Life Is...
Connor crossed the kitchen, two bottles of Shiner Bock in one hand, an oscillating fan in the other. He hadn’t worked out
the kinks in the wiring, so everything electrical had to be plugged in to the extension cord that lolled through the kitchen
window like a long orange tongue. Items plugged in to the cord – things to which Dawn attested she could not live without –
were a string of white Christmas lights, a coffeepot, a flatiron and an outmoded CD player from which poured the sepia
tones of Van Morrison’s “Glad Tidings.”
Connor put the bottles on the counter, and with the fan balanced on his knee between him and the cabinet, he struggled
with the powerstrip and the flatiron’s cord, wagering that of the things they needed to survive tonight, straight and shiny
locks could be sacrificed in favor of a gentle breeze.
Dawn’s laughter lilted like honey into the kitchen, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was doing the chopsticks
thing again – sticking them in her mouth so they hung down like fangs. Connor kept telling her chopsticks looked more like
tusks. She’d slug his arm and say, ‘vampires don’t have tusks.’
Tonight Dawn had swept her hair into a ponytail to let her neck breathe from the day’s mugginess. She wore an embroidered
white sundress – backless – and his hands burned to touch the petal-pale skin between her shoulder blades.
Seeming to feel his gaze, she raised her eyes to meet his. He must have smirked because she laughed again, dropping her
chopsticks to her paper plate. In the chair beside her, beyond Connor’s line of sight, his father muffled a laugh.
His father, popping in from L. A. en route to London for Council business, had wanted to see the antebellum house they
bought to restore. His father, who had advised him against buying such an ‘antiquated wreck’, especially since Connor still
had two semesters left in his graduate program at Emory University.
His father.
His father…
Connor leaned backward, catching a glimpse of Mr. Grumpy Pants (Sr.) through the crystal pane of the open French door.
Angel. His father.
The oscillating fan slipped from Connor’s numb fingers and bounced across the tile floor with a crash.
“Crap!” Connor swore.
“Connor?” Dawn called. “Everything okay?”
“Dropped the fan,” he answered.
Connor hefted the heavy bugger by its weighted base. The wire cover had slipped askew, one aluminum blade had bent, but
he had it quickly fixed. It was solid equipment, good since the 40s, and buzzed like a hummingbird when he plugged it in. He
set the fan on the counter, drinking in the balmy breeze it stirred. He caught the verdurous scent of river clay that
permeated the air. Outside the window, the world glowed with a preternatural greenness, like they were living inside a
terrarium. Oaks bounded the house with tight-knit, protective arms.
Some of them are probably as old as Dad, Connor thought. That was a comforting idea…
Connor rounded the dining room table to take the chair beside Dawn. Without interrupting one of her favorite Drawing 101
tales about a young woman who fainted in class because they were sketching – gasp! – naked men, he passed one bottle to
his Dad; the other he placed in front of Dawn.
“And she just… fell over?” Angel prodded.
“Oh yeah. Eyes rolled back, everything. I thought she was convulsing,” Dawn said. “Poor thing. She’d honestly never seen a
naked anything. Ever. Could ya guess?”
“She’d grown up in the Bible Belt,” Connor added.
“Yeah, Bible Chastity Belt. I guess it’s nice though, knowing that some girls get to be that sheltered,” Dawn said, twisting
the cap from her beer. “No Bock for you?”
“No Bock,” Connor said. “Mid-terms.”
Dawn clinked the neck of her bottle to Angel’s. “Work, work, work,” she sang, toasting them both.
Angel drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In the kitchen, the CD changer whirred, buzzed, clicked, and
the song switched to Allison Krauss singing “When You Say Nothing At All.”
Angel reached for the takeout box and scooped lo mien onto his plate.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Angel said. “Nice home. Nicer fiancée,” he tipped a genuine smile at Dawn. “You’ve carved a good
life.”
Connor rested his elbows on the table. He basked in the ambience of twinkle lights, Chinese takeout, his best girl and his
Dad. All his life, he wanted to be part of something simple, and here they were, within his grasp. Connor breathed it in,
feeling it spread throughout his every molecule.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Connor said quietly, as if speaking aloud would break the bubble and make it all disappear. “I’m
amazed you made it out.”
Angel shrugged. “Truth of it, son, I’m pretty amazed myself.”
Connor continued. “When I saw you on that Circle, I thought, ‘Man, there is no way he’ll get out of this one,’” he laughed,
incredulous, his eyes wide. “But you did. I mean, look at you!”
Dawn touched his arm. “Connor…”
“I mean it,” he said. “You made it. You pull through everything!”
Angel gave his son an abashed smile. “I try,” he said, humbly.
Connor pulled his hands through his hair. “And then, the Prophecy!”
Dawn fake retched. “Not that again,” she moaned.
“But it’s…” Connor began.
“Amazing,” Dawn said. “And it is, sweetie, but… can’t we have one family dinner that doesn’t dredge up past apocalypses or
prophecies? Myself, I’d much rather talk about simpler things, like our house, or your research. Or, oh! Naked people.”
Angel steepled his hands around his bottle. “She’s right,” he said, then scratched his head. “Not necessarily the nudity
part, but, um, everything else…” He stared across the table at his son. “It’s okay, Connor. It’s over. I’m back. And I’ll
never leave you again.”
Connor’s heart swelled in his chest and he breathed in, holding the elation within the cage of his ribs, promising to never let
it go… never.
“You okay?” Dawn asked.
Connor let out a trembling sigh. “I am,” he said, nodding. “Maybe I should have that beer.”
“Stay put. I’ll get it,” Angel said, getting up.
“Hey, and dad,” Connor said. “While you’re at it, could you pass the Shanshu pork?”
Beside him, Dawn dissolved in a giggle fit. She looped her arms around Connor, burying her face against his sleeve.
“Shhhh—” she hissed, eyes streaming. Her laughter was infectious; soon Connor fell in, laughing until his sides ached. Even
Angel gave up a mite of a chuckle before disappearing into the kitchen to pull a beer from the cooler.
“Mushu pork,” Connor said between gasps. “I meant Mushu.”
Dawn wiped her eyes with the back of her slender hands, her engagement band glittering silver in the fairy light of the
room. “Connor!” she snorted. “You waited all evening to slip that in, didn’t you? You are so bad.”
“I know it, baby.”
In the kitchen, Angel’s cell phone rang.
Connor straightened in his chair. “Don’t answer it,” he said.
Not hearing him, Angel fished the phone from his pocket, flipped it open and began a conversation in severe tones with the
person on the other end.
Dawn pouted. “Demons?” she asked.
“Sounds like,” Connor answered. He poked cheerlessly at a water chestnut with her chopstick.
“You going with?”
“Got to,” Connor said. “He’s my Dad. And they’re demons. That’s all that matters…”
Dawn bent forward until her forehead met his temple. “I have plans for you, you know?” she whispered.
Connor continued to watch his Dad pace in the kitchen.
“Right,” Connor said. “Home and hearth.”
“Think…” Dawn ran her hand along the inside of his leg, all the way up, “lower,” she said.
He felt her breath on his cheek and blushed.
“You saucy little vixen.”
She lowered her eyelids. “I have everyone fooled,” she said.
When Angel returned, Connor imagined he could see cartoon thunderheads scribbled over his father’s head.
“It’s bad,” Angel said. “Demons.”
Connor stood. Wielding the chopstick like a stake, he said, “I’m ready.”
Dawn slipped her hand into his. She whispered, “Don’t worry. We’ll be family, Connor. Together, forever. It's going to be
beautiful.”
Connor awoke to stillness, from a world of viridian to one of cobalt and gold. But this dream was no less detailed than the
last. Or the one before that. Each dream supplanted the previous, and Connor no longer knew which was real and which was
fiction. Not that it mattered. Not anymore.
A quick appraisal of his surroundings told him he was in a cupboard decked with shelves that were crowded with jars, flasks,
books and trinkets. The air was heavy with the scents of garlic, onions, ginger, incense...
Connor heard his breathing in his ears as he slid from the canvas cot that was his bed. His shoulders ached deep in his
bones. He rolled his arms backward and felt a painful stab pinch under his ribcage.
Okay, so in this dream he was injured. He was also ravenous. He smelled something savory cooking somewhere beyond the
storeroom, and his stomach rumbled. Connor couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a scrap to eat, so, braving all, he left
the cupboard in search of food.
The darkened corridor was lined on both sides with haphazard stacks of books and periodicals. At the nearer end Connor
saw a study with a gilded Edwardian writing desk upon which a single candle bloomed against the darkness. Connor stood
transfixed by the flicker of light, until his stomach rumbled again, urging him in the opposite direction.
He found the kitchen through an archway at the corridor’s end. It was dark, too, and cluttered with the same assortment
of intricacies that spilled like a wave through every cramped room he passed. A bulky wooden table crouched in the center
of the room. On it, a plump black kitten slept. Both table and cat seemed familiar to him, but he ignored them in favor of the
pair of women conversing in conspiratorial tones beside the stove.
Connor crossed the kitchen soundlessly, scanning the room as he did. An athame rested on a chopping block on the far
counter. Antique swords and daggers lay in cases and on display mounts around the kitchen. If he needed a weapon, he had
several within reach.
As he approached the women, the kitten roused and stretched. Connor tickled its chin and it prrred delightedly.
Willow and Faith turned, surprised.
“Hey, it’s the Sleepyhead,” Willow said, her tone drenched in saccharine.
He blinked. “Hey.”
Willow shot a glance of concern at Faith, who shrugged, non-committal.
“You were out a long time,” Willow said. She picked up a wooden bowl and brought it to him. “We were worried…”
Connor snatched the bowl from her hands. Rice! Fried rice, cashews, mushrooms. He shoveled it into his mouth with his
fingers. After the first few bites, his stomach cramped, but he plowed through, forcing himself to choke it down.
Willow stared at him, astounded. “We were worried you wouldn’t wake up,” she went on. “Spell whammy packed quite a
punch…”
Connor swallowed the mouthful of rice and tried to speak, but his throat felt like powder.
Willow returned to the stove, her red hair catching the lantern light. For a moment the moonglow of her beauty held him
mesmerized. Faith eyed him warily, her dark eyes like patches of night sky. Willow lifted a kettle from the burner and poured
him a cup of tea.
She returned and tousled his hair. “It’s good to have you upright again,” she said.
“Where’s Dawn?” Connor asked.
Willow glanced again at Faith. “Uh. London, I presume,” Willow answered. “What do you remember?”
He cleared his throat. “Where are we?”
Faith stepped in. “What say you answer the girl first, huh?”
Connor’s heart jittered in his chest. His eyes flicked to the athame on the counter. He saw Faith tense. Her Slayer senses
clued her that he’d noticed the weapon.
Instinctively, Connor knew. They were hiding something. Connor looked beyond them, at the shelves along the opposite wall.
He noted the mismatched relics – Japanese swords, Egyptian urns, various curios and texts from a dozen civilizations.
Whoever lived here was widely traveled. Perhaps a Watcher...
“Wayara,” he mumbled.
Faith’s fists clenched. “Dead. Killed by you.”
Connor’s eyes flashed at the accusation. “No,” he said. He remembered the fire, though. He remembered... “No. Not like
that. It wasn’t like that.”
Faith closed in on him. Willow interceded. “Hey. Let’s keep with the civil tongues,” she said. To Connor, she added, “What
was it like?”
Connor ignored her. “Who lives here?” he asked again. “Where are we?”
Faith shot another wary look at Willow. “Japan,” she hedged.
Connor shoved her with his free hand. “I know that,” he bit out. “I mean, here. In this place.”
Willow flashed an uneasy grin. “Connor, before you leap in blades-a-blazin’, hear us out, okay?”
But the bolt drove home. Connor understood.
“Thellian,” he said, his gorge rising.
Faith, for her part, looked disgusted; she had the decency not to dispute it.
Connor leapt at the counter, scattering rice and crockery. Faith caught him, but not before his fist closed around the hilt
of the athame. His face an inch from Faith’s, Connor snarled, “How could you bring me here?”
“Just let us explain,” Willow shouted.
Connor brought the athame to within inches of Faith’s throat. “Yeah. Better explain how it is, Willow. Explain fast.”
Faith vised Connor’s arm in her hands. “Best be certain you can kill us both, cowboy,” she hissed in his ear.
He laughed darkly. “C’mon, Faith. You really wanna fight me? I heal as fast as a Slayer, and I’m not a dried up hag.”
“Oh, you didn’t…” Faith said.
“He did!” Willow answered.
“Bring it on,” he said through clenched teeth.
Faith pressed her body against his. “Oh, it’s brought.”
Connor jerked his hand back and slashed down. Faith stopped his arm, twisted it back. They struggled, but she kept him
pinned, as slowly, very slowly, he dragged the point of the dagger to her cheek.
“I think you’re under his thrall,” Connor growled. “Both of you.”
“Willow!” Faith relented.
Willow gave a fretful sigh. “I wish, I wish it hadn’t come to this,” she said. “Artreoth dormis,” Willow shouted.
At first, Connor looked as though he’d shake it off, but then his grip on the athame relaxed and he tumbled face first into
Faith’s arms.
Willow collected the knife from his limp fingers.
“Sleep sweet, little prince,” she said, patting his cheek.
Faith wrestled his body onto the table where only two days earlier, they’d cast the spell to free him from the lure of the
Glass. Scout leapt nimbly to Connor’s chest and curled into a fuzzy black ball.
Faith turned to Willow. “Great, Red,” she said. “Now we have two of them.”
Willow took a dish towel from the counter and pillowed it beneath Connor’s head. “He’s just… it’s like he’s been pulled from
The Matrix. We can’t know what he felt while under the influence of the Glass,” she said.
Faith brushed Connor’s hair from his forehead. “He’s a good kid. Damn weak-headed is all.”
Willow sighed. She crossed the kitchen to peer into an adjacent sitting room swathed in veils of copper silk.
Faith came up beside her. “How we gonna pass these guys through customs?” she asked. “Or, here’s a thought: What gives
if Wonder Boy wakes up somewhere over Siberia and guts the plane with us in it?”
Willow stepped into the room. In it lay a slim wooden box – not so much a coffin as a display.
“Don’t worry, Faith,” Willow said, keeping a reverent tone. “Up Top’s got a plan.”
Willow stared into box, where Morna’s sleeping form had been packed and arranged on a bed of lavender silk. Willow stroked
a perfect ringlet of the torpid vampire’s red hair, trailing her finger along the curls until they met the ruffled edge of the
green taffeta costume in which the girl had been dressed.
Faith narrowed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said bitterly. “A plan for us all.”
Connor awoke when the textbook he’d been skimming – Current Discussions on Insect Biotechnology and Genomics – dropped
with a dull smack to the porch below his hammock. He sat up quickly, almost dumping himself out. Dawn would have just loved
that.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” she said, rounding the corner of the porch. Today she wore daisy dukes and flip flops, and her hair
flowed loose down her back.
He grinned sleepily. “Didn’t like that dream anyway,” he said.
Dawn’s features clouded. She slid into his lap. “Oh, poor baby. Nightmares?”
Connor rubbed his eyes. “Not sure. Anyway, I like this one much better.”
Dawn cocked her head to the side. “Silly Connor. This isn’t a dream.”
Connor hooked his thumbs in her belt loops and dragged her body snug with his. “I know it, baby,” he said.
Dawn gave him a sly look. “Any grand adventures planned for today?”
Connor cocked an eyebrow. “Well, I was planning to mow the lawn.”
“Ooh,” Dawn said, leering. “I foresee a shirtless Connor in my future. You might get all hot and sweaty.”
He sighed. “It’s a peril I’m willing to face.”
“I have a better plan,” she said. “It may even help you, with that peril facing thing.”
“Yeah?”
Dawn kissed him again, long and deep and fierce. Her hands roved down into places best left for bedrooms, bathrooms and
occasional stairwells.
Connor caught her hands in his. “Here? Now?” he asked. “The neighbors…”
“Let ’em watch,” Dawn said, stripping off her shirt. She eased him backward, caging him with her slender legs. “Together,
forever. It’s gonna be beautiful. And in the end, the angels sing.”
Connor crossed the kitchen, two bottles of Shiner Bock in one hand, an oscillating fan in the other. He hadn’t worked out
the kinks in the wiring, so everything electrical had to be plugged in to the extension cord that lolled through the kitchen
window like a long orange tongue. Items plugged in to the cord – things to which Dawn attested she could not live without –
were a string of white Christmas lights, a coffeepot, a flatiron and an outmoded CD player from which poured the sepia
tones of Van Morrison’s “Glad Tidings.”
Connor put the bottles on the counter, and with the fan balanced on his knee between him and the cabinet, he struggled
with the powerstrip and the flatiron’s cord, wagering that of the things they needed to survive tonight, straight and shiny
locks could be sacrificed in favor of a gentle breeze.
Dawn’s laughter lilted like honey into the kitchen, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was doing the chopsticks
thing again – sticking them in her mouth so they hung down like fangs. Connor kept telling her chopsticks looked more like
tusks. She’d slug his arm and say, ‘vampires don’t have tusks.’
Tonight Dawn had swept her hair into a ponytail to let her neck breathe from the day’s mugginess. She wore an embroidered
white sundress – backless – and his hands burned to touch the petal-pale skin between her shoulder blades.
Seeming to feel his gaze, she raised her eyes to meet his. He must have smirked because she laughed again, dropping her
chopsticks to her paper plate. In the chair beside her, beyond Connor’s line of sight, his father muffled a laugh.
His father, popping in from L. A. en route to London for Council business, had wanted to see the antebellum house they
bought to restore. His father, who had advised him against buying such an ‘antiquated wreck’, especially since Connor still
had two semesters left in his graduate program at Emory University.
His father.
His father…
Connor leaned backward, catching a glimpse of Mr. Grumpy Pants (Sr.) through the crystal pane of the open French door.
Angel. His father.
The oscillating fan slipped from Connor’s numb fingers and bounced across the tile floor with a crash.
“Crap!” Connor swore.
“Connor?” Dawn called. “Everything okay?”
“Dropped the fan,” he answered.
Connor hefted the heavy bugger by its weighted base. The wire cover had slipped askew, one aluminum blade had bent, but
he had it quickly fixed. It was solid equipment, good since the 40s, and buzzed like a hummingbird when he plugged it in. He
set the fan on the counter, drinking in the balmy breeze it stirred. He caught the verdurous scent of river clay that
permeated the air. Outside the window, the world glowed with a preternatural greenness, like they were living inside a
terrarium. Oaks bounded the house with tight-knit, protective arms.
Some of them are probably as old as Dad, Connor thought. That was a comforting idea…
Connor rounded the dining room table to take the chair beside Dawn. Without interrupting one of her favorite Drawing 101
tales about a young woman who fainted in class because they were sketching – gasp! – naked men, he passed one bottle to
his Dad; the other he placed in front of Dawn.
“And she just… fell over?” Angel prodded.
“Oh yeah. Eyes rolled back, everything. I thought she was convulsing,” Dawn said. “Poor thing. She’d honestly never seen a
naked anything. Ever. Could ya guess?”
“She’d grown up in the Bible Belt,” Connor added.
“Yeah, Bible Chastity Belt. I guess it’s nice though, knowing that some girls get to be that sheltered,” Dawn said, twisting
the cap from her beer. “No Bock for you?”
“No Bock,” Connor said. “Mid-terms.”
Dawn clinked the neck of her bottle to Angel’s. “Work, work, work,” she sang, toasting them both.
Angel drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In the kitchen, the CD changer whirred, buzzed, clicked, and
the song switched to Allison Krauss singing “When You Say Nothing At All.”
Angel reached for the takeout box and scooped lo mien onto his plate.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Angel said. “Nice home. Nicer fiancée,” he tipped a genuine smile at Dawn. “You’ve carved a good
life.”
Connor rested his elbows on the table. He basked in the ambience of twinkle lights, Chinese takeout, his best girl and his
Dad. All his life, he wanted to be part of something simple, and here they were, within his grasp. Connor breathed it in,
feeling it spread throughout his every molecule.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Connor said quietly, as if speaking aloud would break the bubble and make it all disappear. “I’m
amazed you made it out.”
Angel shrugged. “Truth of it, son, I’m pretty amazed myself.”
Connor continued. “When I saw you on that Circle, I thought, ‘Man, there is no way he’ll get out of this one,’” he laughed,
incredulous, his eyes wide. “But you did. I mean, look at you!”
Dawn touched his arm. “Connor…”
“I mean it,” he said. “You made it. You pull through everything!”
Angel gave his son an abashed smile. “I try,” he said, humbly.
Connor pulled his hands through his hair. “And then, the Prophecy!”
Dawn fake retched. “Not that again,” she moaned.
“But it’s…” Connor began.
“Amazing,” Dawn said. “And it is, sweetie, but… can’t we have one family dinner that doesn’t dredge up past apocalypses or
prophecies? Myself, I’d much rather talk about simpler things, like our house, or your research. Or, oh! Naked people.”
Angel steepled his hands around his bottle. “She’s right,” he said, then scratched his head. “Not necessarily the nudity
part, but, um, everything else…” He stared across the table at his son. “It’s okay, Connor. It’s over. I’m back. And I’ll
never leave you again.”
Connor’s heart swelled in his chest and he breathed in, holding the elation within the cage of his ribs, promising to never let
it go… never.
“You okay?” Dawn asked.
Connor let out a trembling sigh. “I am,” he said, nodding. “Maybe I should have that beer.”
“Stay put. I’ll get it,” Angel said, getting up.
“Hey, and dad,” Connor said. “While you’re at it, could you pass the Shanshu pork?”
Beside him, Dawn dissolved in a giggle fit. She looped her arms around Connor, burying her face against his sleeve.
“Shhhh—” she hissed, eyes streaming. Her laughter was infectious; soon Connor fell in, laughing until his sides ached. Even
Angel gave up a mite of a chuckle before disappearing into the kitchen to pull a beer from the cooler.
“Mushu pork,” Connor said between gasps. “I meant Mushu.”
Dawn wiped her eyes with the back of her slender hands, her engagement band glittering silver in the fairy light of the
room. “Connor!” she snorted. “You waited all evening to slip that in, didn’t you? You are so bad.”
“I know it, baby.”
In the kitchen, Angel’s cell phone rang.
Connor straightened in his chair. “Don’t answer it,” he said.
Not hearing him, Angel fished the phone from his pocket, flipped it open and began a conversation in severe tones with the
person on the other end.
Dawn pouted. “Demons?” she asked.
“Sounds like,” Connor answered. He poked cheerlessly at a water chestnut with her chopstick.
“You going with?”
“Got to,” Connor said. “He’s my Dad. And they’re demons. That’s all that matters…”
Dawn bent forward until her forehead met his temple. “I have plans for you, you know?” she whispered.
Connor continued to watch his Dad pace in the kitchen.
“Right,” Connor said. “Home and hearth.”
“Think…” Dawn ran her hand along the inside of his leg, all the way up, “lower,” she said.
He felt her breath on his cheek and blushed.
“You saucy little vixen.”
She lowered her eyelids. “I have everyone fooled,” she said.
When Angel returned, Connor imagined he could see cartoon thunderheads scribbled over his father’s head.
“It’s bad,” Angel said. “Demons.”
Connor stood. Wielding the chopstick like a stake, he said, “I’m ready.”
Dawn slipped her hand into his. She whispered, “Don’t worry. We’ll be family, Connor. Together, forever. It's going to be
beautiful.”
Connor awoke to stillness, from a world of viridian to one of cobalt and gold. But this dream was no less detailed than the
last. Or the one before that. Each dream supplanted the previous, and Connor no longer knew which was real and which was
fiction. Not that it mattered. Not anymore.
A quick appraisal of his surroundings told him he was in a cupboard decked with shelves that were crowded with jars, flasks,
books and trinkets. The air was heavy with the scents of garlic, onions, ginger, incense...
Connor heard his breathing in his ears as he slid from the canvas cot that was his bed. His shoulders ached deep in his
bones. He rolled his arms backward and felt a painful stab pinch under his ribcage.
Okay, so in this dream he was injured. He was also ravenous. He smelled something savory cooking somewhere beyond the
storeroom, and his stomach rumbled. Connor couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a scrap to eat, so, braving all, he left
the cupboard in search of food.
The darkened corridor was lined on both sides with haphazard stacks of books and periodicals. At the nearer end Connor
saw a study with a gilded Edwardian writing desk upon which a single candle bloomed against the darkness. Connor stood
transfixed by the flicker of light, until his stomach rumbled again, urging him in the opposite direction.
He found the kitchen through an archway at the corridor’s end. It was dark, too, and cluttered with the same assortment
of intricacies that spilled like a wave through every cramped room he passed. A bulky wooden table crouched in the center
of the room. On it, a plump black kitten slept. Both table and cat seemed familiar to him, but he ignored them in favor of the
pair of women conversing in conspiratorial tones beside the stove.
Connor crossed the kitchen soundlessly, scanning the room as he did. An athame rested on a chopping block on the far
counter. Antique swords and daggers lay in cases and on display mounts around the kitchen. If he needed a weapon, he had
several within reach.
As he approached the women, the kitten roused and stretched. Connor tickled its chin and it prrred delightedly.
Willow and Faith turned, surprised.
“Hey, it’s the Sleepyhead,” Willow said, her tone drenched in saccharine.
He blinked. “Hey.”
Willow shot a glance of concern at Faith, who shrugged, non-committal.
“You were out a long time,” Willow said. She picked up a wooden bowl and brought it to him. “We were worried…”
Connor snatched the bowl from her hands. Rice! Fried rice, cashews, mushrooms. He shoveled it into his mouth with his
fingers. After the first few bites, his stomach cramped, but he plowed through, forcing himself to choke it down.
Willow stared at him, astounded. “We were worried you wouldn’t wake up,” she went on. “Spell whammy packed quite a
punch…”
Connor swallowed the mouthful of rice and tried to speak, but his throat felt like powder.
Willow returned to the stove, her red hair catching the lantern light. For a moment the moonglow of her beauty held him
mesmerized. Faith eyed him warily, her dark eyes like patches of night sky. Willow lifted a kettle from the burner and poured
him a cup of tea.
She returned and tousled his hair. “It’s good to have you upright again,” she said.
“Where’s Dawn?” Connor asked.
Willow glanced again at Faith. “Uh. London, I presume,” Willow answered. “What do you remember?”
He cleared his throat. “Where are we?”
Faith stepped in. “What say you answer the girl first, huh?”
Connor’s heart jittered in his chest. His eyes flicked to the athame on the counter. He saw Faith tense. Her Slayer senses
clued her that he’d noticed the weapon.
Instinctively, Connor knew. They were hiding something. Connor looked beyond them, at the shelves along the opposite wall.
He noted the mismatched relics – Japanese swords, Egyptian urns, various curios and texts from a dozen civilizations.
Whoever lived here was widely traveled. Perhaps a Watcher...
“Wayara,” he mumbled.
Faith’s fists clenched. “Dead. Killed by you.”
Connor’s eyes flashed at the accusation. “No,” he said. He remembered the fire, though. He remembered... “No. Not like
that. It wasn’t like that.”
Faith closed in on him. Willow interceded. “Hey. Let’s keep with the civil tongues,” she said. To Connor, she added, “What
was it like?”
Connor ignored her. “Who lives here?” he asked again. “Where are we?”
Faith shot another wary look at Willow. “Japan,” she hedged.
Connor shoved her with his free hand. “I know that,” he bit out. “I mean, here. In this place.”
Willow flashed an uneasy grin. “Connor, before you leap in blades-a-blazin’, hear us out, okay?”
But the bolt drove home. Connor understood.
“Thellian,” he said, his gorge rising.
Faith, for her part, looked disgusted; she had the decency not to dispute it.
Connor leapt at the counter, scattering rice and crockery. Faith caught him, but not before his fist closed around the hilt
of the athame. His face an inch from Faith’s, Connor snarled, “How could you bring me here?”
“Just let us explain,” Willow shouted.
Connor brought the athame to within inches of Faith’s throat. “Yeah. Better explain how it is, Willow. Explain fast.”
Faith vised Connor’s arm in her hands. “Best be certain you can kill us both, cowboy,” she hissed in his ear.
He laughed darkly. “C’mon, Faith. You really wanna fight me? I heal as fast as a Slayer, and I’m not a dried up hag.”
“Oh, you didn’t…” Faith said.
“He did!” Willow answered.
“Bring it on,” he said through clenched teeth.
Faith pressed her body against his. “Oh, it’s brought.”
Connor jerked his hand back and slashed down. Faith stopped his arm, twisted it back. They struggled, but she kept him
pinned, as slowly, very slowly, he dragged the point of the dagger to her cheek.
“I think you’re under his thrall,” Connor growled. “Both of you.”
“Willow!” Faith relented.
Willow gave a fretful sigh. “I wish, I wish it hadn’t come to this,” she said. “Artreoth dormis,” Willow shouted.
At first, Connor looked as though he’d shake it off, but then his grip on the athame relaxed and he tumbled face first into
Faith’s arms.
Willow collected the knife from his limp fingers.
“Sleep sweet, little prince,” she said, patting his cheek.
Faith wrestled his body onto the table where only two days earlier, they’d cast the spell to free him from the lure of the
Glass. Scout leapt nimbly to Connor’s chest and curled into a fuzzy black ball.
Faith turned to Willow. “Great, Red,” she said. “Now we have two of them.”
Willow took a dish towel from the counter and pillowed it beneath Connor’s head. “He’s just… it’s like he’s been pulled from
The Matrix. We can’t know what he felt while under the influence of the Glass,” she said.
Faith brushed Connor’s hair from his forehead. “He’s a good kid. Damn weak-headed is all.”
Willow sighed. She crossed the kitchen to peer into an adjacent sitting room swathed in veils of copper silk.
Faith came up beside her. “How we gonna pass these guys through customs?” she asked. “Or, here’s a thought: What gives
if Wonder Boy wakes up somewhere over Siberia and guts the plane with us in it?”
Willow stepped into the room. In it lay a slim wooden box – not so much a coffin as a display.
“Don’t worry, Faith,” Willow said, keeping a reverent tone. “Up Top’s got a plan.”
Willow stared into box, where Morna’s sleeping form had been packed and arranged on a bed of lavender silk. Willow stroked
a perfect ringlet of the torpid vampire’s red hair, trailing her finger along the curls until they met the ruffled edge of the
green taffeta costume in which the girl had been dressed.
Faith narrowed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said bitterly. “A plan for us all.”
Connor awoke when the textbook he’d been skimming – Current Discussions on Insect Biotechnology and Genomics – dropped
with a dull smack to the porch below his hammock. He sat up quickly, almost dumping himself out. Dawn would have just loved
that.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” she said, rounding the corner of the porch. Today she wore daisy dukes and flip flops, and her hair
flowed loose down her back.
He grinned sleepily. “Didn’t like that dream anyway,” he said.
Dawn’s features clouded. She slid into his lap. “Oh, poor baby. Nightmares?”
Connor rubbed his eyes. “Not sure. Anyway, I like this one much better.”
Dawn cocked her head to the side. “Silly Connor. This isn’t a dream.”
Connor hooked his thumbs in her belt loops and dragged her body snug with his. “I know it, baby,” he said.
Dawn gave him a sly look. “Any grand adventures planned for today?”
Connor cocked an eyebrow. “Well, I was planning to mow the lawn.”
“Ooh,” Dawn said, leering. “I foresee a shirtless Connor in my future. You might get all hot and sweaty.”
He sighed. “It’s a peril I’m willing to face.”
“I have a better plan,” she said. “It may even help you, with that peril facing thing.”
“Yeah?”
Dawn kissed him again, long and deep and fierce. Her hands roved down into places best left for bedrooms, bathrooms and
occasional stairwells.
Connor caught her hands in his. “Here? Now?” he asked. “The neighbors…”
“Let ’em watch,” Dawn said, stripping off her shirt. She eased him backward, caging him with her slender legs. “Together,
forever. It’s gonna be beautiful. And in the end, the angels sing.”
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.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
Warning: This chapter is PG-13 due to adult situations.