Part four



The living room looked like some berserk campground. Sleeping bags and pillows were scattered everywhere, the carpet littered with wood shavings from the stakes piled a foot high in the center of the space -- within easy reach of everyone. Furniture was moved underneath the windows, so anyone entering through them would stumble and be slowed down.

Buffy sat on the stairs and watched. Oz was whittling more stakes, more from a need to do something than any real need for more weapons. Her mom was futzing with the coffee pot, making more caffeine they didn't need. And Cordelia was sitting on the floor, one arm around Willow, talking softly to her. It didn't matter that Willow wasn't responding -- she might hear them, and that was what was important.

Oz had tried, but he couldn't do it. And Buffy found herself running out of anything to say. But Cordelia -- she who had the most reason to hate Willow talked endlessly, of small things and important things, of memories back from their childhood, of Xander, moments only the two of them had seen, of the hundred and one foolish memories that make up a life. And she did it all in a smooth, soft tone that never broke into a sob or a grimace, no matter how unresponsive the other girl remained.

Cordelia would have made a good mom, Buffy thought. It wasn't a visual she had ever had before, and the newness of it made the unlikelihood of it happening even more painful

There was a knock at the door. Not tentative, not abrasive; a sharp rap that was confident of a response -- terrifying in its familiarity.

"Don't" Buffy warned, although nobody had moved.

There was another knock. Outside, the evening shadows were fading into full dark.

"He can't come in," Joyce reminded everyone. "Right?"

"Right."

"And we can't go out," Oz said. "Kind of a stalemate. I say we take what odds we've got and rush him."

"And get killed? Not in the game plan," Buffy said. "Besides, I'd--"

There was a scratching noise, and the door handle jerked once, twice.

"You guys did know that Giles could pick locks, didn't you?" Cordelia asked almost conversationally.

"No. I didn't."

"Not a surprise talent I'm liking." Oz, as though channeling Xander, enough to make Buffy blink back sudden, hot tears

"He still can't get in," Joyce said.

"Unless I'm invited in." The door had swung open as they watched, fascinated. The lamplight caught the familiar face, shadowing his eyes -- or did the shadows exist of themselves? Buffy couldn't look away, couldn't focus. Her Watcher was dead. Giles was dead. This was a corpse. A corpse that walked his walk, talked with his voice... and even the cruelty was his. She knew that, even as she rejected it.

"Invite me in, pet."

It wasn't a request. Buffy felt her mouth begin to open, the words forming in her throat, when she snapped her jaws shut.

"Come in."

The voice was Willow's.

#

Giles -- the demon in his body -- walked in like he owned the place, strolling like some big cat. Buffy had a stake in her hand and was on her feet before he'd cleared the doorway. But he ignored her, turning instead to look at Willow.

"Come here, pet," he said, still in that hatefully familiar voice.

"Will, no!"

"Willow!"

"Baby, no!"

It was as though none of them had spoken. Her eyes huge, her steps halting, Willow moved towards the vampire as though she was pulled on a string, coming to a stop inches from him. He smiled at her, approvingly, and lifted an arm, giving her room to cuddle against his side. Buffy thought she was going to throw up.

"Willow?" That was Oz, his voice broken, despairing, the way it hadn't been even before.

"She knows who her master is, don't you, pet?"

Willow barely moved, didn't blink. Only the overfast beat at her throat and the nervous swallowing indicated she lived at all. Giles hugged her closer to him, then with his other arm reached into the pocket of his dress slacks and pulled something out, tossing it to Buffy. It glittered in the lamplight as it flew, and she caught it easily, Slayer reflexes kicking in without thought. Her fingers closed around it, then convulsed when touch transferred information to her brain. She knew, even without looking down, what it was.

"I left him for you in the old familiar place," the demon told her. "Do try not to wait too long -- as I remember, the morning exposure was quite... bracing." He paused, shook his head in mock sadness. "I'm afraid there wasn't as much left of the boy. He really wasn't much sport at all."

Behind her, Cordelia moaned, an animal-like sound that was more about anger and pain than fear. Oz snarled, and Buffy's hand tightened on her stake, but the demon's fingers were curled around Willow's neck, and his eyes held no mercy in them at all.

"I'm going to see you roast back in Hell," Cordelia promised him. Her skin was pale, but her voice burned.

The demon seemed to find that amusing. "I'll welcome your attempt," he told her. "Come now, Buffy. Surely you can do better than that? I'm becoming terribly bored. If there's no further sport to be found here, I shall have to seek it elsewhere..."

Buffy looked at him, and didn't see her Watcher. It was just another vampire. Smart, cunning, evil -- but just another vamp. She was the Slayer.

"You're not going anywhere," she told it, and lunged, just as Oz grabbed for Willow. But the demon avoided them both, swinging back out the door with Willow in tow. By the time Buffy untangled herself from Oz and made it outside, they were both gone.

"Damn," Cordelia cursed, adding a few more choice words, mainly having to do with the lineage of that particular demonic family tree. Joyce was speaking quietly to Oz, her arms around him, trying to soothe his growls into human speech.

Standing in the darkness, Buffy opened her palm and looked down at Angel's Claddagh ring, and the finger still bound within it.

#

"What do you mean, we're not going to get him?"

Buffy set her jaw. Inside, she was screaming as loud as Cordelia. Louder. But her skin felt like plastic, and her brain was cold hard steel.

"It's a test, Cordelia. Same as everything else. If Angel's still...alive, why? Why leave him - his knowledge, strength -- available to us, and then come tell us where he is? It has to be a test, or a trap."

Cordelia's eyes were red and tear-swollen, but her face was just as determined as the Slayer's.

"And what if it is a test - and by not going, we fail? Think about it - if this demon has Giles' memory and gray matter, and he is testing us, going on what he knows - then wouldn't he know we'd have figured it out by now? Which means that he knows you won't go after Angel, because you think that's what he expects us to do. Which means whatever plans he has include our not having Angel with us."

She pauased, hearing what she said. "Is it just me, or did anyone else's brain just explode?"

"Mine," Joyce said, as quietly. She was seated on the sofa, siphoning holy water into hastily-cleaned-out spray bottles. Oz, curled up tight in the corner, stared at them without paying the slightest attention, waiting only the word to go.

The two girls stared at each other, then Buffy sighed. "You're right. Either way, we're screwed. But Angel would be the first to tell us not to get distracted."

Cordelia closed her eyes, her features tightening in pain. "It still feels wrong." "Everything about this feels wrong, Cordy. But one thing I know - we can't allow that demon to get past us. Angel was right. A vampire with a Watcher's knowledge..."

She swallowed her sorrow for the last time, and felt her heart shred and disintegrate into dust.

"It can't be allowed to survive"

#

Ripper sat in the high-backed chair, contemplating the mortal sitting at his feet. His right hand stroked her short red hair, letting the strands tangle between pale fingers before pulling free. She was shivering, although not from cold, since they had kept the furnace going in the old house when the moved in.

"Anticipation?" He mused. "Or fear? Or a little of both, is that it, my pet?"

Willow didn't answer, but pressed herself more firmly against his leg.

Then again, he decided, it might just have been a reaction to the sight across the room, where Dru was playing with the former owner of the house.

"Dru. Darling. Even for you, that's a bit over the top."

Dru looked up from her attempts to fasten a feathered hat on the corpse's head. "But she wanted tea, she said so. And now she's being a bad girl!"

"And you taught her a lesson, didn't you? But the tea's grown cold, and you know I dislike cold tea."

Dru shrugged, letting the old woman's body fall to the ground. It sprawled there, drained skin already starting to decay above the feather boa Dru had wrapped around her town neck. "You've got sparkly sharp thoughts again," she observed with a wicked smile. "Gonna heat up more than the tea, aren't we?"

"Indeed."

Willow whimpered slightly, and Ripper stilled his hand on the top of her head. "Would you like to see what's coming, little Witch? Hmmm? No? Just as well. One loon is probably all this family could handle. And I wouldn't want Dru becoming distracted."

His hand curled around her forehead, his left hand sliding gently around her neck. Dru licked her lips.

Willow made a faint sigh that might have been of relief, and her body slumped against his leg on final time.

"She's all dark now," Dru observed.

"No, I'm afraid not all dark," Ripper replied. "But don't worry, my dear. I'll find you a suitable playmate. Someone whose darkness will match your own."

"My playmate? Or yours? " For a moment, the vampire sounded almost sane, and not a little jealous. Ripper crossed the floor to brush a kiss against her cool forehead. "You have Spike, dearest. Should I not have a suitable consort as well?"

Dru pouted, then brightened. "Will she sing with me?"

"No-one can sing as well as you do, my dear. But she will most certainly try." "You're thinking the cheerleader," Spike said from where he had been standing by Ripper's chair.

"I've had my eye on her for a while," Ripper admitted. "Fire and passion, and a spirit I shall enjoy breaking." He laughed, an honestly amused sound. "You should have seen her, Spike. Knowing what she knew, she still tried to challenge me. Oh, she was angry, anger that obliterated her fear. Quite wonderful. Her blood will be the finest Burgundy..."

"What about the Slayer?" Spike asked. "Thought she'd be more your type - already used to takin' orders, as it were."

Ripper smiled, thin lips curling unpleasantly. His face shifted slightly, his eyes molten gold for an instant. "She hesitated. Still, after everything, she hesitated. When the wolf would have killed me, when the cheerleader would have gouged my eyes out even as my mouth was at her throat, the Slayer hesitated -- despite holding the upper hand in terms of battleground and numbers. Indecision is not a trait I prize highly, Spike." He shook his head. "No. I require more than Buffy has ever been able to give me."

The blonde vampire shrugged. He could see the smarts in that - the Slayer was good, for a Slayer, but she didn't have what it took to really kick ass - not enough dark, as Dru would say, to do what needed to be done and damn the costs.

He was going to miss her, though, same way he would miss the redhead. They'd kept the nights interesting, that was for sure. The late, lamented Scooby Gang.

"There will be enough excitement to come, Spike," Ripper scolded him, making him aware he'd said that last out loud. "But there's no real room for remorse, when you're planning on establishing an empire now, is there?"

Dru giggled, and Spike grinned at his master, his momentary melancholy faded in the prospect of further mayhem. Angelus had always been so damn focused on ending the world, he'd never understood the possibilities it held for a vampire of ability. Ripper, on the other hand... What were a few mortals, however annoyingly charming, next to that? Maybe Dru will name some dolls after them.

#

Angel stirred. His body had healed from the damage done; his chest no longer felt broken, and his legs looked like they were folded at the correct angles now. Without the ability to cast a reflection he couldn't be sure, but it was likely the torn flesh on his face and stomach -- and elsewhere -- had healed as well.

Better than Cordelia, who would always carry a scar. Better than Giles, whose fingers had never folded again properly. The chains around wrists and ankles held him securely, but with enough room to shift and stretch. All things considered, he wasn't uncomfortable. Yet.

The room had been cleared of all furniture and wall hangings. And drapes. Even if he could somehow get loose, there would be nothing to hide behind.

"Spike did warn me picking a house with all those windows wasn't such a good idea," he said out loud, if only hear some sound other than the screaming in his memory. His screams, other peoples' screams...at this point, they were all the same.

It was almost dawn.

She'll come. She has to come. She's always come...

#

continues...