would have made to this was lost as Staavuz impatiently 
yelled, "Come on, people! I'm the one holding a machine pistol here! Just push the 
little bitch out into the open and I'll take care of her for you…doesn't that constant 
yammering annoy you too?"

Buffy looked down the room to Angel and their eyes met; they needed to come up 
with a plan, some distraction that would enable at least one of them to make it up to 
that balcony and pulverise Staavuz into a bad memory…but anyone providing a 
diversion would end up like a sieve and that was not acceptable –

"There's no point to this, Staavuz!" Wesley's yell made them all start. "Leave now 
and you'll still have your life."

Staavuz's laugh echoed loud. "Oh, don't you sound scary, not. Don't think so, Brit 
boy. In case your bunch of sitting ducks missed it, I've got a clear field of fire and a 
semi-automatic machine pistol that rocks on my side!"

"And I've got three Slayers, three vampires, the world's most powerful witch, an 
unconquerable hero, two demons and assorted pissed off bad asses on mine." Wesley 
roared back. Letting the disconcerted silence hang for a beat, he called out again, 
"You've brought a knife to a gunfight, Staavuz. Cut your losses and walk while you 
still can."

Staavuz ignored the nagging feeling that he should do exactly that, uneasiness 
creeping over him like cold fingers as he listened to the Brit's recitation of what 
exactly was in the room with him. Three Slayers? "Like to oblige, Brit boy," Staavuz 
called, "but this is kinda a ham and eggs breakfast situation. Chicken's involved, but 
the pig's committed, and well, I'm not the feathered contingent here. So I think I'll 
just shoot my fish in that sweet little barrel of yours."

"Just how stupid are you, Staavuz?" Jeered Wesley. "You've been strummed like a 
guitar, you idiot. You'll never be paid for this hit!"

"Hit? What hit?" Demanded Dawn for all of them, struggling to follow this sudden 
ball from left field. 

"Yeah, what you talking about, Brit boy?" Staavuz jeered back, though with none of 
his previous sneering arrogance – the Brit sounded to confident, too sure of himself, 
especially for a man about to be shot to death.    

"There never was any cash, Staavuz! Come on, think about it! I'll bet your employer 
is paying you way over the odds for this job – what is it, two million dollars, three 
million? Just for one talkative teenager. You've been paid to take out troublesome 
girls before – inconvenient sisters, wives and such. Doesn't it strike you as odd that 
your boss should desperately need one insignificant girl to be so dead?"

"Four million, actually," Congratulated Staavuz, relaxing a fraction, the guy was just 
fishing. He had intuition, not facts. "And well, since I've already spent the two 
million advance, I gotta –"      

"There was no two million advance, you moron!" Wesley moved slightly towards the 
edge of the couch, ignoring the fact that he had the rapt attention of everyone within 
hearing range. "Let me tell you what happened: your boss sat there and let you watch 
while they tapped a few computer keys and set two million United States dollars to a 
Swiss bank account for you, and then promised you the next two million when Dawn 
was a corpse."

"Yeah, so?" Staavuz demanded harshly, the British man having spoken so accurately 
it was almost as if he had invisibly been in the room when –

"So, that two million dollars was removed from that account and put back in your 
employer's kitty by the time you got to the bottom of the yard!" Wesley told the 
assassin. "It's all smoke and mirrors, Staavuz. The reason your boss could afford to be 
so generous with the killing fee was because whoever he or she is, they knew you'd 
never live to collect."

"So you think!" Staavuz yelled with fear-fuelled-anger, hearing the convincing ring of 
truth in the human's claim. Beyond his greed, he had wondered at the unusually large 
sum being promised to kill Dawn Summers.

Wesley didn't look at Dawn's white, wide-eyed face, feeling the weight of their stares 
upon him. "I don't think, I know, and I'll tell you why. How right am I about this part, 
Staavuz: your boss throws a friendly arm around your shoulders, takes you to some 
teenage party, points out the cute kid across the room and says, " ' I'll give you four 
million dollars to whack that girl over there, name's Dawn Summers. It'll be a 
cakewalk 'cause she's got nobody except a deadbeat sister to bother about her.'" 
What d'you say, am I close?"

Damn near verbatim. "Maybe!" Hedged Staavuz. "So what?"

"So, my dear duped Staavuz, your boss never bothered to mention to you that Dawn 
Summers elder sister was The Slayer."

"What?!" Staavuz was unable to prevent the blurted exclamation.

"Exactly! You've been royally suckered." Wesley pressed home his advantage. "Your 
boss knows your M.O. Staavuz, that's why they hired you to be their fall demon. You 
kill the Slayer's sister and there is nowhere on this planet or any other where you 
could run fast enough or hide yourself deep enough, no dimension you can flee to 
that's far enough away to stop the Slayer hunting you down and ripping you into a 
thousand little pieces of shredded flesh. Even if you managed to pull your cornered-
rat escape act and get the cops to do their usual shoot-out thing to your chest, you'd 
still be dead, because Buffy Summers wouldn't be sat at home weeping for her sister, 
Staavuz. Buffy Summers would make one hundred and ten percent sure that her 
sister's killer was deader than flares, and that means that when you jumped off that 
mortuary slab with your tender orange flesh all regenerated, you'd find Buffy 
Summers right there waiting for you to stroll out the doors. Dawn's sister is Buffy, the 
Vampire Slayer, and just like the Terminator, she's relentless and remorseless and she 
absolutely will not stop until you are dead."

The words, buoyed up by complete, ringing conviction seemed to hang in the air like 
invisible wind chimes for a tense eternity.

"You're lying!" Staavuz half screamed, his voice cracking as panic began to set in, 
the fact that Dawn Summers had some major mystically empowered figures on her 
side finally impinging on him.

"I can prove it!" Wesley roared back, feeling sweat trickle down between his shoulder 
blades. This was it – right here was where he either lured Staavuz close enough to 
take him down, or else blew it and saw several of his friends get shot to death in a 
protracted gunfight.

"What are you talking about?" Staavuz could hardly think past the surging pain in his 
leg. 

"The computer on Harmony's desk!" Wesley called as he slipped his gun into his 
waistband at the back of his pants. "I can show you that the two million dollars has 
been taken out of the account. That'll prove you've been set up!" Sucking in a breath, 
Wesley came to his feet from behind the couch, his arms raised and spread palms up 
in the universal sign of surrender. He heard Angel growl but did not take his gaze off 
Staavuz, his muscles reflexively tensing against the half-expected impact of bullets 
tearing into his flesh.

Staavuz came to a decision; step by cautious step he made his way down the steps to 
the lobby, the barrel of his gun never wavering from Wesley's chest as the human 
slowly moved forward, keeping his hands spread in the gesture of surrender. The 
others with the human also stood up but froze when Staavuz's finger flexed on the 
trigger of his gun as it pointed as Wesley. Staavuz didn't take his eyes of the human, 
but he could feel the burning gaze of the Vampire With The Soul boring into his brain 
and knew that it was Angelus who was standing within a few feet of him.

As the three women slowly stood up from their hiding place behind the secretary's 
desk, Harmony without ceremony shoved Kennedy into Willow and stood square in 
front of them, her face so white it was completely colourless. Wesley risked giving 
the vampiress a tiny inclination of his head in gratitude; bullets wouldn't kill 
Harmony, and her action would fool Staavuz into assuming she was the Slayer, 
blinding him to the real twin dangers of Willow and Kennedy. Reaching the desk, 
Wesley went around the back, placing his own frame in front of Harmony as double 
protection for Willow and Kennedy so he could reach the computer. Now he was 
facing the members of the two Circles of Nine, Team Angel and the Scooby Gang, 
who looked back at him with strained, frightened…and furious faces. If I make it 
through the next five minutes, Angel is going to kill me; Wesley snapped back into it 
as Staavuz thrust the gun towards his favourite skull.

Wesley's body was jolted as Staavuz ripped the gun from the back of his waistband 
and shoved it into his own pocket. For a moment death hovered as Staavuz's finger 
trembled, then the demon moved his finger away again. "Do it!" The demon snarled, 
twitching the barrel nervously as the Slayer behind Wesley shielded the redhead and 
the brunette with her body, unnerved by the fact that those two women were looking 
at him with homicidal rage instead of fear.

Tapping keys while standing upright wasn't the easiest thing to do, but Wesley had no 
intention of sitting down – not only would it have meant leaving Harmony in 
Staavuz's line of fire, but would restrict his ability to shave vital microseconds off his 
reaction time should he need to move fast. Wesley could only hope that in the 
aftermath of this little terror interlude that nobody asked him exactly how he had 
come by this deeply criminal knowledge regarding untraceable Swiss bank accounts, 
but he had experience of how tenacious these people could be.

 "The screen your boss had up probably looked something like this," Wesley pressed 
a finger momentarily on the flat-screen monitor, keeping his voice low and calm, 
making his body stance submissive, acutely aware of the way that the gang were 
creeping closer to them like leopards stalking inch by frozen inch closer to the plump, 
oblivious gazelle.

Harmony craned her neck to see what was on the screen, raising her hands in a 
placatory gesture identical to Wesley's earlier one as Staavuz growled at her, but the 
vampiress's action had enabled the encircling predators to gain another inch and a 
half of ground on Staavuz's position; I may actually live through this after all. Out of 
the corner of his eye, Wesley saw how Willow's lips were trembling slightly, but not 
out of fear. The world's pre-eminent sorceress was mouthing words in silence to 
herself…go, girl.

"Then your boss typed in a few passwords." Wesley suited actions to words and then 
reaching out, turned on the computer's speakers, assuming the money transfer 
program was state of the art. "Finally, you have…

"YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY DEPOSITED TWO MILLION UNITED STATES 
DOLLAR CURRENCY INTO THIS ACCOUNT." The computer said in a 
mellifluous female tone to match the message on the screen.

"Am I right?" Wesley finished.

"You're not showing me anything I don't already know." Staavuz's finger caressed 
the trigger.

Wesley smiled, not nicely. "Ah, but now I'm going to show you what went down 
after you left the room and went on your merry murderous way, in the fond belief that 
you were rich beyond the dreams of avarice." With exquisite care, he entered another 
code, tapping keys as two more screens came and went. Finally the screen came up 
with a large message in red font that it also intoned in the same syrupy female voice:

"YOU HAVE DEPOSITED THIS SUM WITHIN THE LAST FIVE MINUTES. 
ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO WITHDRAW THIS SUM?"

Clicking on the YES button, Wesley watched the screen dissolve and then:

"THE SUM OF TWO MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLAR CURRENCY HAS 
BEEN WITHDRAWN AND RE-DEPOSITED IN THE ORIGINAL ACCOUNT."

Irrational fury swamped Staavuz as the sight of the solid evidence of how he had been 
played, set up to kill and then be killed, the fall guy. Unaware he was howling in his 
mindless rage, his arm lashed out to smash the human back across the desk, bringing 
up the gun and tightening his finger on the trigger to tear the human male's body apart 
with it's deadly load. From a standing start five feet away, a blue blur somersaulted 
through the air and crashed through Harmony's desk, reducing it to kindling as 
something smashed into Staavuz's torso and hurled him fifteen feet clear across the 
room to land on his back, the semi-automatic spinning lazily away in another 
direction.

Scrambling backwards on his butt, oblivious to the soft whimpers he was emitting, 
Staavuz grabbed the Magnum and let loose, blasting straight at the chest of the 
glowing blue skinny chick. She merely stood there, allow the shots to hit her torso 
before striding forward without a mark and plucking the empty gun that Staavuz kept 
trying to fire from his hand, crushing it like a coke can. 

Lifting him up by the throat and dangling him like he weighed no more than a feather, 
Illyria turned it's head to where it's mate was sort of standing, supported either side 
by the two Dead-That-Lived. The other humans were watching it with due reverence. 
Illyria looked at the Dawn human spawn, this one's intended prey. "Most 
remarkable." It commented.

"We noticed." Xander-human commented, giving Illyria a smile.

The Xander-male appeared less afraid than the other humans and Illyria caught the 
faint vestiges of a demoness's scent over most of his body, including his human 
genitalia and nipples…ah, Xander-human was a demon's mate, as Wesley-human was 
Illyria's. Turning it attention back to the Staavuz-thing, Illyria considered it. "This is a 
demon species, yet it is inferior to the human insects."

"Really…in what way is it inferior to us…insects?" 

Illyria looked at the tall man who had pulled of his spek-tah-kals and was polishing 
them with the edge of his jacket. There had been an undertone of challenge in his 
tone, a lack of the due respect. Illyria looked closer; this male was a Mahju, as was 
her mate. The Fred-human's memories indicated that this was one of the Mahjai 
known as Watchers, as Illyria's mate had been. The Mahju was aged and wise in his 
power.       

"I slept for a million years until the human plague passed, but their grip is stronger 
than ever on this world. I did not understand how they could last, such a weak species. 
No horns or spines, no armoured flesh, not even any consistent powers of the spirit. 
Yet they have great skill and cunning." Illyria answered the older Mahju. "They will 
work together against a common enemy and lesser ones will die to give the great 
warriors time to attack. This is most bizarre, for in battle, the only goal of each of the 
warriors I commanded was to survive. The Dawn is not the spawn or the mate, or 
even the species of the yellow-haired Dead-That-Lives, yet he was prepared to 
sacrifice his endless life so she could perpetuate her ephemeral existence in this 
world. My mate also was willing to have his life ended so that you all could live." 
Illyria looked at her mate, whose flesh was beginning to mottle and darken in the 
manner indicating many burst blood-vessels beneath the skin. "I will discuss your 
actions later, my mate…at length."

Staavuz gurgled desperately. "Kill them! We're both demons, here! We should stick 
together -"

Illyria looked at the creature in bafflement. "The Dawn is still a spawn of her species, 
yet she has great wisdom, for she saw that you are not worthy as a mate. You have 
caused great inconvenience to me. You even dared to strike my mate." 

"Illyria -!" Wesley tried to gasp out, then winced as his abused ribs protested the 
movement. Standing either side of him, each one helping him stand by having one of 
their arms around his waist while he had one arm each across their respective 
shoulders, Spike and Angel clamped down their grips, holding him still effortlessly, 
not best pleased with him for setting himself up as Staavuz's main target.  

Bored with the creature's struggling, Illyria simply tore it's head from it's shoulders 
and dropped the twitching carcass on the floor. Snapping out one arm without even a 
single glance, Illyria effortlessly caught the spear weapon tossed to it by the Xander-
human, and spinning it in it's grasp, plunged it down into the carcass's undamaged 
leg, straight through the third vital organ of the demon; the corpse went into spasms 
for a moment, then stopped moving. 

Illyria dropped the head and turned to examine it's mate up close, completely 
uninterested in the dead thing. "I like her." Xander-human commented to the room 
generally, making Illyria's mate give a funny little growl in the back of his throat and 
his eyes looked at the other male with a hot glow in a manner that indicated 
displeasure.

The two Dead-That-Lived wisely separated themselves from Illyria's mate, and it 
carefully traced the marks on his torso, noting the redness and unnatural heat of his 
flesh indicating injuries. "The Fred-human is very loud and annoying inside." Illyria 
commented irritably as it's mate stood and let it's fingers trace the wounds made. "I 
will allow her to emerge now so she will stop the noise. We will speak more of this 
later, mate."

The Scooby Gang stared as the armoured blue demon seemed to slump and shrink, 
and then a long-haired, skinny brunette was standing in front of Wesley. She had big, 
soulful puppy eyes, which were now a smoky almost black reminiscent of a very 
angry junkyard dog. Wesley gasped anew as she punched his chest right where 
Staavuz's blow had thrown him back. "Were you trying to commit suicide!! What 
crazy-assed plan was that!"           

"One that worked." Wesley retorted. "Do you mind if we do the S&M later, dear?"

Fred's jaw dropped and then she seemed, finally, to recall that they were standing in 
the middle of a crowd. "Oh…ah…"

"It's okay, they get you like that." Faith assured Fred with perhaps more enthusiasm 
in her tone that was healthy. "Men – can't live with them, can't live without 
occasionally kicking hell out of 'em."

Xander turned his single eye upon Robyn "And this is the love of you life?"

"Yeah – and which of us was going to marry the vengeance demon, again?" Robyn 
tossed back.

"We're not done here." 

Everyone stopped at the quiet but lethal tone.

Buffy Summers folded her arms in front of her chest and regarded them with one 
raised eyebrow, her mouth tight. "Not that I don't appreciate you putting on some 
light entertainment, Angel, but we're not through with the fact that my sister –"

"Yes, we are done." Dawn moved to stand in front of her sister. "I didn't come to LA 
because I don't trust you to help me or whatever other paranoid crap is swimming 
through your brain right now. I came because I love you and I was trying not to 
burden you with any more problems than you're already trying to deal with. I did 
what I had to do to fix things. Obviously you don't agree with what I chose to do, but 
that's tough. I would do it again, and if I feel I need to in the future, I will do it again. 
Get over it."                 

"This is not a game!" Buffy yelled at her sister, pointing at the remains of Staavuz 
with a finger, "That thing was going to kill you. I have good reason for not wanting 
you to be involved with the Slaying, Dawn, because you could get killed and I can't 
lose –"

"You will lose me." Dawn said flatly. "Like I lost my mother, and like I lost my 
sister. I can't guarantee that I'll outlive you, Buffy. I could be killed tomorrow or live 
to be a cranky nonagenarian. None of these people who care about you can promise 
you they won't die. All I can do is promise I'll do my best to live for you. But one 
thing – I am involved. I can't live my life pretending your world doesn't exist. I can't 
not help you do what you do. So our world is far more dangerous than most people's, 
yeah, but then I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, or take a fatal header down a flight 
of steps. You can't protect me from that."       

"Dawn, it's too dangerous."  Buffy said in helpless frustration; didn't anyone standing 
here like giant lemons understand that she was trying to protect her sister? Dawn 
might not get it, but Angel sure as hell did, and Spike. "I don't believe how either of 
you could let her –"

"Because it's her right." Spike, who had moved back from the tense group to lean 
against the only still upright piece of Harmony's desk, now straightened up. Folding 
his arms across his chest, his manner authoritative in a way that he had never 
displayed before, Spike went on, "Dawn isn't a child, and she doesn't need protecting 
from the world anymore – you defeated Glory, remember? Dawn is as much a part of 
the Scooby Gang as Giles, and Xander and Willow and the simple fact is, Slayer, that 
you need her – actually more than she needs you."

"I need Dawn to risk her life for me?" Buffy's eyes flashed dangerously.

"No, you need her to fight by your side, which is where she should be. You might be 
the one who always gets the Emmy, pet, but you wouldn't have a chance if weren't 
for this lot working their asses off in the background who never get the credit. Batman 
needed Alfred and Robin, Clark Kent needed Lois Lane and his mates at the Daily 
Planet. Captain Kirk needed Bones and Spock. You're the car, pet, but these people 
standing around you are the gas in your tank."

"Spike, we understand what you're saying, but –" Giles began softly.

"No, you don't. Let me elaborate: 'if any man does not know how to care for his own 
household, how will he then care for the congregation of God?'"

 "First Book of Timothy Chapter Three Verse Five?" Robyn said on the heels of the 
quote, staring at the blond vampire incredulously.  

There was a startled pause, then:

 "Spike quoting Scripture? This I have to hear." Buffy challenged defensively.

Good, because Saint Paul was spot on." Spike shot straight back at her. "What you're 
doing is great. Training all these new Slayers, making sure they're not alone and not 
scared out of their minds for longer than necessary. Making the Watcher's Council 
useful instead of what that bunch of conceited ponces made it – great. But you need a 
higher purpose to do all that for, because if you haven't got that then you lose hope 
and once you lose hope, you end up a moping depressive, like tall dark and dreary 
over here."

"And my higher purpose would be…?"

"Dawn, and every other person you care about. St Paul was making the point that a 
guy couldn't very well look after the other Christians if his own family was in 
trouble." Spike moved unconsciously to the centre of the room, holding the rapt 
attention of everyone. "The next Apocalypse Express is on it's way into town, people, 
and only one thing about an apocalypse that you can count on – there'll be bodies. 
This is the eternal war between Good and Evil, people; it's not pretty, and there are no 
rules. Just because you're a Hero doesn't mean you get to kick Big Bad ass and then 
with a single bound be free. Ask Tara, or Anyanka, or Cordelia, or Kendra, or Jenny 
Calendar…or Fred, standing right over there, who has to share her sweet Texas self 
with a ten million-year-old hell demon. Some of us are going to die, but the reason we 
keep fighting against impossible odds and ever-bigger hordes of slimy demons is 
because we all have a Dawn. You each fight for the Dawn in your life, which is great, 
but you need to make your Dawn part of your life, not push him or her away, because 
that way you'll lose them, one way or another, in some cases that will be literally. The 
moral is this, grasshoppers: There's no point getting into Paradise if the people you've 
done it all for aren't there to share it with you."

"I just –" Buffy stopped and bit her lip.

"Love, we all 'just'. But the day you start trying to control those you love because 
you think you know best is the day you become Staavuz. You don't toss Dawn a 
battle-axe and send her out to go mano-a-mano against an Ethros demon, but she's 
just as much a part of your support network as Brainiac Giles, Uber-Witch Willow, 
Fearsome Faith, Roistering Robyn, Xander the King of Carpenters, Killer Kennedy, et 
cetera, et cetera, so treat Dawn with the respect that position deserves."

"How'd you get so smart?" Buffy whispered, her eyes glistening.

"Natural born genius." Spike shrugged. "And now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going 
home to my nice, noisy, massively haunted hotel. Passions is on in half an hour, and 
Timmy's down the well again."

* * *

"Heeeeesss." Wesley drew in a breath as Illyria was less than scrupulous about 
applying ointment to his bruised side. 

It looked at him without sympathy as it put the cap back on the tube and laid it on the 
night table beside the bed. "Your actions were reckless, mate." Illyria had allowed 
Fred-human to remain until they had returned to their lair, and then it had re-emerged 
with surprising little resistance from Fred-human, who was not happy with the risks 
her mate had taken to destroy the Staavuz-creature and who had encouraged Illyria to 
forthrightly express these.

"It was a calculated risk." Wesley acknowledged that he was at a disadvantage laying 
naked in the bed with Illyria fully clothed sat on the edge and regarding him with 
dangerous irritation, but Illyria wouldn't hurt him…very much.

"That you encouraged. You made the demon focus on you." Illyria pointed out. "The 
others could have drawn it's ire with less risk, such as the two Dead-That-Live."

Wesley didn't really want to think about Angel or Spike at the minute but what the 
hell, if Illyria was going to punish him, so be it… "The demon was threatening my 
mate and my family," he spoke with a flat lack of contrition, "so I attacked it. I will 
do the same again if I have to…" Wesley turned his head away from Illyria, "…of 
course I never thought you would want your mate to cower like a Klaarburt while 
others fought."

A thumb and forefinger far stronger than steel took his chin and forced his head back 
around. Illyria looked at him steadily, "You were very brave, mate. I and the Fred-
human are both very proud of your warrior skills. It is just…I do not wish to see you 
hurt, but oftentimes you are so determined to protect the dark Dead-That-Lives whom 
you serve as magician that you do not always think things through." 

"I am sorry, I will try harder in the future." Wesley answered sincerely.

Standing up, Illyria stripped off it's garments and carefully moved to lay beside him, 
tucking the covers around them before embracing Wesley. "It is all that we ask. Sleep 
now."

Wesley stroked Fred's soft hair until the demon's eyes fluttered closed, acutely 
conscious of the carefully folded handkerchief in his jacket pocket downstairs as he 
recalled the events following the killing of Staavuz and Spike's grand exit. Of all the 
creatures in the universe to have the ability to see through the sophistry people 
surrounded themselves with, why Spike?

A question for which there was probably no proper answer. Everyone had been a little 
dazed as they stood looking at each other in the wake of Spike's departure. Wesley 
understood that they were all coming down off the adrenaline high, having psyched 
themselves up for a major fight only for Illyria to pretty much clean house. 

It had been Buffy and Angel who had taken the lead again, the blond Slayer looking 
around her with suspicion and grudging interest. "So, Wolfram & Hart…"

No the most encouraging opening, but Angel had taken it, giving them a brief tour of 
the building – Willow had gone all glassy eyed as the sight of Fred's lab, Giles had 
practically drooled when Wesley rather sheepishly showed him his office with the 
source books, et cetera, and they ended up in one of the conference rooms. His mind 
always turning over the Scroll of Niamh, Wesley had concluded during the tour that 
Spike had to be the Lock of Dawn's Key. 

When Spike had made that crack about Fred having to share her body with a hell-
demon, Wesley had suddenly realised that the phrase he had translated in the Niamh 
Scroll as "Two-faced One" could also mean "fused together", as in Illyria and Fred 
sharing the body. Illyria's epiphany that Staavuz, though a demon, was inferior to 
Dawn, though still little more than a human child, had 'illuminated enlightenment' to 
Wesley by making him realise who he should focus attention on – the Scroll had to be 
referring in some way to Dawn Summers, whose first name even meant the rising of 
the sun, or increasing light. This understanding had come after his previous one, 
which had struck Wesley right as he was telling Buffy that Spike had closed the 
Hellmouth as Dawn's Champion not hers – a lock basically closed a door, and that 
was really what Spike had done, locking the Hellmouth. 

Acutely aware that he needed to pay close attention to anything that was said now that 
the Harbinger – Staavuz – had been and gone, Wesley's antenna had shot up when the 
idea of Team Angel and the Scooby Gang linking up and working together via the 
Internet and such had first been mooted. If that idea wasn't of great mystical 
significance, Wesley didn't know what did, but still it didn't quite seem to fit the bill. 
The upshot was that the Scoobies had decided to remain for a few days, Angel, with 
an evil smile, inviting them to stay at his haunted hotel. 

Focussed on anything significant that the Scoobies might say, Wesley hadn't really 
paid attention as Buffy and company decided to go to the Hyperion with Gru and 
Lorne as escorts. Willow and Fred had gone to the latter's lab to see if they could find 
any electronic trace of who had been Staavuz's boss, the reason why Wesley had 
intended to stop Illyria killing him, while Gunn had headed down to Contracts to see 
there was any trace of the shady deal there. 

As his side throbbed, Wesley ruefully acknowledged that even now he was always 
making the mistake of forgetting just how dangerous Angel was.

Everyone feared Angelus, and rightly so, for he was Evil with a capital 'E' – highly 
intelligent, ingeniously cunning, and a master at pulling off sick, twisted Masterpiece 
Theatre to out-psyche his victims before he killed them – or rather tortured them very 
slowly to a death that was a merciful release. The brief glimpse of Angelus when that 
idiot actress had slipped Angel a Mickey had been quite enough for Wesley without 
living through Angelus loosed during their battles with the Beast servant of Jasmine; 
acting under the evil influence of the demon host Cordelia might have been at the 
time, but as she had rightly said, Angelus had hated them because they were Angel's 
link with Humanity. If Angelus could have killed Wesley, Fred, Gunn, Lorne and 
Cordelia, he would have severed Angel's link with the world, removed everything 
that Angel was fighting for.

Wesley hadn't been under any illusions when he brought the Kung-Sun-Die mystic in 
to remove Angel's soul. He had known that should Angelus get loose, his primary 
targets would have been Cordelia and Wesley. They had known Angel back in 
Sunnydale, of all of them were the most deeply woven threads of Angel's life. 
Somewhat chauvinistically, Angelus viewed Cordelia as merely 'the love interest', 
but as Angel's second-in-command, best friend, adviser, guide on the road to 
redemption…and betraying kidnapper of his son, Wesley was the focus of a deeper 
hate.

He and Angel had never officially reconciled, or talked at all about what had 
happened when Wesley had stolen Connor, and since Angel's solution had been to 
erase all knowledge of his son from the group, Wesley could hardly bring the matter 
into the open, nor was he sure he wanted to. While it had ended badly, Wesley had no 
regrets about doing everything he could to protect both Angel and Connor, and he 
knew Angel was likely to react badly to his less than profound penitence. When 
Cordelia had let Angelus out, the ex-Watcher had known that Angelus would be 
gunning for him most of all – besides his own rage, Angelus had tapped into Angel's 
unresolved anger with Wesley over Connor. 

Though Cordelia – or rather Jasmine acting through her – had killed Lilah to throw 
them off the scent, Angelus would have killed her because of her and Wesley's 
relationship. There had been no clearly marked return to the fold of Team Angel after 
he had fished Angel out of the ocean, Wesley had just kept turning up when they 
needed his help, but Angel had always been aware of Lilah's scent on Wesley's body, 
and Angelus would have punished Wesley brutally for it.

But that was the mistake that everyone tended to make. They were so focussed on 
Angelus as the homicidal maniac alter ego that they often didn't stop to think just how 
lethal Angel could be when he was angry. With Fred and Willow joining in, Wesley 
hadn't been able to resist Angel's fussing over his bruising where Staavuz had thrown 
him back on Harmony's desk and Wesley had been rather amused at Angel 
shepherding him solicitously to one of the medical rooms to get seen to while Willow 
and Fred scurried off to the lab to do science stuff. Angel's goofy smile had even 
fooled the always-lurking Illyria. That amusement had been obliterated the instant 
Wesley and Angel stepped into the deserted medical room and Wesley had been 
thrown across the room to hit the opposite wall.

Angel had pinned Wesley there by the throat before he could more than gasp in 
shock; his voice a low, sibilant hiss, Angel had verbally flayed him for his stunt with 
Staavuz, before warning the ex-Watcher in future that he would give Angel a heads up 
if he came across any pertinent information instead of dropping it into the mix like a 
verbal hand grenade, as Wesley had done with the fact that Staavuz, far from being 
just a sick excuse for a boyfriend, was a professional hitman. Recognising the 
underlying anger Angel could not express, but also Angel's fear of losing Wesley, the 
ex-Watcher had raised his own hand to grasp the arm that Angel was using to pin him 
to the wall…

* *

"I'm sorry." Wesley croaked, trying to convey everything he could not say because 
Angel didn't know he remembered.

The fingers slowly relaxed their grip around Wesley's throat and Angel withdrew his 
arm. Needing the wall to remain standing a factor, Wesley was also not stupid enough 
to try and move suddenly or escape; Angel was tapped into his inner demon, who was 
hard-wired to bring down fleeing prey. 

"You don't seem to be valuing your life much at the moment," Angel said quietly, 
"but I do. If you get do anything this harebrained again and get yourself killed I swear 
I'll resurrect you just so I can kill you myself for being so stupid."

Wesley lowered his head in submission to the soft but deadly serious growl. 

Blowing out a breath, Angel stepped back. "Go sit on the examining table. I'll get the 
bandages and clean you up."

"It's okay –" Wesley shut up instantly as the dark vampire looked at him and instead 
obediently went and sat, taking off his shirt.

"Interesting. Pity I can't practise this look in a mirror if it gets you doing what you're 
told for a change." Angel said sardonically as he grabbed the ointment and crepe 
bandages from the cupboards.

Carefully the vampire checked Wesley's torso, ignoring the ex-Watcher's hiss as he 
removed a couple of splinters that would have been unnoticeable to human vision, 
before pressing lightly to check for invisible damage such as cracked and broken ribs, 
or any sign that the ribs had punctured a lung. "You're just badly bruised." He 
reassured Wesley, carefully applying ointment and bandage to the worst affected 
areas. "You're going to turn a sort of deep-purple-yellow-orange-red-blue with hints 
of green by the end of the week." 

"Thanks." Wesley hissed slightly as the vampire touched a tender spot. "Do you think 
Fred and Willow or Gunn will find anything?"

Giving a sniff at the obvious subject change, Angel decided that Wesley had been 
chastised enough. "I doubt it. I mean like you so eloquently explained for us in the 
peanut gallery out there, it was a rather fiendishly neat set-up. Staavuz is paid a 
fortune in phantom money to kill a kid he doesn't know is the Slayer's sister by 
pretending to be the psycho-stalker boyfriend, which unfortunately these days is a 
common enough scenario that possibly even Buffy wouldn't have looked any deeper. 
She'd have probably killed Staavuz without ever wondering if maybe there was 
something deeper behind it than Dawn attracting the wrong kind of guy."

Wincing as he slid off the table and donned his shirt again, Wesley risked a little 
badinage, "Let's hope our Dawn isn't three for three."

Angel smiled back with bittersweet humour. "Oh yeah. Buffy: vampire – secret 
government assassin – vampire. Dawn – vampire, demon…"

"The only way she can go is up." Wesley had murmured to himself at this succinct 
but painfully accurate recitation of the Summers girls' love-life to date.

"Don't bank on it." Angel cautioned, satisfied that Wesley wasn't seriously injured 
and was suitably chastised for his little stunt. "You know what they say – blood will 
tell."

The dark vampire turned away, beginning to exit the room, unaware of the arrested 
motion of his friend, who had stared after him with shock and realisation.

* *          
                    
Wesley allowed his heavy lids to close; it had been ridiculously easy. The Scoobies 
had stayed several days, and the following night the entire gang got together at the 
Hyperion for a meal – slipping into Wes-the-dork mode while they made a quick 
salad in the kitchen, it had been easy to 'slip' with his knife and cut Dawn's finger, 
his profuse apologies enabling him to dab the wound and secret the handkerchief in 
his pocket where it now lay, waiting. But other important agreements had been made 
over the last few days too, tentative reconciliation between various parties…

* * *

"Ahem."

"Hi." Angel straightened away from his desk as Buffy tentatively entered the room, 
giving everyone gathered a somewhat fixed smile.

Both Angel and Spike's faces took on identical expressions that veered perilously 
close to naked adoration; everyone else in the room – Lorne, Gunn, Wesley, 
Harmony, Xander, Faith and Robyn Wood, focussed intensely on the décor; the 
carpet, ceiling, lamps and view of skyscrapers out the window took on a rapt 
fascination. 

"Is everything..?" Angel began.

"Set up." Buffy nodded. "Willow and Fred have done something…way too 
complicated for me to understand with the computers, so that new red phone on your 
desk is a secure hotline to Sunnydale and we have a secure network link too, we're 
going to start updating each others systems tomorrow."

There was a momentary pause as everyone sort of didn't look at each other, none 
wanting to be the first to officially bring the last few days of cautious détente to a 
close by saying 'Goodbye' or more likely, 'We gotta get back to Sunnydale.' 
Nowhere was that more apparent than in the painful triangle of Buffy, Angel and 
Spike, standing staring at each other, so close together yet so far apart.

When Buffy had sent Andrew to collect Dana from LA, the revelation that the Slayer 
and her Scooby Gang no longer trusted Angel now he ran Wolfram & Hart had cut 
deep. However, over the last few days of them seeing that Angel was as uneasy with 
himself being the CEO of the evil firm as everyone else seemed to be, the Scoobies 
had pretty much unclenched. Now both teams were officially working together; Buffy 
had just begun sending out the most capable Slayers to hotspots all over the world, 
creating a network of Chosen Ones that would criss-cross the globe. Riley Finn and 
his wife Sam and their team-mate Graham Miller, as survivors of Professor Walsh's 
original Initiative, had been contacted and informed; the murkier elements of the 
government that operated Finn's team had made no overt response, but over the past 
few weeks, minor problems that the Scoobies had been facing, such as compensation 
claims over the destruction of Sunnydale in a violent but peculiarly localised 
'earthquake', had been expedited, as had their zoning applications and building 
permits.

Not a bit of which avoided the awkwardness of this moment. Sometimes being the 
world's pre-eminent Slayer was excruciating – so the queen of the slayers followed 
her instincts. Stepping forward, she stretched out her arms and placed the palm of 
each hand flat against the chests of the two vampires with souls, as if hoping to feel 
the vibration of hearts that did not beat. "Thank you, both." Her fingers flexed 
minutely as if seeking to tighten her clasp, but then she stepped back. Lorne's ruby 
red eyes were unashamedly wet and everyone found a lump in their throats; this was 
the ultimate love triangle.

"I-I-Is it okay, now?"

Heads snapped around at the tremulous voice, and a thin dark-haired girl shuffled into 
the room, clutching a large bag to her chest as if contained the crown jewels. Buffy 
had mentioned that another of the Slayers was coming down to LA today to bring 
some information Willow needed to secure the mystical safeguards on the secure-line 
red phone that had already been christened the 'bat-phone', but none of Team Angel 
had given any thought to the fact that it might be…

Her eyes were fixed on Spike with an expression of remorse and terror. The blond 
vampire's deathly white skin went a shade paler still: Dana, the mentally ill Slayer 
whom he had rescued, and who had subsequently tortured him to - had he been human 
- death. 

But he was Spike, and he had been with Angelus and then Drusilla for a century; the 
human wasn't born that could match either his Sire or Grandsire when it came to the 
art of inflicting pain. "Hello, Dana, pet."

"I-I-I…" Taking a fresh breath, Dana tried again, "Dawn got you this…to say thank 
you…but I asked to bring it, I…wanted to say sorry...you know."

"Here." Realising the damaged Slayer was incapable of it, Buffy gently prized the bag 
from her arms and held it out to Spike.      

Taking it, Spike realised everyone was waiting, so he pulled the object out. It was a 
large, beautifully leather-bound book, inlaid with rich emerald and ruby colours and 
gilt edged pages. It was obviously very old and very expensive. Spike smiled, 
"Keats?"

"It's your favourite, right?" Dana asked anxiously.

"Yeah," Spike traced his fingers over the cover gently, unaware the others were 
watching his soft smile with amazement. "Lost most of mine – they were in my crypt 
when the crater turned Sunnydale subterranean."

"There's a…" Dana gestured, "…inscription, that Dawn wrote…"

Opening the book, Spike's eyes widened. His voice suddenly hoarse, he read aloud: 
"To William, love Niblet."

* * *

"They'll be back in Sunnydale by now." 

Spike did not turn as Angel came to stand beside him, neither of their reflections 
showing in the windowpanes of Angel's office. Both stared out at the city that heaved 
and teemed with sheer life in the hot midday sun, protected by the necrotempered 
glass from being harmed by the bright light that bathed them. At the moment, it 
emphasised how the woman they both loved was probably walking down a sidewalk 
back to her life in Sunnydale, and how neither of them could follow. Humans needed 
sunlight to live; it was death to vampires. "Yeah. It's good she's there – I reckon this 
apocalypse that's going to give you a heartbeat again is going to be a bad one."

"They're all bad." 

"Yeah, but this is you, mate. The universe has it in for you, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Yeah, but I was trying to ignore it."

"Denial is not a river in Egypt, love."

"Tell me about it."

"Angel – "

Both turned as Wesley came in with a folder. Both vampires knew that underneath his 
shirt his skin was a glorious rainbow of bruising. The ex-Watcher came over to stand 
at the window, both vampires moving aside so he was between them and for a 
moment they contemplated the scene. "Giles called this morning. The connections are 
working perfectly and the protective wards Willow set are operating at maximum 
output."

"Good. We're going to need them." Angel said grimly. "We've everyone after us, 
including the so called good guys. Merging our resources has got to work…right?"

"Yes." Wesley said it with a flat, inflectionless, absolute certainty that made both 
vampires blink, whispering something so low that no human would have heard it.

"Beruth-ak-Sirse?" Spike repeated, frowning.

"Um? Nothing," Wesley raised the file. "Two teenage girls were snatched in East LA 
last night, the first about an hour after Buffy and the others set off back to Sunnydale, 
the second about two hours after that. Forensics from the crime scenes indicate both 
were snatched by the same acolytes and are to be killed in ritual sacrifice to Gigatt 
tomorrow."

"Gigatt being – "

"Twenty feet high, smells like an open sewer, breathes fire and secrets a gallon of 
viscous - "

"- slime." Finished Angel with doleful certainty. "Always with the slime."

"Welcome to another day in LA." Spike rhymed cheerfully.

* * *

In her bedroom on the top floor of the mansion, Buffy did not sleep though the clock 
read 12:45am. She could hear the snuffling and shifting and whispering of her charges 
as they pretended to sleep. If they didn't quiet down soon Drill Sergeant Faith would 
be on the rounds, distinctly unimpressed at having to leave the side of nice, warm 
Robyn Wood to quiet down the other members of the sisterhood. The blond slayer 
grinned – her they followed around like adoring puppies, Faith reduced them to 
quivering jelly. 

Buffy's smile faded. She could understand the big restless this place invoked, after all 
if Slayers weren't 'sensitive to atmosphere', who was? Apart from UC Sunnydale, 
this huge, rambling old mansion with uncountable rooms had been the only thing to 
survive the destruction of the First Evil, so Buffy had made the rational decision and 
had co-opted it, despite the bad memories. This was where Angelus, Spike and 
Drusilla had lived when he lost his soul after consummating his relationship with 
Buffy. That courtyard with the pretty fountain Xander had restored to working order 
was where she had run a sword through her beloved's belly and watched him get 
sucked into a Hell dimension knowing he had a soul. That anteroom on the south side 
was where she had chained the animalistic Angel after he returned from hell more 
beast than man. In that small room on the second floor, Angelus had tortured Giles for 
hours.

She blinked back tears. Two vampires with souls, because of her. She loved Angel for 
his strength, his honour, his striving for redemption. She loved Spike for his wry 
humour, his unswerving loyalty and his unashamed openness in loving her. And I 
can't have either. 

There was probably a huge cosmic joke at the back of this somewhere, but Buffy 
couldn't find it funny. Willow and the Slayer Kennedy were working out okay, 
though Tara Maclay's memory would always be there. Giles 'orgasm friend' Olivia 
turned out to be related to a Watcher family and had turned up to help the cause, 
though again, Jenny Calendar's faded ghost could sometimes be glimpsed in Giles' 
eyes. Remembering Anya's forthright descriptions and opinions, Buffy felt a pang. 
She had never really been that close to the ex-demoness, but now had a new 
perspective, especially since Xander had become even more reserved since her death; 
that wry whimsy he used to deflect the world's attention was now in place more 
frequently than ever. Those two had genuinely loved each other, which was indirectly 
what led to Anya being killed.

Anya had fought for Xander, just as Buffy fought for Dawn, and Kennedy fought for 
Willow, and Faith fought for Robyn…

Faith, her dark sister; the matter of the Dark Slayer breaking out of prison had 
mysteriously gone away; Willow assured them it wouldn't be a problem, and it 
seemed as if Riley Finn's Government friends were also smoothing the path. With 
Robyn Wood she was finding a peace she'd been unable to find anywhere else. 
Perhaps it was the fact that Robyn was the only known child born to a Slayer, maybe 
that gave him some insight, but whatever it was, Buffy found she was grateful to him; 
Faith had done things, evil things, but it was easy to be righteous when you grew up 
in a home with parents who loved you.

I find myself needing to know the plural of Apocalypse. Riley's words echoed in her 
mind. Being the one who stopped Apocalypses was scary, but suddenly it didn't bear 
down on Buffy's soul as much as it usually did. I'm not alone, but sometimes I get so 
wrapped up in what Charles Gunn calls 'the mission', that I forget that I never was 
alone…Go, Scoobies…and Team Angel.
                  
* * *

Angel popped his neck to work out the crick and stood up; it was 12:45am and 
everyone had long gone to better places. He grinned; since Wesley and Fred-Illyria 
had moved into Wes's apartment together, the ever-present scent and residue of male 
musk on the ex-Watcher's body showed that he wasn't getting much sleep. Not that 
Wesley seemed to mind, his step was full of bounce, never mind mere spring. Spike, 
with shadows of Drusilla clouding his eyes, had tentatively broached the subject of 
when Illyria mated with Wesley as opposed to Fred, but Wesley had quietly assured 
them that the demon was remarkably cautious of it's superior strength and hurting 
Wesley; it had given Angel food for thought – that Drusilla had raped, tortured and 
sexually abused Spike for her sensual pleasure, rather than the other way around, had 
never really occurred to him, because he and Darla had never had that kind of 
relationship, besides which the fact that the blonde woman was his Sire had always 
engendered in Angelus the faint vestiges of the only respect he had ever felt for 
anything. 

To both vampires' inward pleasure, since neither was looking forward to going back 
to pig's blood (and they still hadn't winkled out the weasel doping Angel's 'daily 
flask' with Luaric), Wesley had no problems allowing either to feed, as long as Illyria 
was kept in the dark as long as possible. Angel winced as he pulled on his jacket – he 
and Spike had the problem! The testosterone-oestrogen mix that mingled with 
Wesley's natural sandalwood and lemon scent combined in turn with his pleasure-
endorphin-and-adrenaline saturated blood to produce a potent, sweet nectar that was 
both intoxicating and almost like an aphrodisiac to both vampires. Angel had been 
hugely embarrassed when he was feeding and realised to his horror that he was 
becoming aroused by the heady combination of Wesley's hormone-marinated scent 
and the taste of his blood. When the ex-Watcher was safely out of earshot, Spike had 
admitted his own difficulties in the area.

Spike…Angel knew his grandson would be delighted to have the hotel all to himself 
again, sprawled in his personal palace with no interlopers…or as alone as Spike could 
be surrounded by the ghosts of dozens of suicide/murder victims. Right now Spike 
would be watching the last of Passions…how anyone with the ability to love Keats 
could like that garbage was beyond Angel.

Angel's smile faded; the coming Apocalypse was Coming with a capital 'C' – he 
could feel it in his bones; what had Spike said…? 'Apocalypse Express'…

He frowned; he had always viewed Spike as a threat, not a fellow Champion of Light. 
Spike's habit of being led by what he felt rather than thinking things through created 
the false impression that he wasn't that bright. Angel knew he above of all should 
have known better: his grandson was impulsive – but acutely perceptive, sometimes 
terrifyingly so. "'Love isn't brains, children, it's blood…screaming inside you to 
work it's will'" …the words Spike spat at him and Buffy in the Magic Box had 
shattered the comfortable deception maintained between Angel and Buffy, forcing the 
older vampire to the realisation he had to leave Sunnydale before Buffy herself had 
come to tell him that it had to be over: "' I can fool everyone, but I can't fool 
myself…or Spike, for some reason…'"

Spike's greatest advantage was that people tended to underestimate him, just as Angel 
had. Spike had sacrificed the chance to be restored to solid form to save Fred from 
Pavayne with no guarantee of ever managing it in the future; he had known instantly 
ahead of Angel and Wesley just how to kill Number Five's Aztec demon; he had 
risked his life to free Fred from Illyria; he had been a revelation in his determination 
to protect Dawn Summers. 

And he doesn't really expect to be the fulfilment of the Shanshu Prophecy, for all that 
he goes on about it. Spike believes that I will get to be real boy again…and that he 
will end up haunting Wolfram & Hart for eternity, but he fights by my side anyway. 
Way to go, Angel, kick your fellow Champion while he's down…

Shaking off his morose thoughts, Angel walked around his desk, then paused as a 
memory resurfaced…on a whim, he detoured past Wesley's office and went inside, 
grinning at the scholarly display – books and scrolls everywhere. On Wesley's desk 
were the Source Books, templates that tied into each discipline in the Wolfram & Hart 
archives, so it was unnecessary to physically fetch a particular work from the vaults. 
His excellent eyesight picked out the spines in the darkness and he extracted the 
source book that was a sort of dictionary-stroke-thesaurus-polyglot. It offered 
explanations of words and phrases. Raising it to his lips, he said, his excellent 
memory recalling the inflections: "Beruth-ak-Sirse, in English."

Opening the book, he found a single page. The first heading referred to the mating 
rituals of a subterranean Pythias demon sub-group, with pictures. Gross, and it didn't 
really fit. The second was the chorus of some ancient Old Norse victory song about 
decapitated enemies, buckets of entrails, vats of blood and so forth. Not likely…

Hang about…The Merging of the Circles: Refers to the point in time when the Two 
Circles of Nine symbolically merge as one united group in the prelude to the 
Apocalypse of Nahzruthim-Ensuallu. See: Shanshu Oracle and the Scroll of Niamh.

"Naz-ruth-im-en-swah-loo." Angel tried, and looked again, a chill running through 
him when he saw the words form: Nahzruthim-ensuallu – the vampires-ensoulled, 
beloved of the Slayer-Queen, Mother of All Slayers. See Scroll of Niamh. Every 
prophecy Angel had ever seen spoke only of the Vampire with the Soul, and none, 
including the Shanshu, mentioned any Mother of All Slayers! 

Wait…"Buffy turned all the Potentials into actual Slayers." Angel thought aloud. 
"The mother of all slayers...they're princesses but Buffy's the Queen." Closing the 
book he replaced it, and picked up the Prophecy template source book: "The Scroll of 
Niamh, English translation." 

Opening the book, he frowned. The pages were blank and remained so even after 
several seconds. "The Scroll of Niamh, English…" His words trailed off as words 
appeared on the page:

The Scroll of Niamh is not within the Wolfram & Hart archives. It is therefore 
unavailable for reading, we apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.

"Whoa."

* * *  

The kitchen clock ticked remorselessly to 12:50am. Wesley didn't notice as he sat at 
the table, nude, poring over a familiar scroll. In the bedroom above, Fred slept on 
obliviously and deeply, sated from their intense, prolonged love-making.  

Carefully, Wesley's fingers traced a section of the Scroll of Niamh. The Two Circles 
of Nine would come together in preparation for the great battle, working united to 
face the coming apocalypse. Tomorrow he would go to Ye Olde Britannia on his way 
home from work, and the weasel-faced man could work his magic on the 
handkerchief that Wesley would give him…

To be continued.   
   
© 2004, C. D. Stewart