Pursuit
8:32 a.m.
5 December
London
Dawn had left the house in blind rage, but once she realized how icy it was, she got hold of herself and began to formulate a
plan for finding Andrew. She remembered that when he’d been upset before, she found him at the ATS vault beneath the
Watcher’s Council building.
She checked there first: Nada.
Next, Dawn looked in at McBride’s Heroes. McBride was there, was surprised and mildly embarrassed to see her, because he
knew she used to hang out in the stacks with Augie, and well, comic book geeks who aren’t used to getting action had a
tendency to boast when they did. However, McBride admitted that he had not seen Andrew in a week or so.
Dawn paused at the corner, unsure which direction to take. It was December 5th, just over one month since ‘The Rapture’
as They were calling it. Every street corner, every newspaper box, every storefront contained flowers, cards, candles and
stuffed toys. People set up vigils for those who had disappeared. Others tacked flyers to utility poles – Have you seen this
person?
The world was only beginning to understand the magnitude of its loss. Dawn had heard an NPR bulletin that estimated one-
third of the world’s population had vanished – poof! – just like that.
Nobody knew where they went, Dawn thought with a sardonic smile. The straggling business folk, their newspapers tucked
under their arms, the A. M. crowd packed in at Logan’s Coffee - they speculated about what happened over their lattes and
scones and biscotti, yet none of them knew what really happened.
But she did.
Dawn felt that was the defining condition of her life: being on the outside, looking in. Was she so unlike them? Today she was
simply searching for someone she’d lost…
Dawn’s eyes rolled back. She swayed sideways, and a man who passed by wearing a gray wool coat steadied her.
“What you doing out, wivout a proper coat?” the man asked, gently. He held her at arm’s length to look her over. “And
decent shoes, at that. It’s 2 degrees above.”
Dawn blinked. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, lass. Love is the golden thread that ties our hearts and souls together,” he said. “You know who said that?”
Dawn shrugged. Taking a stab at it, she said, “Winston Churchill?”
“A worthy guess,” the man said with a laugh. “Was Mother Theresa what said it.”
With a tight grin, Dawn shoved her hands in her pockets, and then realized a moment too late that she’d seemed impatient
and ungrateful to the man. He was kind to her, and she’d brushed him off.
The man continued to watch her with an unfaltering smile. “Get home,” he chided. The ‘Don’t Walk’ sign switched from red
to white. He hurried through the crosswalk.
“I’m trying,” Dawn said. She closed her eyes again, and thought of Andrew.
11:41 a.m.
5 December
Andrew tried to get home. Really, really tried.
Halfway there, he found his path blocked by the following tableau:
One dark alley, the filthy, smells-like-boiled-cabbages kind. One traffic barricade, its amber warning light flashing burnt-
orange on count of a smear of dried blood. Andrew had sniffed it to make sure, and yep, blood. One group of four shabbily
dressed men huddled beside a dumpster, bouncing in unison on the balls of their feet, their backs to the street. Andrew did
not smell them; didn’t need to. They smelled like urine and sulfur – a bad combination no matter which way you encountered
it.
That was not the truly disturbing part, not in the least. What the four men held between them – and more importantly – what
they were doing with it: that was the disturbing part.
Really, Andrew saw no point in squeezing past them. Also, he felt that backtracking might draw their attention. Therefore
he stayed put, partially concealed behind an upturned sofa, where he watched as the men cheerfully devoured the flesh from
the upper thigh of a severed female leg.
Andrew considered his best chance might be inching away over the course of an hour. Hopefully, that would give him time to
get back to the alley entrance where he could bolt like the madman he surely would be at that time and warn Dawn about
what he’d seen, without giving the men enough time to finish their feast and find flank of Andrew Wells on the menu. He had
lost enough appendages, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. He was still a long way from his alley entrance when Dawn walked into the
opposite end, and shouted, brightly, “Oh my God. Andrew! I found you!”
He made a swift ‘silence, you fool’ gesture, but it was not quick enough. The flesh eaters turned their milky eyes to Dawn.
She screamed. Then, she did something completely different: She darted down the alley, skirting the monsters, and,
catching Andrew’s arm, hauled him at a run to his side of the alley.
They burst onto the sidewalk beyond, hung a hasty left and ran. The few people on the sidewalk ahead of them scattered
from their path. Andrew and Dawn cut through the corner of an open-air forecourt, and when they did, Andrew crashed
into a display of citrus fruit, spilling them and him into the roadway in a spectrum of orange, green, and yellow fruit and ash-
gray sweats. Andrew scrambled to his feet with Dawn behind him, and they continued to dash down the sidewalk, causing
quite a stir in the lookers-on who peeked out of the forecourt to gawk at them.
Andrew began to scream hysterically as they ran, and then, realizing this, he began to laugh uncontrollably until his sides
hurt and his eyes streamed with tears. He and Dawn had the same idea to cross at the corner of Clarendon and High
Streets, heedless of the interchange signs, and were nearly flattened by oncoming traffic.
At the opposite corner, Dawn took his hand. They plunged through a crowd who gathered in vigil outside St. Phillip’s Church,
scattering pamphlets and at least one collection box, then turned left again, leapt the low iron fence, and darted into the
park. Dawn hit the grass embankment, twisted her ankle and slid, pulling Andrew with her, all the way to the trough of a
steep-sided ditch, where they tumbled together in a sweating, panting heap.
After a bit, Andrew said, “Well…” he panted. “I think we lost them.”
“What the Hell were they?”
“Zombies,” Andrew said.
“No, don’t say that,” Dawn said.
“What? Because it’s ridiculous? Because we’re not using the zed word?” Andrew asked bitterly.
Dawn sat up, glancing watchfully around, which renewed Andrew’s nervousness, and he began casting about as well. “No,”
she said. “They were humans, but the demon-possessed kind. Remember? From the Watcher’s Codex?”
Andrew nodded. “No?” he said.
“Think,” she ordered. “They’re the ones that take control of human hosts. The Shalom?”
Andrew’s brow furrowed, but he found he could focus with her beside him. It was easier to be brave. Then, with a sudden
jolt, he remembered all that had passed since he left this morning.
“Dawn,” he said. He stared hard at her, and found it completely impossible to speak.
Dawn seemed to read his thoughts. “Shut up. I love you, okay?” Dawn said. “What are they called?”
Andrew colored, but shortly recovered his wits.
“Um, you’re thinking Shedim,” he said. “According to Christian mythology, they’re the fallen Kyriotates, which are – were –
angels. A Shedite inhabits a human host and corrupts them with their foulness. Kind of like a Duran Duran fan at a Josh
Groban concert.”
Dawn smirked. She gave in to her temptation to tease him. “Andrew. Josh Groban?”
“He’s the virtuoso of his generation!” Andrew whined. He crossed his arms. “It’s his destiny to be under-appreciated in his
lifetime.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Andrew...” she said. “You dork.”
He bowed his head, smiling. “Earlier,” he said. “What Xander said – I didn’t believe him.”
Dawn breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “You didn’t,” she said.
Andrew stared at her with a longing intensity that finally made her blush uncomfortably.
“Uh... The Shedim,” Andrew continued awkwardly. “They, um, possess a human host, defile it with revolting and unpleasant
acts of depravity. Then they vacate, leaving the host with the full memory of what they’ve done, plus the bonus of
whatever physical havoc the demons managed to wreak while they were in there,” Andrew explained.
“As in devouring a lady’s leg like it’s a 40 pound ham?” Dawn asked.
Andrew shuddered. “Imagine what they did to her before they ate her,” he said.
“Ugh. I’d rather not,” Dawn said with a sneer. “How do we stop them?”
“Exorcism. We’re talking like real life Linda Blair here. Plus, also the exorcism almost always kills the host, so...”
“They’re despicable,” Dawn said.
“They’re demons,” Andrew answered.
Dawn got to her feet. “They’re back…” she said.
Andrew stood up beside her and looked to the place on the embankment where the original four Shedim had gathered, plus a
bevy of reinforcements.
“Holy Corellia,” Andrew muttered.
Dawn gripped his hand in hers. “We have to get back to the Flat. We can alert the Council and the Slayers from there,” she
said. “Do you know the way?”
Truth was, he hadn’t a clue. This was a part of town with which he was not familiar. But he had his girl by his side, and as
the Shedim began to try sliding down the grass embankment toward them, Andrew closed his eyes and picked a direction.
“That way,” he said, pointing to the right, which would lead them along the ditch, up a culvert and back onto the High
Street.
One of the Shedim tumbled down the steep embankment and began to wail like a Body Snatcher that had just sighted its
prey. Actually, Andrew thought, Body Snatcher was not far from the mark. This thought broke his paralysis. He pushed Dawn
ahead of him, and together they fled, hand in hand, in the complete opposite direction of the Flat.
5:38 p.m.
5 December
Xander leaned on the wall, gingerly pressing his thumbs into the finger-shaped depressions left there by Faith.
Willow and her lackey, a chubby fellow called Busby, used a crow bar to pry open the wooden crate containing one very
ancient, very enterprising vampire. Faith had taken up guard duty, thereby dispelling any thoughts Xander had about
ramming Dawn’s carved likeness of Epona through the vampire’s chest.
Xander decided tactful conversation should be the way to go. Unfortunately, he had scored zero for the day on tactful
conversations.
Still, one had to try. He said, “Though this seems like madness, surely you both have a reasonable explanation for inviting
the world’s best-dressed mass murderer into our safe and comfortable abode?”
Busby sneered at Xander. “Want I should pop him? I won’t charge extra.”
“No,” Willow said. She passed him the crow bar and wedged her fingers under the crate’s lid. “Help me get this off.”
“With pleasure,” Busby said, leering over the lid at Xander. With Busby’s assistance, the lid came free, revealing the
seemingly sleeping Thellian inside.
“It’s a statue,” Busby crowed. “’m I right? ’S a statue?”
Willow flicked her eyes to Faith, who followed through with an elbow to the bridge of Busby’s nose. The guy did not see it
coming and stood blinking for eight seconds before toppling backward into the seldom-used parlor.
Inwardly, Xander high-fived himself for not following through with the Epona-staking maneuver. Outwardly, he took a step
away from Faith and her flying elbows.
“Let’s open the other two,” Willow said.
That was where Xander drew the line, then stepped over it. “Wait. Willow, just wait. You need to give me something here,
because here I am: In-the-Dark-Guy, and I should at the very least be Cowering-For-the-Sake-of-Knowing-Too-Much-Guy.”
Faith and Willow exchanged a glance.
“And would you stop that! The clandestine glancing: Officially annoying.”
Willow folded her arms. “Where’s Maya?” she asked.
“Okay, not much by way of an answer,” Xander said. But Willow seemed impenetrable, and Faith had fists (and other parts)
of steel, so he went along. “She’s in the basement.”
“Get her,” Willow said, coldly. “She’s involved.”
Connor and Angel crouched on the roof of a railroad car, looking down at the assemblage of demons in the grassy field
adjacent to the train yard. The sun had set, leaving a greeny twilight that smelled of river clay and the baked creosote of
railroad ties.
There were four demons, but two of them had come to a disagreement. One of them bashed the other in the face, and it fell
prone to the powdery earth. Presently, one of the demons left the group, disappearing momentarily into a dusky copse
beyond Connor’s field of vision.
“Do you feel the weapon’s presence?” Angel said in a low voice.
Connor nodded. He’d felt its power like the growing surge of a swift and terrible storm. He closed his eyes and swallowed
hard. The weapon was near; he could feel it in the discordant hum of the unsettled air. It jarred his teeth and made the
muscles in his legs and arms writhe and twist with the yearning to wield it.
“If this handful of demons is all that stands between me and it…” Connor said through clenched teeth.
“Wait a moment longer,” Angel cautioned.
Connor shook his head. “There are only two. I can take them.”
“Not yet,” his father said, and the rumble of his growl seemed to shake the world all the way to its horizon.
Angel leveled his vivid green eyes on Connor’s. He patted his son’s shoulder. “Just a moment longer, and you shall have it,
son. We’ve waited this long…”
Seeing his father’s wisdom, Connor hunkered down and waited. “We’ve waited this long,” he repeated to himself. “I can
wait awhile longer.”
5:42 p.m.
5 December
Their situation had gone from merely bothersome to quite dire. Not only were they lost, but they were also cold, and the
horde of demons pursued them with infernal tenacity. Whenever they thought they were making progress in a homeward
direction, they met the Shedim, each time in greater numbers, and now that night had fallen, both were terrified beyond
their natural wits.
Additionally, Andrew had worn a hole in his right slipper. He tried to ignore it, but with the cold and possibility of frostbite,
they had to stop every few blocks to rub feeling back into the bottom of his foot. On two occasions, they attempted to
enter a chemists to purchase socks and possibly a Toblerone, or rather steal them, as neither had any money on their
person. Both attempts had been blocked by the demon squad, or by people who at least appeared zombie-esque in their
shambling manner.
“Most of the shops have closed anyway,” Dawn said, massaging the stitch in her side.
“There are so many,” Andrew said. “How can there be so many? There’s like, a hundred.”
Dawn shook her head. “Not that many,” she assured him. “Two dozen, maybe. I dunno. What I do know is that we seem to
have made one big, giant circle. Look.”
Dawn pointed. Across the street, all buttoned down for the night, was the same garage forecourt they’d busted through
earlier.
“Oh Twizzlers,” Andrew said.
Dawn looked around. The shops and buildings blocked their line of sight. If they could just get higher…
Her eyes fell on a rickety fire escape on the wall of a stone building that abutted the silent square. “There,” she said. “If we
can get on the roof of that building…”
Andrew grinned. “We can see our house from here?”
“How’s your foot?”
“Climb-worthy,” he said. “Your ankle?”
“Ready to rock.”
“Let’s go.”
They crossed the square, stacked a series of loading pallets, climbed them and mounted the fire escape. The whole endeavor
took ten minutes, made minimal noise, but managed to attract the attention of every Shedite in a 12 block radius.
6 p.m.
5 December
“Oh, joy,” Xander said. “The Evil MC is awake. Let’s stoke up this sassy soiree, shall we? I think we still have a pint of O pos.
in the fridge from when Angel was here.”
“Xander,” Faith said. “Shut up.”
Thellian held up a hand. “It’s all right. He is the aggrieved party, after all.”
Maya had come into the kitchen with Xander, and stood behind him. Faith and Willow flanked Thellian on the opposite side of
the breakfast table. Thellian was resplendent in a cobalt robe of embroidered silk.
“Aggrieved?” Maya asked. “What’s he talking about?”
“Just… hear him out, okay,” Willow said. Xander he caught the first glint of imploring in Willow’s expression that he’d seen
in all night. Still, though Xander trusted his Willow with every last molecule of his being, he could not extend the same
allowance Thellian.
“I don’t want to hear him out,” Xander said. “Willow: meet Thellian. Y’know, the guy who orchestrated Kennedy’s death,
who turned the London Slayers into his pet brigade of blood-sucking hellspawn. In the category of Greatest Cause of
Suffering, Destruction and Death the World Has Ever Known, this guy takes the Gold. No, I don’t need to hear what he says.
What I’d like to do is make openings into his ribcage using wooden kitchen utensils.”
Faith lunged; Thellian stilled her with a smooth motion of his hand.
“You will want to hear this, Mr. Harris,” Thellian said. He inclined his head in Maya’s direction. “As it concerns Miss Rose.”
Contrary to the Maya Xander thought he knew merely ten days previous, ‘Miss Rose’ did not shrink against the basement
door, nor did she cling to him for support against Thellian’s accusation.
She stepped around Xander. “What is it that concerns me?”
Thellian’s explanation was cut short by the sudden, sharp sound of splintering wood.
Faith darted another glance at Willow. “Morna?” she asked.
Willow looked out into the hallway. Reflected in the entry hall mirror, she saw the kindling remains of Connor’s crate.
“Worse,” she said. The front door was closed, the crate blocking the exit, which meant... “Faith, he’s upstairs.”
“On it,” Faith snarled. She rushed from the kitchen and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
At first, Connor was plunging down on the demons from his perch atop the railroad car. As he fell, however, the scene
wheeled and flipped so that he was not falling but springing up through some kind of heavy wooden doorway.
Connor hurdled forward onto a black-and-white tiled entryway. He shook sawdust and splinters from his hair as he spun a
quick circle to establish his bearings.
The place felt familiar. It smelled of dusty books, crumbly plaster, and, faintly, of dried herbs and flowers. He saw a library to
his left, a parlor to his right, a door directly behind him, and the kitchen ahead. The weapon was somewhere above him. He
felt it, beckoning him. His palms burned to touch it.
In one great leap, Connor sprung from the entry hall to the second floor landing. He scrambled over the handrail, ripped the
door from its hinges and entered Buffy’s sitting room.
His father was there, his green cat’s-eyes glinting in the half-light.
“It’s here, son,” Angel said. He spread his arms with a flourish. “Right here.”
Connor felt its power. He clenched his jaws against the resonating force of it. He could not have resisted its pull now if he
wanted to.
“It’s through that door,” Angel said, gesturing to the door on the right. “Take it, and finally have your vengeance.”
Connor kicked in Buffy’s bedroom door. The room pulsated with a venous crimson glow that, when he entered it, soothed all
of his pain and sorrow and loss. Connor lifted the bed, tossing it aside as though it was made of paper.
The weapon lay there, an elegant curved silver blade on one end of its scarlet haft, a sharpened wooden stake fitted into
the other. The light radiated from The Scythe, beating as if to the rhythm of its own heart.
Connor seized it with both hands.
Faith stepped into the doorway. She watched entranced as Connor gripped the weapon and spun it between his hands.
“Connor,” she said.
He raised his eyes, and smiled.
“Try and stop me now,” he grinned. The blood-red glow of The Scythe contorted his features into a twisted mask of
malicious glee.
Behind Faith, Willow yelled, “Wait!”
But nothing could stop him. Connor had taken The Scythe and leapt to his freedom through Buffy’s second story window.
After a moment, Faith said, “Did you see that?”
Willow closed her mouth, opened it to answer, and then closed it again.
“Connor’s a boy,” Faith said.
Willow started to speak, but managed a feeble, “Heeh...”
To which Faith responded, “But Connor is a BOY. Only a Slayer can...” she trailed off.
Willow finally found words. She said, “Only a Slayer can feel the power of the Scythe.”
Thellian had stepped into the room behind Willow. Faith glanced from him, to the window and back. Simple decision, really.
Without explanation, Faith dived through the broken window, picking up where she left off in her pursuit of Connor.
8:32 a.m.
5 December
London
Dawn had left the house in blind rage, but once she realized how icy it was, she got hold of herself and began to formulate a
plan for finding Andrew. She remembered that when he’d been upset before, she found him at the ATS vault beneath the
Watcher’s Council building.
She checked there first: Nada.
Next, Dawn looked in at McBride’s Heroes. McBride was there, was surprised and mildly embarrassed to see her, because he
knew she used to hang out in the stacks with Augie, and well, comic book geeks who aren’t used to getting action had a
tendency to boast when they did. However, McBride admitted that he had not seen Andrew in a week or so.
Dawn paused at the corner, unsure which direction to take. It was December 5th, just over one month since ‘The Rapture’
as They were calling it. Every street corner, every newspaper box, every storefront contained flowers, cards, candles and
stuffed toys. People set up vigils for those who had disappeared. Others tacked flyers to utility poles – Have you seen this
person?
The world was only beginning to understand the magnitude of its loss. Dawn had heard an NPR bulletin that estimated one-
third of the world’s population had vanished – poof! – just like that.
Nobody knew where they went, Dawn thought with a sardonic smile. The straggling business folk, their newspapers tucked
under their arms, the A. M. crowd packed in at Logan’s Coffee - they speculated about what happened over their lattes and
scones and biscotti, yet none of them knew what really happened.
But she did.
Dawn felt that was the defining condition of her life: being on the outside, looking in. Was she so unlike them? Today she was
simply searching for someone she’d lost…
Dawn’s eyes rolled back. She swayed sideways, and a man who passed by wearing a gray wool coat steadied her.
“What you doing out, wivout a proper coat?” the man asked, gently. He held her at arm’s length to look her over. “And
decent shoes, at that. It’s 2 degrees above.”
Dawn blinked. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, lass. Love is the golden thread that ties our hearts and souls together,” he said. “You know who said that?”
Dawn shrugged. Taking a stab at it, she said, “Winston Churchill?”
“A worthy guess,” the man said with a laugh. “Was Mother Theresa what said it.”
With a tight grin, Dawn shoved her hands in her pockets, and then realized a moment too late that she’d seemed impatient
and ungrateful to the man. He was kind to her, and she’d brushed him off.
The man continued to watch her with an unfaltering smile. “Get home,” he chided. The ‘Don’t Walk’ sign switched from red
to white. He hurried through the crosswalk.
“I’m trying,” Dawn said. She closed her eyes again, and thought of Andrew.
11:41 a.m.
5 December
Andrew tried to get home. Really, really tried.
Halfway there, he found his path blocked by the following tableau:
One dark alley, the filthy, smells-like-boiled-cabbages kind. One traffic barricade, its amber warning light flashing burnt-
orange on count of a smear of dried blood. Andrew had sniffed it to make sure, and yep, blood. One group of four shabbily
dressed men huddled beside a dumpster, bouncing in unison on the balls of their feet, their backs to the street. Andrew did
not smell them; didn’t need to. They smelled like urine and sulfur – a bad combination no matter which way you encountered
it.
That was not the truly disturbing part, not in the least. What the four men held between them – and more importantly – what
they were doing with it: that was the disturbing part.
Really, Andrew saw no point in squeezing past them. Also, he felt that backtracking might draw their attention. Therefore
he stayed put, partially concealed behind an upturned sofa, where he watched as the men cheerfully devoured the flesh from
the upper thigh of a severed female leg.
Andrew considered his best chance might be inching away over the course of an hour. Hopefully, that would give him time to
get back to the alley entrance where he could bolt like the madman he surely would be at that time and warn Dawn about
what he’d seen, without giving the men enough time to finish their feast and find flank of Andrew Wells on the menu. He had
lost enough appendages, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. He was still a long way from his alley entrance when Dawn walked into the
opposite end, and shouted, brightly, “Oh my God. Andrew! I found you!”
He made a swift ‘silence, you fool’ gesture, but it was not quick enough. The flesh eaters turned their milky eyes to Dawn.
She screamed. Then, she did something completely different: She darted down the alley, skirting the monsters, and,
catching Andrew’s arm, hauled him at a run to his side of the alley.
They burst onto the sidewalk beyond, hung a hasty left and ran. The few people on the sidewalk ahead of them scattered
from their path. Andrew and Dawn cut through the corner of an open-air forecourt, and when they did, Andrew crashed
into a display of citrus fruit, spilling them and him into the roadway in a spectrum of orange, green, and yellow fruit and ash-
gray sweats. Andrew scrambled to his feet with Dawn behind him, and they continued to dash down the sidewalk, causing
quite a stir in the lookers-on who peeked out of the forecourt to gawk at them.
Andrew began to scream hysterically as they ran, and then, realizing this, he began to laugh uncontrollably until his sides
hurt and his eyes streamed with tears. He and Dawn had the same idea to cross at the corner of Clarendon and High
Streets, heedless of the interchange signs, and were nearly flattened by oncoming traffic.
At the opposite corner, Dawn took his hand. They plunged through a crowd who gathered in vigil outside St. Phillip’s Church,
scattering pamphlets and at least one collection box, then turned left again, leapt the low iron fence, and darted into the
park. Dawn hit the grass embankment, twisted her ankle and slid, pulling Andrew with her, all the way to the trough of a
steep-sided ditch, where they tumbled together in a sweating, panting heap.
After a bit, Andrew said, “Well…” he panted. “I think we lost them.”
“What the Hell were they?”
“Zombies,” Andrew said.
“No, don’t say that,” Dawn said.
“What? Because it’s ridiculous? Because we’re not using the zed word?” Andrew asked bitterly.
Dawn sat up, glancing watchfully around, which renewed Andrew’s nervousness, and he began casting about as well. “No,”
she said. “They were humans, but the demon-possessed kind. Remember? From the Watcher’s Codex?”
Andrew nodded. “No?” he said.
“Think,” she ordered. “They’re the ones that take control of human hosts. The Shalom?”
Andrew’s brow furrowed, but he found he could focus with her beside him. It was easier to be brave. Then, with a sudden
jolt, he remembered all that had passed since he left this morning.
“Dawn,” he said. He stared hard at her, and found it completely impossible to speak.
Dawn seemed to read his thoughts. “Shut up. I love you, okay?” Dawn said. “What are they called?”
Andrew colored, but shortly recovered his wits.
“Um, you’re thinking Shedim,” he said. “According to Christian mythology, they’re the fallen Kyriotates, which are – were –
angels. A Shedite inhabits a human host and corrupts them with their foulness. Kind of like a Duran Duran fan at a Josh
Groban concert.”
Dawn smirked. She gave in to her temptation to tease him. “Andrew. Josh Groban?”
“He’s the virtuoso of his generation!” Andrew whined. He crossed his arms. “It’s his destiny to be under-appreciated in his
lifetime.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Andrew...” she said. “You dork.”
He bowed his head, smiling. “Earlier,” he said. “What Xander said – I didn’t believe him.”
Dawn breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “You didn’t,” she said.
Andrew stared at her with a longing intensity that finally made her blush uncomfortably.
“Uh... The Shedim,” Andrew continued awkwardly. “They, um, possess a human host, defile it with revolting and unpleasant
acts of depravity. Then they vacate, leaving the host with the full memory of what they’ve done, plus the bonus of
whatever physical havoc the demons managed to wreak while they were in there,” Andrew explained.
“As in devouring a lady’s leg like it’s a 40 pound ham?” Dawn asked.
Andrew shuddered. “Imagine what they did to her before they ate her,” he said.
“Ugh. I’d rather not,” Dawn said with a sneer. “How do we stop them?”
“Exorcism. We’re talking like real life Linda Blair here. Plus, also the exorcism almost always kills the host, so...”
“They’re despicable,” Dawn said.
“They’re demons,” Andrew answered.
Dawn got to her feet. “They’re back…” she said.
Andrew stood up beside her and looked to the place on the embankment where the original four Shedim had gathered, plus a
bevy of reinforcements.
“Holy Corellia,” Andrew muttered.
Dawn gripped his hand in hers. “We have to get back to the Flat. We can alert the Council and the Slayers from there,” she
said. “Do you know the way?”
Truth was, he hadn’t a clue. This was a part of town with which he was not familiar. But he had his girl by his side, and as
the Shedim began to try sliding down the grass embankment toward them, Andrew closed his eyes and picked a direction.
“That way,” he said, pointing to the right, which would lead them along the ditch, up a culvert and back onto the High
Street.
One of the Shedim tumbled down the steep embankment and began to wail like a Body Snatcher that had just sighted its
prey. Actually, Andrew thought, Body Snatcher was not far from the mark. This thought broke his paralysis. He pushed Dawn
ahead of him, and together they fled, hand in hand, in the complete opposite direction of the Flat.
5:38 p.m.
5 December
Xander leaned on the wall, gingerly pressing his thumbs into the finger-shaped depressions left there by Faith.
Willow and her lackey, a chubby fellow called Busby, used a crow bar to pry open the wooden crate containing one very
ancient, very enterprising vampire. Faith had taken up guard duty, thereby dispelling any thoughts Xander had about
ramming Dawn’s carved likeness of Epona through the vampire’s chest.
Xander decided tactful conversation should be the way to go. Unfortunately, he had scored zero for the day on tactful
conversations.
Still, one had to try. He said, “Though this seems like madness, surely you both have a reasonable explanation for inviting
the world’s best-dressed mass murderer into our safe and comfortable abode?”
Busby sneered at Xander. “Want I should pop him? I won’t charge extra.”
“No,” Willow said. She passed him the crow bar and wedged her fingers under the crate’s lid. “Help me get this off.”
“With pleasure,” Busby said, leering over the lid at Xander. With Busby’s assistance, the lid came free, revealing the
seemingly sleeping Thellian inside.
“It’s a statue,” Busby crowed. “’m I right? ’S a statue?”
Willow flicked her eyes to Faith, who followed through with an elbow to the bridge of Busby’s nose. The guy did not see it
coming and stood blinking for eight seconds before toppling backward into the seldom-used parlor.
Inwardly, Xander high-fived himself for not following through with the Epona-staking maneuver. Outwardly, he took a step
away from Faith and her flying elbows.
“Let’s open the other two,” Willow said.
That was where Xander drew the line, then stepped over it. “Wait. Willow, just wait. You need to give me something here,
because here I am: In-the-Dark-Guy, and I should at the very least be Cowering-For-the-Sake-of-Knowing-Too-Much-Guy.”
Faith and Willow exchanged a glance.
“And would you stop that! The clandestine glancing: Officially annoying.”
Willow folded her arms. “Where’s Maya?” she asked.
“Okay, not much by way of an answer,” Xander said. But Willow seemed impenetrable, and Faith had fists (and other parts)
of steel, so he went along. “She’s in the basement.”
“Get her,” Willow said, coldly. “She’s involved.”
Connor and Angel crouched on the roof of a railroad car, looking down at the assemblage of demons in the grassy field
adjacent to the train yard. The sun had set, leaving a greeny twilight that smelled of river clay and the baked creosote of
railroad ties.
There were four demons, but two of them had come to a disagreement. One of them bashed the other in the face, and it fell
prone to the powdery earth. Presently, one of the demons left the group, disappearing momentarily into a dusky copse
beyond Connor’s field of vision.
“Do you feel the weapon’s presence?” Angel said in a low voice.
Connor nodded. He’d felt its power like the growing surge of a swift and terrible storm. He closed his eyes and swallowed
hard. The weapon was near; he could feel it in the discordant hum of the unsettled air. It jarred his teeth and made the
muscles in his legs and arms writhe and twist with the yearning to wield it.
“If this handful of demons is all that stands between me and it…” Connor said through clenched teeth.
“Wait a moment longer,” Angel cautioned.
Connor shook his head. “There are only two. I can take them.”
“Not yet,” his father said, and the rumble of his growl seemed to shake the world all the way to its horizon.
Angel leveled his vivid green eyes on Connor’s. He patted his son’s shoulder. “Just a moment longer, and you shall have it,
son. We’ve waited this long…”
Seeing his father’s wisdom, Connor hunkered down and waited. “We’ve waited this long,” he repeated to himself. “I can
wait awhile longer.”
5:42 p.m.
5 December
Their situation had gone from merely bothersome to quite dire. Not only were they lost, but they were also cold, and the
horde of demons pursued them with infernal tenacity. Whenever they thought they were making progress in a homeward
direction, they met the Shedim, each time in greater numbers, and now that night had fallen, both were terrified beyond
their natural wits.
Additionally, Andrew had worn a hole in his right slipper. He tried to ignore it, but with the cold and possibility of frostbite,
they had to stop every few blocks to rub feeling back into the bottom of his foot. On two occasions, they attempted to
enter a chemists to purchase socks and possibly a Toblerone, or rather steal them, as neither had any money on their
person. Both attempts had been blocked by the demon squad, or by people who at least appeared zombie-esque in their
shambling manner.
“Most of the shops have closed anyway,” Dawn said, massaging the stitch in her side.
“There are so many,” Andrew said. “How can there be so many? There’s like, a hundred.”
Dawn shook her head. “Not that many,” she assured him. “Two dozen, maybe. I dunno. What I do know is that we seem to
have made one big, giant circle. Look.”
Dawn pointed. Across the street, all buttoned down for the night, was the same garage forecourt they’d busted through
earlier.
“Oh Twizzlers,” Andrew said.
Dawn looked around. The shops and buildings blocked their line of sight. If they could just get higher…
Her eyes fell on a rickety fire escape on the wall of a stone building that abutted the silent square. “There,” she said. “If we
can get on the roof of that building…”
Andrew grinned. “We can see our house from here?”
“How’s your foot?”
“Climb-worthy,” he said. “Your ankle?”
“Ready to rock.”
“Let’s go.”
They crossed the square, stacked a series of loading pallets, climbed them and mounted the fire escape. The whole endeavor
took ten minutes, made minimal noise, but managed to attract the attention of every Shedite in a 12 block radius.
6 p.m.
5 December
“Oh, joy,” Xander said. “The Evil MC is awake. Let’s stoke up this sassy soiree, shall we? I think we still have a pint of O pos.
in the fridge from when Angel was here.”
“Xander,” Faith said. “Shut up.”
Thellian held up a hand. “It’s all right. He is the aggrieved party, after all.”
Maya had come into the kitchen with Xander, and stood behind him. Faith and Willow flanked Thellian on the opposite side of
the breakfast table. Thellian was resplendent in a cobalt robe of embroidered silk.
“Aggrieved?” Maya asked. “What’s he talking about?”
“Just… hear him out, okay,” Willow said. Xander he caught the first glint of imploring in Willow’s expression that he’d seen
in all night. Still, though Xander trusted his Willow with every last molecule of his being, he could not extend the same
allowance Thellian.
“I don’t want to hear him out,” Xander said. “Willow: meet Thellian. Y’know, the guy who orchestrated Kennedy’s death,
who turned the London Slayers into his pet brigade of blood-sucking hellspawn. In the category of Greatest Cause of
Suffering, Destruction and Death the World Has Ever Known, this guy takes the Gold. No, I don’t need to hear what he says.
What I’d like to do is make openings into his ribcage using wooden kitchen utensils.”
Faith lunged; Thellian stilled her with a smooth motion of his hand.
“You will want to hear this, Mr. Harris,” Thellian said. He inclined his head in Maya’s direction. “As it concerns Miss Rose.”
Contrary to the Maya Xander thought he knew merely ten days previous, ‘Miss Rose’ did not shrink against the basement
door, nor did she cling to him for support against Thellian’s accusation.
She stepped around Xander. “What is it that concerns me?”
Thellian’s explanation was cut short by the sudden, sharp sound of splintering wood.
Faith darted another glance at Willow. “Morna?” she asked.
Willow looked out into the hallway. Reflected in the entry hall mirror, she saw the kindling remains of Connor’s crate.
“Worse,” she said. The front door was closed, the crate blocking the exit, which meant... “Faith, he’s upstairs.”
“On it,” Faith snarled. She rushed from the kitchen and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
At first, Connor was plunging down on the demons from his perch atop the railroad car. As he fell, however, the scene
wheeled and flipped so that he was not falling but springing up through some kind of heavy wooden doorway.
Connor hurdled forward onto a black-and-white tiled entryway. He shook sawdust and splinters from his hair as he spun a
quick circle to establish his bearings.
The place felt familiar. It smelled of dusty books, crumbly plaster, and, faintly, of dried herbs and flowers. He saw a library to
his left, a parlor to his right, a door directly behind him, and the kitchen ahead. The weapon was somewhere above him. He
felt it, beckoning him. His palms burned to touch it.
In one great leap, Connor sprung from the entry hall to the second floor landing. He scrambled over the handrail, ripped the
door from its hinges and entered Buffy’s sitting room.
His father was there, his green cat’s-eyes glinting in the half-light.
“It’s here, son,” Angel said. He spread his arms with a flourish. “Right here.”
Connor felt its power. He clenched his jaws against the resonating force of it. He could not have resisted its pull now if he
wanted to.
“It’s through that door,” Angel said, gesturing to the door on the right. “Take it, and finally have your vengeance.”
Connor kicked in Buffy’s bedroom door. The room pulsated with a venous crimson glow that, when he entered it, soothed all
of his pain and sorrow and loss. Connor lifted the bed, tossing it aside as though it was made of paper.
The weapon lay there, an elegant curved silver blade on one end of its scarlet haft, a sharpened wooden stake fitted into
the other. The light radiated from The Scythe, beating as if to the rhythm of its own heart.
Connor seized it with both hands.
Faith stepped into the doorway. She watched entranced as Connor gripped the weapon and spun it between his hands.
“Connor,” she said.
He raised his eyes, and smiled.
“Try and stop me now,” he grinned. The blood-red glow of The Scythe contorted his features into a twisted mask of
malicious glee.
Behind Faith, Willow yelled, “Wait!”
But nothing could stop him. Connor had taken The Scythe and leapt to his freedom through Buffy’s second story window.
After a moment, Faith said, “Did you see that?”
Willow closed her mouth, opened it to answer, and then closed it again.
“Connor’s a boy,” Faith said.
Willow started to speak, but managed a feeble, “Heeh...”
To which Faith responded, “But Connor is a BOY. Only a Slayer can...” she trailed off.
Willow finally found words. She said, “Only a Slayer can feel the power of the Scythe.”
Thellian had stepped into the room behind Willow. Faith glanced from him, to the window and back. Simple decision, really.
Without explanation, Faith dived through the broken window, picking up where she left off in her pursuit of Connor.
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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:
Once again, my knowledge of
London fails me. This is my
fantasy version of the fine city,
and please forgive me. Research
has only taken me so far. The
rest I have to make up as I go.
Once again, my knowledge of
London fails me. This is my
fantasy version of the fine city,
and please forgive me. Research
has only taken me so far. The
rest I have to make up as I go.