Double Cross
“A galaxy of ‘No,’” Buffy said.
“No?” Angel countered.
Everyone else gave a collected sigh of exasperation.
“Why ‘no’ now?” Xander asked, gripping the edge of the war room table, as if his knees were giving out on him because he
had been standing there a long time, because, in fact, he had. Everyone – Fred and Wes, Tara and Willow, Xander and Anya,
Cordy and Angel – opted to take this meeting standing up, which Buffy found particularly straining because her feet had
begun to swell, which was not swell at all.
Buffy, who had been standing just as long as Xander, thought he was being overly dramatic, answered, “Tara stays behind.”
Now it was Willow’s turn to shout – and why not? – everyone else had. “Buffy, you have no right…” she yelled.
“It’s my mission,” Buffy began.
“One for which you asked our help,” Cordelia snapped. She hovered in the doorway, Connor bouncing on her hip, so that she
could keep an eye on Dawn who had taken up a twitchy, staggered pacing in the lobby ever since they dragged her from her
spookily life-like drawing in the courtyard.
“Besides,” Willow cut in before Buffy could speak, “Tara should go. She owes them.”
“Precisely my point,” Buffy said evenly. “Everyone who goes has to remain objective, or The Coven will spin us so fast...”
“Lived it,” Willow said. “We know what they can do. So if Tara stays, I stay.”
Buffy sagged. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but had sorta known it would. Buffy needed Willow; Willow knew it. Going
without out her would be like traveling back in time and intentionally booking tickets on the Titanic. In short: disaster.
Buffy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Fine,” she hissed. “Tara goes.”
Willow danced a triumphant jig, which Buffy felt unnecessary and inappropriate, given that Willow had signed her speechless
girlfriend up for a possible suicide mission.
“But,” Buffy went on, “she goes with Xander and Anya after you and Wes have established contact with Margot and
Ariadne.”
“Agreed,” Willow and Xander said in accord.
“Then that leaves Dawn here with Cordelia and Connor,” Buffy said.
“No!” Angel said, which produced an even greater ripple of protest than Buffy’s objection to Tara.
“What?” Cordelia asked. “I thought we agreed it was best that Dawn remain behind.”
Angel shoved away from the table. “We did,” he said. “But you’re not staying here.”
“Ah,” Xander said, knowingly. He glanced at Wes, who nodded, and Buffy felt a wave of loathing at how tight-knit they
were. Tight-knit, and smug about it.
“The Halliwell’s,” Wes said, brow arched. Fred and Cordelia squealed enthusiastically.
“It’s perfect,” Fred exclaimed. “Circle of Enduring Protection, a Book of Shadows in the attic, and a white-lighter. Plus,
Piper’s expecting…”
“Who cares about that?” Cordelia gushed. “Phoebe has the best collection of designer shoes and handbags west of Topeka.
Feature me there.” She looked around at the assembled group and guiltily added, “Us. Feature us there.”
Buffy raised her hand. “Um, hello? The Halliwell’s? Is this some kind of mystical department store?”
“They’re the Charmed Ones. They live in San Francisco. Cordy and Connor can’t stay here alone. If Gunn attacks while we’
re gone,” Angel began, but trailed off, as if speaking it was too much for him to bear. Because it was.
Buffy glanced from Angel to Cordelia and felt a deep pang of longing; not for Angel, those embers had long died down. But
they did remind her of her life back in London - her William, her Dawn, her family. Buffy promised herself that she would tell
Angel that she understood his anxiety. She knew how much Angel stood to lose by helping her, and she wouldn’t forget it.
“So it’s settled,” Angel said decisively. “We’ll leave at nightfall. Buffy and I will take Wesley’s boat up the coastline. We
should arrive behind the compound before dawn.”
Wesley nodded along. “Meanwhile Willow, Fred and I will establish a base in the sewers under the old Magic Box,” he said.
“Once we’ve contacted your witches, Willow will signal for Xander, Anya and Tara to join us.”
As a plan, Buffy found it loose and generally iffy. They had Gunn’s reconnaissance of Sunnydale, but it was out-dated by
three years. Willow possessed some hard schematics she’d managed to steal by hacking into TriadCorp’s mainframes, but
even these felt fallible.
But at least they had a plan.
“Good,” Buffy said. “Can we eat before we go? I’m ravenous.”
“Ditto the ravenous,” Willow agreed. As the lot of them hastened to leave the war room, talking animatedly about their
plans, Dawn drifted among them, dancing lithely on her bare toes. She turned a floaty pirouette and came face to face with
Buffy.
With an enigmatic smile on her lips, Dawn said, “I’m the Key. Remember?”
Buffy felt her heart in her throat. “I remember,” she said.
Dawn kissed her sister’s eyelids, first one, and then the other. “Don’t forget, okay?” she whispered. “Tell Buffy. But don’t
let Andrew know.”
Ed Busby never had a job so cinchy. Red-head was a canny lass; brunette was lush hottie and wore get-ups he’d seen in the
pages of Razzle. Plus, they paid cash, up front, dollar bills American, and he charged them extra to cover the exchange rate.
All he need do, says they, was drive his panel truck and ask no questions. Just like a Bond flick. No barney, no probs.
Only hitch was the cargo. Cacky, it seemed. Gave him the right willies. Three pine boxes, it was. Like something out of an
American horror movie starring Gary Oldman. Questions – he had. His restraint in keeping to their terms had to be none
short of remarkable.
On the eve of December 5th, Ed piloted the truck north and west out of London proper. Night before, he’d met them at
Gatwick, had their delibs, and they had engaged his services. Red-head pressed a square white envelope full of ker-ching
into his hand, promising an equal amount upon arrival at their destination.
As he passed out of the city and into ’burbs, Busby began to feel the squicks. He wanted to be quit of this gig and in the
pub, ASAP, where he would relate to his mates the peculiar particulars of his latest score over a round of pints paid for by
yours truly.
Red-head, who rode shotgun, pointed and said, “Take a left on Meteor and drive past the park about a mile.”
Busby did, and rolled the truck down a narrow divided lane lined with red-brick row houses divided up into flats. This was one
of the old neighborhoods that had been nicely done up in the 90s to accommodate middle-to-uppers, artists, university
students, and the like. Good digs, if you could get them.
Busby thought perhaps the pine boxes in back contained works of art, yeah. Statuary. Except that did not account for
Barbarella standing guard in back.
The truck grumbled past the park, which was choked with brown weeds and looked more like a graveyard with its fence lined
with vigil candles and pics of MIAs, all faded and blown to tatters, which gave Busby the chills.
Red-head kept her eyes on the road ahead. Without looking at him, she said, “We’re at 2319. You’ll want to pull up to the
front walk, close as you can get.”
Busby found the addy, and sidled up behind an emerald green Volvo parked out front.
“Here’s the place, madam,” he said, pulling his bill cap from his head and swabbing his inordinately sweaty brow with a
questionable handkerchief. “That’ll be my eleven-hundred.”
“Wait,” Red-head said. She opened the sliding panel above her head to address her dark-haired friend. “Faith,” she said.
“We’re here.”
He heard the other respond with, “Call Buffy. We can’t move ’til sundown.”
“Sundown?” Busby interrupted, feeling alarm like a whole orange shoved in his gullet. “Nobody said nothing ’bout sundown.”
The women ignored him. Red said, “It’s late enough.”
“No, Willow. Too risky,” the other replied.
Willow, Faith, Buffy. No way they was real names. And Busby began to suspect he was neck-deep in dealings nefarious.
Red-head sat still a moment, thinking. Busby thought she smelled nice, like fresh baking things, and felt a fool for believing
her to be involved in anything less than capitol. After a bit, she pulled a phone from her pocket and speed-dialed a number.
Busby and the one called Faith watched intently as she waited for an answer.
“Xander,” she said. Another a. k. a. most like, thought Busby. “Yes. Yes, it’s Willow,” she said, excitedly. “It’s good to
hear your voice, too. Look, I need to speak with Buffy. It’s imp-”
Red-head glanced at the other. “Well, when will she be back?” she asked.
Silence.
“How long?”
Pause.
“Weeks? But how?”
Dark-haired lass said, “Willow, what’s up?”
Willow responded with a brisk slashing gesture, which Dark-haired girl did not appreciate, not one bit.
Willow went on. “Xander, I need you to do something for me, okay? You trust me, right?”
Pause.
“Good. I need you to open the door. We’re right outside. – Yes! – On the street. Open the door, and let us in… Yeah, that’s
it.” She laughed, a pretty noise like breaking glass. “Just let us in.”
One called Faith motioned to Busby. “You,” she barked. “Up-n-att’m. We got cargo to move, and it’s gotta be quick.”
Red-head was sliding from the seat and running, seemed like, before even touching ground. Ed’s heart was in his throat as
he popped the lock in back and slid the door up. Faith shoved the wooden box at him.
“Take it!” she ordered.
Next thing, he was jogging along, carting this giant wood box up the front walk of a red-brick row house. Boy inside the
house flung open the front door, but just before entering, Red-head stopped. She held out her hand for Busby and Faith to
halt, which they did.
Then, bowing her head to the box, she whispered, all tender-like, “Thellian Ventrusca, I invite you inside.”
Busby and Faith carried the crate into the entry hall, passed the American boy, this Xander kid, who appeared to have had
his stomach pulled out through his nostrils.
“No no no no NO!” Xander shouted. “Willow, what have you done?”
Red-head briefly met his eye, and then made sure that Busby got the crate settled.
Ignoring the American boy, Red-head lay her hand on Busby’s arm. She said, “Two to go. Let’s move.”
“Two?” Xander yelled. “Willow, no!”
Xander put himself between the girls and the door. One called Faith shot out an arm like a whip, pinning him to the wall by his
throat. Ed felt bad for the boy, but felt worse for his own neck should he run astray of the lasses in charge.
Faith turned her pretty face to Ed’s. “Hey,” she barked. “Lady said move.”
“Right,” Ed said. And he followed Red-head out to the truck to fetch the second crate.
Angel anchored Wesley’s boat, playfully christened the SS Minnow by Fred, to which Wes had taken great offense, outside a
cave once used by pirates for smuggling. They rowed ashore in an inflatable raft to a strip of sandy beach much utilized for
parties by fraternal organizations of both human and demon denomination.
Neither Buffy nor Angel had much in the way of weapons, and had even less in the way of conversation. Buffy had four
stakes and a 14-inch ceremonial Pakistani dagger. Angel had fangs, claws, and a double-headed battleaxe, which he slung
across his back as they climbed the bluff overlooking the beach. Buffy had a pack containing flares, a radio, and fruit snacks
because Buffy got the pregnancy shakes any time her blood sugar dropped. Which seemed like always.
They climbed steadily along a slick rock path toward the hazy sodium-arc lights that marked the seaward side of the
TriadCorp military compound.
“How much time ’til sunrise?” Buffy whispered.
Angel sniffed the air. “An hour.”
She hauled herself over a boulder, using a tuft of grass as a tether. Angel followed, she noted, with much less fatigue.
“We’ll have to find one of the sewer entrances,” she said, trying hard not to sound out of breath. “Hole up there ’til
nightfall.”
“Here,” he said, taking a seat on the cool, flat surface of the boulder they just mounted. “Take a break.”
Buffy pushed on. “No, Angel. We don’t have time.”
He glanced up. “We have time.”
She tottered slightly, then gave in. “Fine,” she said, tugging her pack into her lap. “Fruit snack?”
“Pass.”
Buffy spilled the packets into her lap. To her chagrin it was too dark in their nook of the path to read the labels. She wanted
raspberry; she came away with peach. With a shrug, she ate them anyway.
“Who’s Andrew?” Angel asked.
Buffy chewed thoughtfully. “He’s my Dawn’s best friend. Kind of a Watcher-in-Training. This Dawn never met him, far as I
know.”
“There’s a connection between this Dawn and your Dawn,” he said.
“I know it,” Buffy said. “I just don’t know what it means.”
Buffy couldn’t read Angel. He annoyingly did not breathe, and so gave nothing away. His features were obscured by lack of
light. She decided to change the subject.
“I wanted to thank…”
He stood up abruptly. “Don’t do that, okay. You ready?”
“Uh,” she stammered. “I guess?”
“Good.” He extended his hand to her. She zipped her pack, re-slung it, and got to her feet without his help.
In minutes, they managed to scale the remaining 30 feet to the crest of the bluff. Buffy scrambled gracelessly over the
muddy ridge, grabbing fists of grass to aid her. She rolled onto her back as Angel climbed up beside her. She got to her feet
and walked a few yards before the grisly scene on the hillside caused her knees to liquefy beneath her.
Two crosses stood in stark silhouette against the harsh nimbus of the sodium-arc lights. Buffy crumpled at the foot of the
first, and she knew. Even before looking at his face, she knew. She raised her eyes to the level of the dead man’s chest
where a wooden placard swung from a rusting chain. On the placard was one word in Latin: TRADITOR.
“Traitor,” Angel said, needlessly translating.
“No,” Buffy muttered. Her gorge rose. She got clumsily to her feet.
“Buffy,” Angel said, his tone filled with dread. “The other one…”
“No,” Buffy said again, swiping tears from her eyes. She whipped her knife from her belt and started toward the first cross.
At its base, she finally braved a look at his face. It was the bruised, pulpy, bloated yellow of the several days dead. Seabirds
had pecked out his eyes and torn away the tender flesh of his eyelids and ears. Several fingers had been hacked from his
splayed hands. They had tortured him.
Buffy looked down at her feet; she still wore his wife’s running shoes.
And she knew. Buffy knew. This was because of her.
“Buffy,” Angel called. “It’s Spike.”
Buffy turned to face the second cross. Angel stood glaring up at the unconscious form of his childe and former nemesis.
This spurred her to action.
“Cut him down,” she ordered as she hoisted herself up the base of the first cross. “Spike’s still alive, or he’d be dust. They’
ve staked him out for sunrise…”
“No! Buffy! Leave them,” Angel shouted. “It’s a trap. They’ll take it as a sign we’ve been here.”
Buffy dropped to the hard-packed ground. She didn’t bother to conceal the note of desperation in her voice as she said,
“Angel, they know. This might as well be a bright orange banner that reads ‘Welcome Back Buffy Summers’. Now cut Spike
down and I’ll get Dr. Kriegel. We may have time to get them back to the boat before…”
“I’d say decidedly not.”
The voice that drifted from the shadows penetrated Buffy’s heart like a sliver of ice. She knew that voice, so distinguished
and proper, but it couldn’t be…
In the next moments several things occurred at once. Armed Initiative soldiers ringed Angel and Buffy, materializing as if
from the mist. A figure lurched toward them, leaning heavily on a polished black cane that glinted with every forward step.
Buffy glanced at Angel, signaling a retreat. He responded with a curt shake of his head. They were surrounded.
The figure came to rest between the crosses, with several meters distance from Buffy. His mangled left hand rested on the
ball of his cane. A breeze ruffled his sandy hair, but his features remained lost beneath a mask of shadow.
“Your sister made this capture stunningly simple,” the figure said. “The Coven sees what she sees. The trick is really… quite
ingenious.”
Buffy was shaking her head. The figure took another lurching step forward.
“Stop,” she said. Tears spilled from her eyes. Distantly, she felt Angel’s hand on her arm.
The figure began a slow, staggered procession toward her. He said, “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you? You
think it’s coincidence, your being here?”
“Not you,” she whimpered, her voice thick with tears.
The figure halted. He raised his pale green eyes to hers. She saw a measure of defiance there beneath the badly mauled
features of his face as he came closer to her. The rest of the world faded and fell away, until, to her, only they remained,
frozen in a circle of recognition and disbelief. She felt her knife slip from her fingers and fall useless between her feet.
“Into each generation a Slayer is born, one girl in all the world…” he said. “But you already know this. Don’t you, Buffy?”
“Ripper,” Angel said with a snarl, speaking before she could answer. A heartbeat later an Initiative soldier bashed in the
back of Angel’s head.
Ripper’s grin was lop-sided and monstrous under the mask of his scars. Buffy stood before him - alone, defenseless, guileless
and afraid. The Watcher took a final lumbering step toward her.
“I shouldn’t have come back,” Buffy muttered, turning away from the grostequery that had once been her Watcher. “I
shouldn’t have…”
Giles tilted his head forward in a fatherly way. “Well, Buffy,” he said. “I guess you should have thought of that sooner.”
Buffy looked up as Giles’ glasses caught a sudden patterned flash of light reflected in both lenses. She recalled her
sleepwalking dream from the rooftop, so long ago…
Giles placed a ruined hand on her shoulder, and she recoiled.
“Welcome Back Buffy Summers,” Ripper said.
“A galaxy of ‘No,’” Buffy said.
“No?” Angel countered.
Everyone else gave a collected sigh of exasperation.
“Why ‘no’ now?” Xander asked, gripping the edge of the war room table, as if his knees were giving out on him because he
had been standing there a long time, because, in fact, he had. Everyone – Fred and Wes, Tara and Willow, Xander and Anya,
Cordy and Angel – opted to take this meeting standing up, which Buffy found particularly straining because her feet had
begun to swell, which was not swell at all.
Buffy, who had been standing just as long as Xander, thought he was being overly dramatic, answered, “Tara stays behind.”
Now it was Willow’s turn to shout – and why not? – everyone else had. “Buffy, you have no right…” she yelled.
“It’s my mission,” Buffy began.
“One for which you asked our help,” Cordelia snapped. She hovered in the doorway, Connor bouncing on her hip, so that she
could keep an eye on Dawn who had taken up a twitchy, staggered pacing in the lobby ever since they dragged her from her
spookily life-like drawing in the courtyard.
“Besides,” Willow cut in before Buffy could speak, “Tara should go. She owes them.”
“Precisely my point,” Buffy said evenly. “Everyone who goes has to remain objective, or The Coven will spin us so fast...”
“Lived it,” Willow said. “We know what they can do. So if Tara stays, I stay.”
Buffy sagged. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but had sorta known it would. Buffy needed Willow; Willow knew it. Going
without out her would be like traveling back in time and intentionally booking tickets on the Titanic. In short: disaster.
Buffy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Fine,” she hissed. “Tara goes.”
Willow danced a triumphant jig, which Buffy felt unnecessary and inappropriate, given that Willow had signed her speechless
girlfriend up for a possible suicide mission.
“But,” Buffy went on, “she goes with Xander and Anya after you and Wes have established contact with Margot and
Ariadne.”
“Agreed,” Willow and Xander said in accord.
“Then that leaves Dawn here with Cordelia and Connor,” Buffy said.
“No!” Angel said, which produced an even greater ripple of protest than Buffy’s objection to Tara.
“What?” Cordelia asked. “I thought we agreed it was best that Dawn remain behind.”
Angel shoved away from the table. “We did,” he said. “But you’re not staying here.”
“Ah,” Xander said, knowingly. He glanced at Wes, who nodded, and Buffy felt a wave of loathing at how tight-knit they
were. Tight-knit, and smug about it.
“The Halliwell’s,” Wes said, brow arched. Fred and Cordelia squealed enthusiastically.
“It’s perfect,” Fred exclaimed. “Circle of Enduring Protection, a Book of Shadows in the attic, and a white-lighter. Plus,
Piper’s expecting…”
“Who cares about that?” Cordelia gushed. “Phoebe has the best collection of designer shoes and handbags west of Topeka.
Feature me there.” She looked around at the assembled group and guiltily added, “Us. Feature us there.”
Buffy raised her hand. “Um, hello? The Halliwell’s? Is this some kind of mystical department store?”
“They’re the Charmed Ones. They live in San Francisco. Cordy and Connor can’t stay here alone. If Gunn attacks while we’
re gone,” Angel began, but trailed off, as if speaking it was too much for him to bear. Because it was.
Buffy glanced from Angel to Cordelia and felt a deep pang of longing; not for Angel, those embers had long died down. But
they did remind her of her life back in London - her William, her Dawn, her family. Buffy promised herself that she would tell
Angel that she understood his anxiety. She knew how much Angel stood to lose by helping her, and she wouldn’t forget it.
“So it’s settled,” Angel said decisively. “We’ll leave at nightfall. Buffy and I will take Wesley’s boat up the coastline. We
should arrive behind the compound before dawn.”
Wesley nodded along. “Meanwhile Willow, Fred and I will establish a base in the sewers under the old Magic Box,” he said.
“Once we’ve contacted your witches, Willow will signal for Xander, Anya and Tara to join us.”
As a plan, Buffy found it loose and generally iffy. They had Gunn’s reconnaissance of Sunnydale, but it was out-dated by
three years. Willow possessed some hard schematics she’d managed to steal by hacking into TriadCorp’s mainframes, but
even these felt fallible.
But at least they had a plan.
“Good,” Buffy said. “Can we eat before we go? I’m ravenous.”
“Ditto the ravenous,” Willow agreed. As the lot of them hastened to leave the war room, talking animatedly about their
plans, Dawn drifted among them, dancing lithely on her bare toes. She turned a floaty pirouette and came face to face with
Buffy.
With an enigmatic smile on her lips, Dawn said, “I’m the Key. Remember?”
Buffy felt her heart in her throat. “I remember,” she said.
Dawn kissed her sister’s eyelids, first one, and then the other. “Don’t forget, okay?” she whispered. “Tell Buffy. But don’t
let Andrew know.”
Ed Busby never had a job so cinchy. Red-head was a canny lass; brunette was lush hottie and wore get-ups he’d seen in the
pages of Razzle. Plus, they paid cash, up front, dollar bills American, and he charged them extra to cover the exchange rate.
All he need do, says they, was drive his panel truck and ask no questions. Just like a Bond flick. No barney, no probs.
Only hitch was the cargo. Cacky, it seemed. Gave him the right willies. Three pine boxes, it was. Like something out of an
American horror movie starring Gary Oldman. Questions – he had. His restraint in keeping to their terms had to be none
short of remarkable.
On the eve of December 5th, Ed piloted the truck north and west out of London proper. Night before, he’d met them at
Gatwick, had their delibs, and they had engaged his services. Red-head pressed a square white envelope full of ker-ching
into his hand, promising an equal amount upon arrival at their destination.
As he passed out of the city and into ’burbs, Busby began to feel the squicks. He wanted to be quit of this gig and in the
pub, ASAP, where he would relate to his mates the peculiar particulars of his latest score over a round of pints paid for by
yours truly.
Red-head, who rode shotgun, pointed and said, “Take a left on Meteor and drive past the park about a mile.”
Busby did, and rolled the truck down a narrow divided lane lined with red-brick row houses divided up into flats. This was one
of the old neighborhoods that had been nicely done up in the 90s to accommodate middle-to-uppers, artists, university
students, and the like. Good digs, if you could get them.
Busby thought perhaps the pine boxes in back contained works of art, yeah. Statuary. Except that did not account for
Barbarella standing guard in back.
The truck grumbled past the park, which was choked with brown weeds and looked more like a graveyard with its fence lined
with vigil candles and pics of MIAs, all faded and blown to tatters, which gave Busby the chills.
Red-head kept her eyes on the road ahead. Without looking at him, she said, “We’re at 2319. You’ll want to pull up to the
front walk, close as you can get.”
Busby found the addy, and sidled up behind an emerald green Volvo parked out front.
“Here’s the place, madam,” he said, pulling his bill cap from his head and swabbing his inordinately sweaty brow with a
questionable handkerchief. “That’ll be my eleven-hundred.”
“Wait,” Red-head said. She opened the sliding panel above her head to address her dark-haired friend. “Faith,” she said.
“We’re here.”
He heard the other respond with, “Call Buffy. We can’t move ’til sundown.”
“Sundown?” Busby interrupted, feeling alarm like a whole orange shoved in his gullet. “Nobody said nothing ’bout sundown.”
The women ignored him. Red said, “It’s late enough.”
“No, Willow. Too risky,” the other replied.
Willow, Faith, Buffy. No way they was real names. And Busby began to suspect he was neck-deep in dealings nefarious.
Red-head sat still a moment, thinking. Busby thought she smelled nice, like fresh baking things, and felt a fool for believing
her to be involved in anything less than capitol. After a bit, she pulled a phone from her pocket and speed-dialed a number.
Busby and the one called Faith watched intently as she waited for an answer.
“Xander,” she said. Another a. k. a. most like, thought Busby. “Yes. Yes, it’s Willow,” she said, excitedly. “It’s good to
hear your voice, too. Look, I need to speak with Buffy. It’s imp-”
Red-head glanced at the other. “Well, when will she be back?” she asked.
Silence.
“How long?”
Pause.
“Weeks? But how?”
Dark-haired lass said, “Willow, what’s up?”
Willow responded with a brisk slashing gesture, which Dark-haired girl did not appreciate, not one bit.
Willow went on. “Xander, I need you to do something for me, okay? You trust me, right?”
Pause.
“Good. I need you to open the door. We’re right outside. – Yes! – On the street. Open the door, and let us in… Yeah, that’s
it.” She laughed, a pretty noise like breaking glass. “Just let us in.”
One called Faith motioned to Busby. “You,” she barked. “Up-n-att’m. We got cargo to move, and it’s gotta be quick.”
Red-head was sliding from the seat and running, seemed like, before even touching ground. Ed’s heart was in his throat as
he popped the lock in back and slid the door up. Faith shoved the wooden box at him.
“Take it!” she ordered.
Next thing, he was jogging along, carting this giant wood box up the front walk of a red-brick row house. Boy inside the
house flung open the front door, but just before entering, Red-head stopped. She held out her hand for Busby and Faith to
halt, which they did.
Then, bowing her head to the box, she whispered, all tender-like, “Thellian Ventrusca, I invite you inside.”
Busby and Faith carried the crate into the entry hall, passed the American boy, this Xander kid, who appeared to have had
his stomach pulled out through his nostrils.
“No no no no NO!” Xander shouted. “Willow, what have you done?”
Red-head briefly met his eye, and then made sure that Busby got the crate settled.
Ignoring the American boy, Red-head lay her hand on Busby’s arm. She said, “Two to go. Let’s move.”
“Two?” Xander yelled. “Willow, no!”
Xander put himself between the girls and the door. One called Faith shot out an arm like a whip, pinning him to the wall by his
throat. Ed felt bad for the boy, but felt worse for his own neck should he run astray of the lasses in charge.
Faith turned her pretty face to Ed’s. “Hey,” she barked. “Lady said move.”
“Right,” Ed said. And he followed Red-head out to the truck to fetch the second crate.
Angel anchored Wesley’s boat, playfully christened the SS Minnow by Fred, to which Wes had taken great offense, outside a
cave once used by pirates for smuggling. They rowed ashore in an inflatable raft to a strip of sandy beach much utilized for
parties by fraternal organizations of both human and demon denomination.
Neither Buffy nor Angel had much in the way of weapons, and had even less in the way of conversation. Buffy had four
stakes and a 14-inch ceremonial Pakistani dagger. Angel had fangs, claws, and a double-headed battleaxe, which he slung
across his back as they climbed the bluff overlooking the beach. Buffy had a pack containing flares, a radio, and fruit snacks
because Buffy got the pregnancy shakes any time her blood sugar dropped. Which seemed like always.
They climbed steadily along a slick rock path toward the hazy sodium-arc lights that marked the seaward side of the
TriadCorp military compound.
“How much time ’til sunrise?” Buffy whispered.
Angel sniffed the air. “An hour.”
She hauled herself over a boulder, using a tuft of grass as a tether. Angel followed, she noted, with much less fatigue.
“We’ll have to find one of the sewer entrances,” she said, trying hard not to sound out of breath. “Hole up there ’til
nightfall.”
“Here,” he said, taking a seat on the cool, flat surface of the boulder they just mounted. “Take a break.”
Buffy pushed on. “No, Angel. We don’t have time.”
He glanced up. “We have time.”
She tottered slightly, then gave in. “Fine,” she said, tugging her pack into her lap. “Fruit snack?”
“Pass.”
Buffy spilled the packets into her lap. To her chagrin it was too dark in their nook of the path to read the labels. She wanted
raspberry; she came away with peach. With a shrug, she ate them anyway.
“Who’s Andrew?” Angel asked.
Buffy chewed thoughtfully. “He’s my Dawn’s best friend. Kind of a Watcher-in-Training. This Dawn never met him, far as I
know.”
“There’s a connection between this Dawn and your Dawn,” he said.
“I know it,” Buffy said. “I just don’t know what it means.”
Buffy couldn’t read Angel. He annoyingly did not breathe, and so gave nothing away. His features were obscured by lack of
light. She decided to change the subject.
“I wanted to thank…”
He stood up abruptly. “Don’t do that, okay. You ready?”
“Uh,” she stammered. “I guess?”
“Good.” He extended his hand to her. She zipped her pack, re-slung it, and got to her feet without his help.
In minutes, they managed to scale the remaining 30 feet to the crest of the bluff. Buffy scrambled gracelessly over the
muddy ridge, grabbing fists of grass to aid her. She rolled onto her back as Angel climbed up beside her. She got to her feet
and walked a few yards before the grisly scene on the hillside caused her knees to liquefy beneath her.
Two crosses stood in stark silhouette against the harsh nimbus of the sodium-arc lights. Buffy crumpled at the foot of the
first, and she knew. Even before looking at his face, she knew. She raised her eyes to the level of the dead man’s chest
where a wooden placard swung from a rusting chain. On the placard was one word in Latin: TRADITOR.
“Traitor,” Angel said, needlessly translating.
“No,” Buffy muttered. Her gorge rose. She got clumsily to her feet.
“Buffy,” Angel said, his tone filled with dread. “The other one…”
“No,” Buffy said again, swiping tears from her eyes. She whipped her knife from her belt and started toward the first cross.
At its base, she finally braved a look at his face. It was the bruised, pulpy, bloated yellow of the several days dead. Seabirds
had pecked out his eyes and torn away the tender flesh of his eyelids and ears. Several fingers had been hacked from his
splayed hands. They had tortured him.
Buffy looked down at her feet; she still wore his wife’s running shoes.
And she knew. Buffy knew. This was because of her.
“Buffy,” Angel called. “It’s Spike.”
Buffy turned to face the second cross. Angel stood glaring up at the unconscious form of his childe and former nemesis.
This spurred her to action.
“Cut him down,” she ordered as she hoisted herself up the base of the first cross. “Spike’s still alive, or he’d be dust. They’
ve staked him out for sunrise…”
“No! Buffy! Leave them,” Angel shouted. “It’s a trap. They’ll take it as a sign we’ve been here.”
Buffy dropped to the hard-packed ground. She didn’t bother to conceal the note of desperation in her voice as she said,
“Angel, they know. This might as well be a bright orange banner that reads ‘Welcome Back Buffy Summers’. Now cut Spike
down and I’ll get Dr. Kriegel. We may have time to get them back to the boat before…”
“I’d say decidedly not.”
The voice that drifted from the shadows penetrated Buffy’s heart like a sliver of ice. She knew that voice, so distinguished
and proper, but it couldn’t be…
In the next moments several things occurred at once. Armed Initiative soldiers ringed Angel and Buffy, materializing as if
from the mist. A figure lurched toward them, leaning heavily on a polished black cane that glinted with every forward step.
Buffy glanced at Angel, signaling a retreat. He responded with a curt shake of his head. They were surrounded.
The figure came to rest between the crosses, with several meters distance from Buffy. His mangled left hand rested on the
ball of his cane. A breeze ruffled his sandy hair, but his features remained lost beneath a mask of shadow.
“Your sister made this capture stunningly simple,” the figure said. “The Coven sees what she sees. The trick is really… quite
ingenious.”
Buffy was shaking her head. The figure took another lurching step forward.
“Stop,” she said. Tears spilled from her eyes. Distantly, she felt Angel’s hand on her arm.
The figure began a slow, staggered procession toward her. He said, “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you? You
think it’s coincidence, your being here?”
“Not you,” she whimpered, her voice thick with tears.
The figure halted. He raised his pale green eyes to hers. She saw a measure of defiance there beneath the badly mauled
features of his face as he came closer to her. The rest of the world faded and fell away, until, to her, only they remained,
frozen in a circle of recognition and disbelief. She felt her knife slip from her fingers and fall useless between her feet.
“Into each generation a Slayer is born, one girl in all the world…” he said. “But you already know this. Don’t you, Buffy?”
“Ripper,” Angel said with a snarl, speaking before she could answer. A heartbeat later an Initiative soldier bashed in the
back of Angel’s head.
Ripper’s grin was lop-sided and monstrous under the mask of his scars. Buffy stood before him - alone, defenseless, guileless
and afraid. The Watcher took a final lumbering step toward her.
“I shouldn’t have come back,” Buffy muttered, turning away from the grostequery that had once been her Watcher. “I
shouldn’t have…”
Giles tilted his head forward in a fatherly way. “Well, Buffy,” he said. “I guess you should have thought of that sooner.”
Buffy looked up as Giles’ glasses caught a sudden patterned flash of light reflected in both lenses. She recalled her
sleepwalking dream from the rooftop, so long ago…
Giles placed a ruined hand on her shoulder, and she recoiled.
“Welcome Back Buffy Summers,” Ripper said.
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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
Author's Note:
This chapter features a mention
of the Halliwell sisters from
Charmed, but it's not meant as a
reference for any future
crossover. Back when I watched
both Angel and Charmed, I
frequently thought about how
neat a crossover episode would
be. Team Angel could chase a
marauding demon or witch into
Halliwell territory, or vice versa,
and the egos of Piper and Angel
could be ruffled in equal
measure. So much fun could be
had! Ah well...
So my disclaimer today must also
include Brad Kern as well as Joss
Whedon. This is for fun and fun
alone. Charmed belongs to Kern.
Buffy, Angel, etc. belong to
Whedon.
Maya Rose, Luxe, Thellian
Ventrusca, etc. are mine,
though they keep trying to
wriggle away.
This chapter features a mention
of the Halliwell sisters from
Charmed, but it's not meant as a
reference for any future
crossover. Back when I watched
both Angel and Charmed, I
frequently thought about how
neat a crossover episode would
be. Team Angel could chase a
marauding demon or witch into
Halliwell territory, or vice versa,
and the egos of Piper and Angel
could be ruffled in equal
measure. So much fun could be
had! Ah well...
So my disclaimer today must also
include Brad Kern as well as Joss
Whedon. This is for fun and fun
alone. Charmed belongs to Kern.
Buffy, Angel, etc. belong to
Whedon.
Maya Rose, Luxe, Thellian
Ventrusca, etc. are mine,
though they keep trying to
wriggle away.