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Enthralled
They’re demons. That’s all I need to know.
He burst through the rice paper door, leaving caution at the threshold. He held his sword low and to the side as he
moved swift as mercury through the corridor of the Subako demon hive.
He could smell the swarm – like burning silk – even before he heard their chittering conversations. Beneath the
stench he caught the scent of the vampires, faint but unmistakable. He passed under the close ceiling between
rows and rows of hexagonal paper chambers each roughly the size of a coffin.
The dark hallway opened up to a filthy underground spillway. Around it, the Subako gathered, their discussions
nothing but a sickening drone in his ears. They’re demons. That’s all I needed to know.
He appeared on the ridge above them. They would scent him out; he knew it, but before they did, he managed a
quick count. Forty, at least. Four arms each - that was effectively 160 attacks. A wry smile touched his lips.
He gripped the hilt of his sword and dropped to the lower level.
The Subako scattered like flies, then instantly regrouped. They regarded him with their pale, glistening eyes as he
walked with confident deliberation to the center of their circle.
“The vampires,” he said in English, knowing from experience not to expect a response in kind. “Where are they?”
The Queen of the Subako lifted her four chitin-plated arms to him. Her answer was an insectile clicking that set his
teeth on edge. Unbeknownst to him, the Subako shared a collective mind. The moment he crashed their little tea
party, the Queen issued her diktat: Surround him. Close in. Rip him to bits.
And that was fine by him. When the drones attacked, he dropped to one knee, aiming not for their armored
appendages or spiny head and neck regions. He went straight for the thorax. He spun, bringing his sword around in
a strong, even arc. Sparks rained down from the blade, but the scaly Subako remained unscathed.
So much for thorax.
The demons’ attack was a blur of barbed arms and mandibles. He hacked haphazardly to drive them back. He clipped
a few claws, and with a slice of luck, took off an arm.
They swarmed in again. He brought his blade forward, punching through the neck of the nearest demon. As he
dragged the blade free, the demon popped like a water balloon full of blue goo.
The demons fell back. He grinned. He adjusted the blade in his hands, using it instead like a skewer. Five demons
circled him. Now he was the blur. He lanced and spun and kicked, then drove his knee into the body of one while
slicing the head off of the next.
More demons poured in. Their clacking cries filled the spillway, deafening and numbing him. He chopped, slashed,
elbowed and head-butted. He fell to his knees, laying back far enough to peg the demons behind him. Soon goo
pooled beneath his feet. It coated his arms and stuck his clothes to his skin.
Four pairs of powerful claws seized his shoulders. He rolled, pulling them down with him. One pincer nicked deep into
his back. He swore as he tore from their grasp. With them all prone, they were easy prey. He turned to re-assess,
but found that the remaining few Subako had fled into the tunnels.
Panting but satisfied, he wiped his blade on the leg of his jeans. He struck off along the spillway, ears perked to
take in the sounds of retreating Subako, of the spirited traffic above, of the sewer draining into the depths of the
Tokyo underground, and of voices hurried and hushed very near by.
He inhaled deeply, their dry, pulpy scent filling his nostrils.
They’re demons. That’s all I needed to know.
He slipped up on them, soundless as smoke. A pair of Kuei-shin, a male and a female, ducked into a niche and
discussing in rushed aggressive words that he did not understand.
He beheaded the female first. Her body thunked to the floor. Kuei-shin didn’t dust like Western vampires, which was
messy but unimportant. The male Kuei-shin shoved him, but only as an attempt to flee. He pinned the male to the
slimy concrete wall. He brought the blade of his sword under the Kuei-shin’s chin. Had he paused to consider, he
would have noted the terror in the Kuei-shin’s eyes.
“Kuchikukan,” the Kuei-shin said, his voice timorous with fear. “Kuchikukan. Kuchikukan…”
He dropped the blade to the ground. “Sorry,” he said. He closed his hands around the Kuei-shin’s neck and twisted
it the wrong way around. “I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Well, well. That was one helluva fight.” The voice, rich and husky and feminine, lilted up to him from the dark.
He turned quickly, immediately regretting the decision to drop the sword.
She emerged from the shadows into the slats of light that sifted down from the sewer drain. “I mean the fight
before,” she said with a shrug. “This one… well, let’s face it boy. This one, you punked.”
“Faith.”
“Connor. You’ve been naughty.”
“They’re demons,” Connor said. “That’s all I need to…”
“Shut it. Where’s the Glass?”
“It’s safe.”
She moved toward him. He held his ground. The wound under his shoulder blade began a slow, steady burn. He
ignored it.
Faith folded her arms. “Connor, we can do this two ways. You already know ’em, so it’s your pick.”
Connor’s movement was betrayed only by his quick upward glance. He sprung straight up, into the mass of pipes
and wires several meters above her head. In seconds, he had scrambled into the jumble of pipelines that made up
the skeleton of the Tokyo underground.
Faith breathed a heavy sigh. “Here I am, so not surprised,” she said. She climbed back out of the sewers to put in a
call to Willow confirming that Wayara’s source had been correct. Connor was playing one-man wrecking team
against the entire demon population of Tokyo.
Anjelica held her sword at the ready, inserting herself as shield between the Gypsies and Oz and Nighna.
“They’re within slaying range,” she said. “May I slay them now?”
In spite of the dire surroundings and the precariousness of their situation, Nighna found herself suppressing a smile.
Both the girl and boy, still punchy from the invigorating effects of the forest, had succumbed to yet another of its
charms. Namely, bloodlust.
“Give them nothing,” Nighna said. With a forceful arm, she guided Anjelica behind her to stand beside Oz. Clarisse
cawed loudly, further unsettling them.
Oz, who looked less than benign now that the raucous band of Gypsies pressed in on them, turned his impassive
eyes to meet Anjelica’s. The cautious calm in them quieted Anjelica’s galloping heart. She felt his hand brush hers,
and was infinitely relieved when he laced their fingers, clasping them lightly at her side.
The Gypsy caravan swung forward from the trees with the sound of a grinder organ winding down. Like the sprights
who served as their welcoming committee, the wagon glowed a soft, effusive X-files green. The roots of the trees
shifted to accommodate the wagon and the masked figures who poured boisterously forth into the clearing. When it
landed, the Gypsies tumbled from the wagon like clowns from a tiny circus car.
They were small, vaguely humanoid and every one of them was oddly misshapen in different and disturbing ways, like
holiday candles left in storage over the summer. Anjelica felt that she had adequate cause to be grateful for the
ornate and grotesque masks they wore.
Oz leaned in to whisper into Anjelica’s ear. “It’s like Jawas meet the Lollipop Guild,” he said. Every whispered word
tickled her ear, and her heart set up to pounding all over again. Matters weren’t helped along when the leader of
the Gypsies stepped forward and addressed Nighna with a raspy, high-pitched whine.
“Nig’han,” he said, bowing low. “Your worship, we beg to serve thee.” Behind him, the Gypsies spread blankets and
set up candelabras. A group of them carried a long pine box into the clearing. They worked the latches on its sides
and unfolded a stage, onto which the musicians immediately assembled and resumed their playing.
Nonplussed, Nighna tilted her head slightly to one side. “Very well, Paolo. Allow us swift passage.”
Paolo seemed to puff up proudly and grow to the height of a normal man before their eyes. He bowed again. This
time, when he rose, his mask had gone. In its place was a ruggedly handsome, bearded visage.
“You remembered my name, Lady,” he said, his face parting in a genuine smile. Around him, the others similarly
morphed into scantily clad, reasonably attractive humans. They erected a campfire and over it, a spit on which a
beast already roasted. The Gypsies brought forth jugs of wine and baskets of fruit. Anjelica felt half mad with
hunger.
“Give them nothing,” Nighna said in a scolding tone.
“We’re not,” Anjelica insisted. She looked to Oz for backup, but his eyes were downcast.
“Much Ado About Nothing,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “Paolo is Senor Benedick…”
In an instant, Anjelica understood. Their frenetic brainflashes supplied the Gypsies with a form Anjelica and Oz
would consider pleasing. She was hungry; they provided a feast.
“Please, Nig’han’net,” Paolo said. “Allow us to play for you. It’s been so long since we performed before a live
audience.”
“You know the rules,” Nighna said. “They may neither eat nor drink.”
“Well, then, you give ’em sustenance; we’ll give song,” Paolo implored. “Please, Nig’han. Playing for you and your
servants would give us great honor. And,” he arched his brows, “I have information which may please you.”
Nighna looked at Anjelica and Oz. They seemed drawn to the Gypsies music, but were both keeping their enthusiasm
in check. Oz more than Anjelica, who was already swaying gently to the rhythm of the lutes and drums.
Nighna turned to them. “Fine. Go, and enjoy but…”
“Got it. No eat. No drink,” Oz said. He pulled Anjelica from the path and into the dusky clearing before the stage. A
huzzah rose up among the Gypsies.
Nighna felt a resolute tug as she dragged her attention from her humans to Paolo. “Luxe,” she said. “He was here.”
Paolo’s toothy grin glimmered in the firelight. “Aye. Right oaf, that one. Wanted no song or dance. Don’t know what
you seen in ’im.”
Nighna fluttered her lashed. Clarisse fluttered her wings. “Neither do I.”
“I was enthralled by it,” Willow said. Again. Two weeks, and Red was still beating herself up about it.
“You done exercising the inner bitch?” Faith said.
Willow sat down at the collapsible table that was the dining area of the capsule hotel room. She unknotted a bunch
of ginger root. She picked up the largest and vigorously grated it onto a plate. Her nose wrinkled at the pungent
aroma that quickly filled the close quarters.
“No,” she said finally. “I was enthralled. Me. I’m supposed to be Miss Megawitch here, and it… and now it has
Connor.”
An hour after Connor had ducked the scene with the Looking Glass, reason worked a magic of its own. Willow
shrugged off the pull of the Glass with relative ease, but Connor was proving a much more prickly pickle.
Willow gestured to Faith with the knife. “Every second we can’t find him, that Glass goes deeper into his psyche.”
“Said that,” Faith told her. She went to the porthole of a window that looked out on the Tokyo sprawl. She bounced
anxiously on the balls of her feet. Wayara was supposed to call them. Faith wondered what the hold up was.
“I still think we should call Buffy.”
Faith whirled on her. “Agh! Broken record much?”
Willow moped over her ginger root. “They should at least know we’re stateside.”
“Hey,” Faith said. “If there’s a second in command in the Slayer World Order, your lookin’ at it. Plus, Wayara and
the his girls…”
“I know,” Willow said. “I know. I don’t want to worry them either, ’cause it was me who lost Connor and the Glass
in the first place. I just… I want to find out how they’re doing.”
Faith crossed the room. She turned the chair around backward, straddled it and sat across from Willow. “Just
gimme some time. We’ll get Prodigal Boy back, break whatever hold that thing has on him and get this mission back
on its rails.”
Faith and Willow lapsed into their own tense inner monologues. Willow knew that she and Faith had as much pent up
anger against Thellian as Connor did. No matter what Wayara said, their mission was to make a zen garden out of
Thellian’s dust.
Willow glanced at Faith. Her eyes were closed, her full lips set into a hard line.
“You doin’ all right?” Willow said. Faith started to answer, but Willow broke in. “Not five by five,” she said.
Faith’s eyes opened and narrowed.
Willow picked up another root. “Angel killed Kennedy, not Thellian,” she said, hating the warble that crept into her
voice. “But Robin…”
Faith pushed away from the table. She paced the very short distance to the wall and stopped, hands on her hips.
“Number One on his long list of Worst Nightmares. Son of Slayer, made into a…” Faith trailed off. She tilted her head
to the ceiling in a vain attempt to keep in the tears.
“We’ll get him,” Willow said.
Faith turned back around. The emotion was reined in tight. Whatever moment of weakness she’d shared had
passed. Willow knew better than to press.
“That a location spell?” Faith asked, trying to sound off-handedly interested.
Willow frowned. “Ginger beef,” she said.
Faith shrugged. She stalked back to the window, stretching her arms to work out the knots of tension in her
shoulders. For Faith, standing still was death. She had to move, had to get back down to the streets, otherwise she
was going to drive herself crazy.
She grabbed her jacket from the hook on the door and headed out.
“Faith!” Willow called.
She ignored the witch. After all, Faith had never been the type of girl to sit around and wait. Wayara hadn’t called,
but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hunt up her own brand of action.
Buffy stepped through the arbor and continued along the smooth paving stones of the garden. The hem of her skirt
was unrealistically long. It dragged over the grass, licking across her ankles as she turned to admire the dripping
vines of morning glory that poured down like a leafy cascade from the fence. A shimmery, diaphanous mist hung in
the air, sifting the sunlight through the branches of silver birch and over bursting blooms of every color and variety
her mind could conceive.
She ambled. Buffy rarely ambled, but she felt this place was amble-worthy. She strolled (also, stroll-worthy) down the
paths, turning her face to take in the sun, inhaling the mingled scents of the blossoms, the fragrant grasses and the
soil itself. It was intoxicating. More beautiful than she imagined. More than she remembered.
Buffy paused. She did remember this place. It seemed somehow bigger now, and the plants had grown to tower and
tumble over and around her like something from a fairy’s dream. Rich magentas, vibrant yellows, purples so dark
they were almost black. She brought her face to a fringed, peppery flower that she was pretty sure had to be
tropical. She let the stamen tickle her nose and tasted the pollen that sprinkled her lips.
“Pretty flower for my pretty girl.”
Buffy turned, all slow-motion like, her skirt twirling around her calves like a Stevie Nicks video.
He glowed. The sunlight turned his hair and skin to a lustrous opalescence.
“William,” Buffy said. He crossed the lawn, his movements the physical equivalent of a drawl. He smiled, in a bashful,
boyish way as he moved toward her, looking up at her through his lashes.
He closed in, brushed his lips over hers and lay a strong hand on the rise of her unexpectedly large belly.
“This place,” Buffy said, breathlessly. “It’s… incredible.”
William kissed her again. He put both hands on either side of her face, smoothing them down the length of her hair
and following the motion over her shoulders and down her arms.
“It’s for you,” he said softly.
“For me? It’s mine? My… garden,” she said. He ran his nose along the curve of her jaw and settled his mouth against
her ear. Her knees responded by going slushy. “I didn’t get you anything…” she finished.
“Ah, but you did,” he said. He had the most deliciously persuasive hands. One of them cupped the back of her head
as he continued to graze her neck with his equally delicious and persuasive mouth.
“Will,” she whispered, her eyes rolling back. “Will, I missed you. So much…”
“Shhh,” he said. He pulled away from her, his blue eyes leveling on hers. “I just wanted to give you something…
living and pure, Buffy. Before.”
“Before?” Around her, the mist chilled. A cloud slipped over the sun, turning the blooms from vibrant to shades of
gray.
William gave her a look, like perhaps she was a little slow. Just before he plunged a long, very sharp knife into her
stomach.
Buffy staggered, mouth frozen in a silent scream. He shoved her backward into the shrubbery. But as she fell, a
hand gripped her wrist.
Buffy snapped awake. She saw Spike’s face and did what she’d done a hundred times – she smashed his face in.
“Gah!” He rolled onto his knees and clutched his blood squirty nose.
“Oh,” Buffy said, sitting up quickly. Not William, her mind rejoiced. It was a dream. “I’m…”
Forgetting herself, she reached for him and he immediately jerked away. Spike shook it off.
“…Sorry,” Buffy finished.
“Forget it,” Spike said. He may well have said Used to it by now, Slayer. You hitting me for no good reason must be a
national past time, judging by his tone. Or maybe it was her filling in the no-banter gaps.
“No, Spike,” she said. “I really am sorry. I was dreaming, and…”
“C’mere,” he said, cutting her off. “I wanna show you something.”
They’re demons. That’s all I need to know.
He burst through the rice paper door, leaving caution at the threshold. He held his sword low and to the side as he
moved swift as mercury through the corridor of the Subako demon hive.
He could smell the swarm – like burning silk – even before he heard their chittering conversations. Beneath the
stench he caught the scent of the vampires, faint but unmistakable. He passed under the close ceiling between
rows and rows of hexagonal paper chambers each roughly the size of a coffin.
The dark hallway opened up to a filthy underground spillway. Around it, the Subako gathered, their discussions
nothing but a sickening drone in his ears. They’re demons. That’s all I needed to know.
He appeared on the ridge above them. They would scent him out; he knew it, but before they did, he managed a
quick count. Forty, at least. Four arms each - that was effectively 160 attacks. A wry smile touched his lips.
He gripped the hilt of his sword and dropped to the lower level.
The Subako scattered like flies, then instantly regrouped. They regarded him with their pale, glistening eyes as he
walked with confident deliberation to the center of their circle.
“The vampires,” he said in English, knowing from experience not to expect a response in kind. “Where are they?”
The Queen of the Subako lifted her four chitin-plated arms to him. Her answer was an insectile clicking that set his
teeth on edge. Unbeknownst to him, the Subako shared a collective mind. The moment he crashed their little tea
party, the Queen issued her diktat: Surround him. Close in. Rip him to bits.
And that was fine by him. When the drones attacked, he dropped to one knee, aiming not for their armored
appendages or spiny head and neck regions. He went straight for the thorax. He spun, bringing his sword around in
a strong, even arc. Sparks rained down from the blade, but the scaly Subako remained unscathed.
So much for thorax.
The demons’ attack was a blur of barbed arms and mandibles. He hacked haphazardly to drive them back. He clipped
a few claws, and with a slice of luck, took off an arm.
They swarmed in again. He brought his blade forward, punching through the neck of the nearest demon. As he
dragged the blade free, the demon popped like a water balloon full of blue goo.
The demons fell back. He grinned. He adjusted the blade in his hands, using it instead like a skewer. Five demons
circled him. Now he was the blur. He lanced and spun and kicked, then drove his knee into the body of one while
slicing the head off of the next.
More demons poured in. Their clacking cries filled the spillway, deafening and numbing him. He chopped, slashed,
elbowed and head-butted. He fell to his knees, laying back far enough to peg the demons behind him. Soon goo
pooled beneath his feet. It coated his arms and stuck his clothes to his skin.
Four pairs of powerful claws seized his shoulders. He rolled, pulling them down with him. One pincer nicked deep into
his back. He swore as he tore from their grasp. With them all prone, they were easy prey. He turned to re-assess,
but found that the remaining few Subako had fled into the tunnels.
Panting but satisfied, he wiped his blade on the leg of his jeans. He struck off along the spillway, ears perked to
take in the sounds of retreating Subako, of the spirited traffic above, of the sewer draining into the depths of the
Tokyo underground, and of voices hurried and hushed very near by.
He inhaled deeply, their dry, pulpy scent filling his nostrils.
They’re demons. That’s all I needed to know.
He slipped up on them, soundless as smoke. A pair of Kuei-shin, a male and a female, ducked into a niche and
discussing in rushed aggressive words that he did not understand.
He beheaded the female first. Her body thunked to the floor. Kuei-shin didn’t dust like Western vampires, which was
messy but unimportant. The male Kuei-shin shoved him, but only as an attempt to flee. He pinned the male to the
slimy concrete wall. He brought the blade of his sword under the Kuei-shin’s chin. Had he paused to consider, he
would have noted the terror in the Kuei-shin’s eyes.
“Kuchikukan,” the Kuei-shin said, his voice timorous with fear. “Kuchikukan. Kuchikukan…”
He dropped the blade to the ground. “Sorry,” he said. He closed his hands around the Kuei-shin’s neck and twisted
it the wrong way around. “I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Well, well. That was one helluva fight.” The voice, rich and husky and feminine, lilted up to him from the dark.
He turned quickly, immediately regretting the decision to drop the sword.
She emerged from the shadows into the slats of light that sifted down from the sewer drain. “I mean the fight
before,” she said with a shrug. “This one… well, let’s face it boy. This one, you punked.”
“Faith.”
“Connor. You’ve been naughty.”
“They’re demons,” Connor said. “That’s all I need to…”
“Shut it. Where’s the Glass?”
“It’s safe.”
She moved toward him. He held his ground. The wound under his shoulder blade began a slow, steady burn. He
ignored it.
Faith folded her arms. “Connor, we can do this two ways. You already know ’em, so it’s your pick.”
Connor’s movement was betrayed only by his quick upward glance. He sprung straight up, into the mass of pipes
and wires several meters above her head. In seconds, he had scrambled into the jumble of pipelines that made up
the skeleton of the Tokyo underground.
Faith breathed a heavy sigh. “Here I am, so not surprised,” she said. She climbed back out of the sewers to put in a
call to Willow confirming that Wayara’s source had been correct. Connor was playing one-man wrecking team
against the entire demon population of Tokyo.
Anjelica held her sword at the ready, inserting herself as shield between the Gypsies and Oz and Nighna.
“They’re within slaying range,” she said. “May I slay them now?”
In spite of the dire surroundings and the precariousness of their situation, Nighna found herself suppressing a smile.
Both the girl and boy, still punchy from the invigorating effects of the forest, had succumbed to yet another of its
charms. Namely, bloodlust.
“Give them nothing,” Nighna said. With a forceful arm, she guided Anjelica behind her to stand beside Oz. Clarisse
cawed loudly, further unsettling them.
Oz, who looked less than benign now that the raucous band of Gypsies pressed in on them, turned his impassive
eyes to meet Anjelica’s. The cautious calm in them quieted Anjelica’s galloping heart. She felt his hand brush hers,
and was infinitely relieved when he laced their fingers, clasping them lightly at her side.
The Gypsy caravan swung forward from the trees with the sound of a grinder organ winding down. Like the sprights
who served as their welcoming committee, the wagon glowed a soft, effusive X-files green. The roots of the trees
shifted to accommodate the wagon and the masked figures who poured boisterously forth into the clearing. When it
landed, the Gypsies tumbled from the wagon like clowns from a tiny circus car.
They were small, vaguely humanoid and every one of them was oddly misshapen in different and disturbing ways, like
holiday candles left in storage over the summer. Anjelica felt that she had adequate cause to be grateful for the
ornate and grotesque masks they wore.
Oz leaned in to whisper into Anjelica’s ear. “It’s like Jawas meet the Lollipop Guild,” he said. Every whispered word
tickled her ear, and her heart set up to pounding all over again. Matters weren’t helped along when the leader of
the Gypsies stepped forward and addressed Nighna with a raspy, high-pitched whine.
“Nig’han,” he said, bowing low. “Your worship, we beg to serve thee.” Behind him, the Gypsies spread blankets and
set up candelabras. A group of them carried a long pine box into the clearing. They worked the latches on its sides
and unfolded a stage, onto which the musicians immediately assembled and resumed their playing.
Nonplussed, Nighna tilted her head slightly to one side. “Very well, Paolo. Allow us swift passage.”
Paolo seemed to puff up proudly and grow to the height of a normal man before their eyes. He bowed again. This
time, when he rose, his mask had gone. In its place was a ruggedly handsome, bearded visage.
“You remembered my name, Lady,” he said, his face parting in a genuine smile. Around him, the others similarly
morphed into scantily clad, reasonably attractive humans. They erected a campfire and over it, a spit on which a
beast already roasted. The Gypsies brought forth jugs of wine and baskets of fruit. Anjelica felt half mad with
hunger.
“Give them nothing,” Nighna said in a scolding tone.
“We’re not,” Anjelica insisted. She looked to Oz for backup, but his eyes were downcast.
“Much Ado About Nothing,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “Paolo is Senor Benedick…”
In an instant, Anjelica understood. Their frenetic brainflashes supplied the Gypsies with a form Anjelica and Oz
would consider pleasing. She was hungry; they provided a feast.
“Please, Nig’han’net,” Paolo said. “Allow us to play for you. It’s been so long since we performed before a live
audience.”
“You know the rules,” Nighna said. “They may neither eat nor drink.”
“Well, then, you give ’em sustenance; we’ll give song,” Paolo implored. “Please, Nig’han. Playing for you and your
servants would give us great honor. And,” he arched his brows, “I have information which may please you.”
Nighna looked at Anjelica and Oz. They seemed drawn to the Gypsies music, but were both keeping their enthusiasm
in check. Oz more than Anjelica, who was already swaying gently to the rhythm of the lutes and drums.
Nighna turned to them. “Fine. Go, and enjoy but…”
“Got it. No eat. No drink,” Oz said. He pulled Anjelica from the path and into the dusky clearing before the stage. A
huzzah rose up among the Gypsies.
Nighna felt a resolute tug as she dragged her attention from her humans to Paolo. “Luxe,” she said. “He was here.”
Paolo’s toothy grin glimmered in the firelight. “Aye. Right oaf, that one. Wanted no song or dance. Don’t know what
you seen in ’im.”
Nighna fluttered her lashed. Clarisse fluttered her wings. “Neither do I.”
“I was enthralled by it,” Willow said. Again. Two weeks, and Red was still beating herself up about it.
“You done exercising the inner bitch?” Faith said.
Willow sat down at the collapsible table that was the dining area of the capsule hotel room. She unknotted a bunch
of ginger root. She picked up the largest and vigorously grated it onto a plate. Her nose wrinkled at the pungent
aroma that quickly filled the close quarters.
“No,” she said finally. “I was enthralled. Me. I’m supposed to be Miss Megawitch here, and it… and now it has
Connor.”
An hour after Connor had ducked the scene with the Looking Glass, reason worked a magic of its own. Willow
shrugged off the pull of the Glass with relative ease, but Connor was proving a much more prickly pickle.
Willow gestured to Faith with the knife. “Every second we can’t find him, that Glass goes deeper into his psyche.”
“Said that,” Faith told her. She went to the porthole of a window that looked out on the Tokyo sprawl. She bounced
anxiously on the balls of her feet. Wayara was supposed to call them. Faith wondered what the hold up was.
“I still think we should call Buffy.”
Faith whirled on her. “Agh! Broken record much?”
Willow moped over her ginger root. “They should at least know we’re stateside.”
“Hey,” Faith said. “If there’s a second in command in the Slayer World Order, your lookin’ at it. Plus, Wayara and
the his girls…”
“I know,” Willow said. “I know. I don’t want to worry them either, ’cause it was me who lost Connor and the Glass
in the first place. I just… I want to find out how they’re doing.”
Faith crossed the room. She turned the chair around backward, straddled it and sat across from Willow. “Just
gimme some time. We’ll get Prodigal Boy back, break whatever hold that thing has on him and get this mission back
on its rails.”
Faith and Willow lapsed into their own tense inner monologues. Willow knew that she and Faith had as much pent up
anger against Thellian as Connor did. No matter what Wayara said, their mission was to make a zen garden out of
Thellian’s dust.
Willow glanced at Faith. Her eyes were closed, her full lips set into a hard line.
“You doin’ all right?” Willow said. Faith started to answer, but Willow broke in. “Not five by five,” she said.
Faith’s eyes opened and narrowed.
Willow picked up another root. “Angel killed Kennedy, not Thellian,” she said, hating the warble that crept into her
voice. “But Robin…”
Faith pushed away from the table. She paced the very short distance to the wall and stopped, hands on her hips.
“Number One on his long list of Worst Nightmares. Son of Slayer, made into a…” Faith trailed off. She tilted her head
to the ceiling in a vain attempt to keep in the tears.
“We’ll get him,” Willow said.
Faith turned back around. The emotion was reined in tight. Whatever moment of weakness she’d shared had
passed. Willow knew better than to press.
“That a location spell?” Faith asked, trying to sound off-handedly interested.
Willow frowned. “Ginger beef,” she said.
Faith shrugged. She stalked back to the window, stretching her arms to work out the knots of tension in her
shoulders. For Faith, standing still was death. She had to move, had to get back down to the streets, otherwise she
was going to drive herself crazy.
She grabbed her jacket from the hook on the door and headed out.
“Faith!” Willow called.
She ignored the witch. After all, Faith had never been the type of girl to sit around and wait. Wayara hadn’t called,
but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hunt up her own brand of action.
Buffy stepped through the arbor and continued along the smooth paving stones of the garden. The hem of her skirt
was unrealistically long. It dragged over the grass, licking across her ankles as she turned to admire the dripping
vines of morning glory that poured down like a leafy cascade from the fence. A shimmery, diaphanous mist hung in
the air, sifting the sunlight through the branches of silver birch and over bursting blooms of every color and variety
her mind could conceive.
She ambled. Buffy rarely ambled, but she felt this place was amble-worthy. She strolled (also, stroll-worthy) down the
paths, turning her face to take in the sun, inhaling the mingled scents of the blossoms, the fragrant grasses and the
soil itself. It was intoxicating. More beautiful than she imagined. More than she remembered.
Buffy paused. She did remember this place. It seemed somehow bigger now, and the plants had grown to tower and
tumble over and around her like something from a fairy’s dream. Rich magentas, vibrant yellows, purples so dark
they were almost black. She brought her face to a fringed, peppery flower that she was pretty sure had to be
tropical. She let the stamen tickle her nose and tasted the pollen that sprinkled her lips.
“Pretty flower for my pretty girl.”
Buffy turned, all slow-motion like, her skirt twirling around her calves like a Stevie Nicks video.
He glowed. The sunlight turned his hair and skin to a lustrous opalescence.
“William,” Buffy said. He crossed the lawn, his movements the physical equivalent of a drawl. He smiled, in a bashful,
boyish way as he moved toward her, looking up at her through his lashes.
He closed in, brushed his lips over hers and lay a strong hand on the rise of her unexpectedly large belly.
“This place,” Buffy said, breathlessly. “It’s… incredible.”
William kissed her again. He put both hands on either side of her face, smoothing them down the length of her hair
and following the motion over her shoulders and down her arms.
“It’s for you,” he said softly.
“For me? It’s mine? My… garden,” she said. He ran his nose along the curve of her jaw and settled his mouth against
her ear. Her knees responded by going slushy. “I didn’t get you anything…” she finished.
“Ah, but you did,” he said. He had the most deliciously persuasive hands. One of them cupped the back of her head
as he continued to graze her neck with his equally delicious and persuasive mouth.
“Will,” she whispered, her eyes rolling back. “Will, I missed you. So much…”
“Shhh,” he said. He pulled away from her, his blue eyes leveling on hers. “I just wanted to give you something…
living and pure, Buffy. Before.”
“Before?” Around her, the mist chilled. A cloud slipped over the sun, turning the blooms from vibrant to shades of
gray.
William gave her a look, like perhaps she was a little slow. Just before he plunged a long, very sharp knife into her
stomach.
Buffy staggered, mouth frozen in a silent scream. He shoved her backward into the shrubbery. But as she fell, a
hand gripped her wrist.
Buffy snapped awake. She saw Spike’s face and did what she’d done a hundred times – she smashed his face in.
“Gah!” He rolled onto his knees and clutched his blood squirty nose.
“Oh,” Buffy said, sitting up quickly. Not William, her mind rejoiced. It was a dream. “I’m…”
Forgetting herself, she reached for him and he immediately jerked away. Spike shook it off.
“…Sorry,” Buffy finished.
“Forget it,” Spike said. He may well have said Used to it by now, Slayer. You hitting me for no good reason must be a
national past time, judging by his tone. Or maybe it was her filling in the no-banter gaps.
“No, Spike,” she said. “I really am sorry. I was dreaming, and…”
“C’mere,” he said, cutting her off. “I wanna show you something.”
.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends