Legends
After some debate, Willow went along with Xander, about which he grumbled because she was needed more in the arena of
spell prep, but for which he was greatly relieved. He’d choose Willow over Spike any day, though it went without saying.
The way to the Watcher’s Council was treacherous, too. The tube stations were closed and they had to navigate through
police barricades, but Willow would flash her passport, claiming she was a reporter for the London Times, and they let them
pass, prompting Xander to quip, “The Force can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.”
“They’re not weak-minded, Xander,” Willow chided. “It’s a confusion spell, which would work on anyone, especially if they’d
spent the night defending the city from demonic frogs.”
Xander edged the Volvo up to the sidewalk in front of the five-story stone building that was the Watcher’s Council, and
shifted into park.
“Speaking of,” he said. “Those guys are… where, exactly?”
Willow stepped outside. She scanned the abandoned street. Across from the business park, a row of shops – a copy place, a
coffee place, and a men’s shoe store – stared blankly at the sidewalk, windows broken, trash bins overturned. Banks of dirty
snow choked the gutters, and here and there, she saw blotches of red-brown blood. A bitter breeze blew off the river.
Willow wrinkled her nose at the cabbage-y scent of it.
Drawing her suede coat around her, she bent to look through the window at Xander.
“It’s clear,” she said. “We should hurry.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Xander said. He got out, sliding his two-handed sword from the back seat.
They crossed the snowy courtyard and burst through the unlocked doors of the Council building to find the expansive main
hall bustling with Watcher’s and their Slayers.
“Uh?” Xander said.
He and Willow stared in silence at the operation before them. In the back of the grand hall, they had set up a screen onto
which slides of various demons were projected. The slides contained stats on the demons, including weaknesses, strengths,
and places of origin. Watchers assembled in rows of chairs to watch the slideshow and take notes, while others engaged in
discussions around conference tables laden with timeworn volumes the likes of which they had at the Magic Box, only never,
ever so very many. In the corner, alongside a table piled with donuts, muffins and scones, was a first aid booth with eight
military cots, several supply carts, and a portable defibrillator.
“Place is jumpin’,” Willow muttered.
“Like demon frogs on a hot plate,” Xander answered.
Nearby a young girl shrieked, startling them both so badly Xander dropped his sword with a clangorous clatter to the green
slate floor. Which attracted the attention of everyone in the hall. Only, there was no cause for alarm as the girl turned out
to be MK, shouting with glee at seeing Willow and Xander.
MK rushed forward, pigtails flying, and flung her arms around Willow. “You’re all right!” she gushed. “You survived the
night.”
Xander retrieved his sword. Clutching it firmly, he said, “Ironically, my pride is dead.”
MK stepped back, clasping her hands together in front like a little girl. “Tell me, please. Rita says Mr. Giles is back. We’ve
heard nothing, except that Spike made it home safe.”
Xander touched his bruised eye and glowered.
Before he could say anything, Willow said, “Spike is back, and we have a plan on how to stop the bad guys from getting in.
But we need some things. Giles gave us a list.”
Willow reached into her shoulder bag to get it. MK placed her hand on Willow’s wrist, and stared up at her with huge green
puppy-dog eyes.
“Please tell me,” MK said, her voice thick with tears. “What of Mr. Wells?”
“Who?” Xander asked.
Willow jabbed Xander’s ribs. She took MK’s small hand in hers. “Dawnie says he’s at Parkside,” Willow said gently. “He’s not
dead…”
A tear streaked down MK’s cheek. “We feared worse, o’course, when we didn’t hear from him yesterday.”
“Oh Andrew,” Xander said.
Ignoring him, Willow said, “Andrew will be fine.”
MK looked away. It took a moment and some effort for the girl to pull herself together. At length, she said, “We’ve lost so
many.”
Willow hugged the girl again, feeling the swell of her own grief like a vise on her heart. She took the girl by her shoulders and
set her upright.
“We have a plan,” Willow assured her. “Okay? Everything will be fine.”
MK nodded. She shook herself, and nodded again. “Right. You said you needed stuff. You’ve a list?”
“Yep,” Willow said. She took it from her bag and passed it to MK.
MK puzzled over the list until she got to the end. “Kostzchie anti-venom,” she said, brightening. “We got loads of that.”
Willow and Xander exchanged a look of relief.
“As for the rest,” MK said, her expression comically Buffy-esque. “Spell-age: not my forte. Looks like a job for Robson. BRB.”
She bounded away gazelle-like, their list in hand, leaving Xander feeling ancient as Stonehenge.
He turned to Willow, hand raised like he was about to ask a question, when she said, “It means ‘Be right back.’”
“Were we ever that young?” Xander asked.
Willow looked at him. Here was the little boy who shared an art table with her in Kindergarten, who at naptime would sing
Knick-Knack-Paddy-Whack to make her laugh, who wore Aquaman Underoos until fifth grade, and who, on many occasions
slept in his Cub Scouts tent in her backyard because he preferred that to the bedlam that was his Mom and Dad.
As kids they’d endured field trips, immunizations, lemonade stands, and macaroni art. Then they met Buffy, with whom they
endured vampires, demons, apocalypses, Prom, graduation and each other.
Yeah. They were that young…
“We were younger,” Willow said.
Willow cupped his stubbly chin. She wished again that he would have let her heal his eye for him back in Sunnydale, when it
would have been possible to re-grow tissue and regenerate the damaged nerves. She understood better now why he wanted
to keep the wound.
Xander had a sense of honor, and Willow appreciated that. Though he was often stubborn say-the-wrong-thing guy, he knew
what he believed and stood up for it. If he had doubts, all it took was a look in the mirror to remind him.
Plus, Xander said the eye-patch intimidated his construction crew. You had to take the good where you could get it.
“Wil?”
She let her hand fall. “Sorry, Xand. I just…” Willow’s brows came together and her lower lip pursed all pouty.
“You’re worried about Dawn,” he said. “And about what Spike said.”
“Mind-reading: definite perk of life-long friendship,” she said, still frowning.
Xander put his arm around her shoulder. He didn’t know what else to say, so he told her everything would be all right, even
though they both knew it wasn’t true.
They left the Watcher’s Council with a bag full of the ingredients they needed for Dawn’s ritual and the anti-venom, but
took the bleak, empty streets back home in solemn silence.
Giles sat in his swivelly chair at the head of the dining room table, poring through Andrew’s carefully organized research
material. Magazine and newspaper articles were grouped according to geographic locations on the world map Andrew had
unfurled on the tabletop and anchored with pewter figurines from his Lord of the Rings chess set.
Andrew had collected printouts and notes into manila folders, each labeled with cartoonish block letters: Waking Potions,
Buffy Gone?, Monster Handbook, The Triumvirate & the Sulksquelawtna (which he’d scrunched into tiny block print to fit it
all on the folder tab), and Miscellany.
Each manila folder had corresponding folders on Willow’s laptop. Then there were books – stacks of them by his chair and
Dawn’s - each one feathered with neon sticky notes.
Giles dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth. Rachel sat beside him, her right knee touching his left. The Miscellany folder
absorbed her complete attention.
“Rupert,” she said, not looking up from the photocopied documents. “Listen to this: the Taonyx Parchments refer to a set
of spells and rituals for opening portals between worlds.”
Giles took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “We know that part.”
Rachel held up her hand. She continued to scan the photocopy. “Here. He mentions a legend that initiates the rituals.”
Giles set his glasses aside. “A legend?”
“Yes. He highlighted the word legend, and he’s included a list of synonyms.”
“Read it,” Giles said, sitting forward.
“Very well,” Rachel said, humoring him. “Legend: code, codex, fable, fiction, folklore, inscription, key, lore, map, motto,
myth, passage, posy, saga, story, table, tale, and tradition.”
Giles drummed his fingers on the table’s edge. “Anything else highlighted? Underlined? Circled?”
“Sure. He circled the words inscription, key, map, myth, passage, and table,” she said. “And he drew a small flower over the
word posy.”
Giles uttered a short laugh. He lapsed into thought, while Rachel continued to leaf through Andrew’s notes.
Finally, she said, “I’m curious, and I don’t mean to step on toes here, but why are we doing this if Dawn’s already figured a
way to stop it?”
“Because,” Giles said, as if he’d expected the question. “I believe Andrew has something here. He understood something
we’re not getting. If we can piece it together, it may save Dawn’s life.”
Rachel sifted idly through the folders. “He has lots of somethings,” she said.
“Indeed. Clutter aside, however, I don’t believe it’s random. We’ve already deciphered the grouping of his articles with the
Hellmouth locations on the map.”
“We have?” Rachel said, then. “Oh.”
Giles replaced his glasses. He breathed out a frustrated sigh. “Andrew, what are you trying to tell us?”
Rachel stood and stretched. She went to the window behind Giles’ chair and parted the curtains. A dusting of snow drifted
through the meager light. She thought she could smell it, cold as bleached white bones.
“It’s snowing,” Rachel said. She couldn’t explain the lump in her throat, or the forlorn sense of hopelessness that settled on
her as she watched the flakes tumbling from the sky. Usually, she loved snow…
“You know,” Giles said. “I believe you were right.”
She turned from the window, smoothing chills from her arms. “How’s that?”
“I went to Rapa Nui in pursuit of paper-thin leads to find Buffy, when I should have been here. The Council needed me. He
needed me.”
“He seems to have done his job, Rupert,” Rachel said. “The Council’s dealing quite well.”
“Oh yes. They’re reacting rather efficiently to their impending demise,” Giles said. “They haven’t a clue how bad it will be.”
Rachel returned to her chair. “Look,” she said, leaning forward. “Let’s not tread the path of ‘should have’. You should have
been my father. My mother should have lived long enough to tell you so. You weren’t. She didn’t. Here we are.”
Giles moved to caress her, but his sleeve peeled back, revealing the desiccated flesh of his arm. He dropped his hand to the
table before Rachel saw it. Unfortunately, she read it as an abandoned attempt at affection. Giles saw the hurt on her face
plain as the snow outside, but could do nothing. He smelled his own withered skin, dry and musty as the books he tended. He
didn’t want her to see it.
Rachel took mercy on him by diving into Andrew’s research. After a moment’s blank staring, she said, “Does Andrew mention
the Dragon’s Eye in his research?”
With his good hand, Rupert flipped through the pages. “Not that I’ve seen,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Thellian said the Glass was stolen from a legendary vampire,” she said.
“Ludwig, King of Bavaria,” Giles said.
“Maybe there’s a link?” Rachel said, thinking aloud. “Legends, maps, keys?”
“Here,” he said, pushing Willow’s laptop toward her. “Do a search. Look for crystal balls, seer’s glasses, scrying tools,
divination. Anything related to its origins. Cross reference with King Ludwig and the words highlighted in Andrew’s
research.”
She turned the laptop to face her and started typing. “Do you think we might find something that might save Dawn?”
Giles thought for a moment. “It may, though I doubt what’s done can be undone at this point. The Hellmouths are opening.
Dawn can close them. This may help us stop it from happening again, once she’s...”
Rachel flicked a glance over the screen of the laptop. She was pale in the screen’s glow, and her eyes reflected blue, so that
she looked the image of her mother.
Giles thought it only right he’d be visited by ghosts now. He closed his eyes and let them assail him.
“Rupert,” Rachel said, jarring him back. “You all right?”
“I’d say decidedly not,” he said. He got from his chair, his joints and muscles screaming from stiffness. “Perhaps some tea?”
Rachel eyed him, concerned, but too unsure of where they stood to say anything. “Yes. Sure,” she said. “I’ll keep
searching.”
Willow and Xander entered the Flat to find it much the same as they left it: tense, desperate, terrified. The only difference
was the green scent of alfalfa and boiling water in the kitchen.
Faith met them under the archway of the parlor, her eyes underscored with dark circles.
“You got it?”
“We did,” Xander said.
“Just needs a little mixy in the kitchen,” Willow said. “But Robson assured us it works.”
Faith stretched her arms, cracked her neck. “Good. Do it quick,” she said, and returned to Connor’s side.
Xander muttered, “You’re welcome.”
Willow steered him around the wooden crates toward the kitchen. “Leave her be, Xander,” she said quietly. “You don’t
know what they’ve been through.”
Maya and Giles were in the kitchen when Xander and Willow entered, still conversing. “Still, you’d think a little gratitude
would be in order,” Xander said. “Life, limb and extremities risked in the procuring of the potion. A thanks would go far.”
He passed the paper sack to Maya who said, “Thanks.”
Maya and Giles joined them at the breakfast bar to peer into the grocery bag.
“They had everything?” Giles asked, pulling the flask of anti-venom from the sack. He placed it on the bar beside Willow’s
silver athame.
Willow nodded. “Everything. We’re set.”
Xander surveyed Maya’s preparations. She was still stand-offy with him, which made for awkwardness. He poked at a cluster
of grass bunched in white silk cord.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Maya’s eyes darted to his, then away. “It’s alfalfa,” she said. She hesitated, which Xander didn’t understand until she
spoke again. “To help Dawn’s blood flow during the ritual. So it won’t hurt as much.”
Xander paled. “Ye gods,” he said.
Maya removed a jar of Valerian root, parcels of powdered Asafoetida, Betony, and Galangal, the ashes from a silver birch
burned at the Jupiter's midsky, five feathers from a red-wing blackbird, a plastic bag of dense-packed peat moss, and the
velvet drawstring bag that held the orb. She balanced it between her hands, and looked to Willow for confirmation.
“It’s not the Orb of Thesulah,” Willow said. “But we can enchant it, so it’ll work like the real thing.”
Maya blew out her breath. “Really hope so,” she said.
“And if it doesn’t work,” Xander asked. “How will we know?”
Maya worked the strings on the bag and eased the crystal into her palm, testing its weight. The clear glass reflected them
upside down in its convex surface.
Willow smiled faintly. “It goes all glowy when it works,” she said.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Maya said.
“Nah,” Xander agreed. “Sounds almost like heaven…” and then he trailed off, thinking he didn’t like that comparison after
all.
“Yes,” Giles said. “I have Rachel looking up a reference Andrew made to a legend that would initiate the ritual. She believes
the Dragon’s Eye might be involved.”
“Do you?” Willow asked pointedly.
Giles swirled the tea in his cup. “At this point, I’m not certain it matters.” With that, he left them.
Willow pushed the flask of anti-venom across the bar to Maya. “Mix this in a poultice of peat moss,” she said. “Robson says
to apply it directly to the wound. I’m going upstairs.”
“Gotcha,” Maya said, using the athame to pierce the plastic sheaf of peat moss.
Xander caught Willow’s arm as she was leaving. “Checking on your vampire boyfriend?”
“Xander!” Willow said.
“I gotta know, Wil,” he said. “If you’re boning Mister Tall, Blond and Genocidal...”
Willow yanked her arm from his grasp. The look she gave him could have melted the steel girders in a skyscraper. “You
should know me better, Xander,” she said.
Xander shrugged. “I know,” he said. “And I do. But there is something going on. Just, please. Tell me.”
Behind them, Maya attempted to make a show of not listening by vigorously grinding moss with her mortar and pestle.
For a moment, Willow considered telling. Except, she realized she could no more explain it than she could count the stars, or
read a butterfly’s thoughts. It was far too complicated and strange.
“There is something,” Willow said coldly. “But you wouldn’t understand.”
Willow left him gulping like a beached fish, and Maya didn’t say a word.
Thellian listened. He heard Willow and Xander return. Heard them talk with Faith about the anti-venom. He smelled the
cigarettes-and-stale-beer of the driver lying comatose and forgotten on the parlor floor. He heard Rupert talking about the
Glass. Cursed Glass, Thellian thought, touching the diaphanous curtains that strained the weak sunlight from Willow’s rooms.
He heard Dawn as well, knew she had cried herself into fitful sleep, and his ancient heart ached. He twisted the curtains into
his fist.
Thellian knew that William had left the house, and that the rest either didn’t know, or didn’t care. He heard Xander and
Willow argue, and felt Willow’s distress when she left.
Things had fallen apart. All the king’s horses, all the king’s men...
As he twitched the curtain back into place, a glimmer of silver caught his eye. He turned to find the slender case of Tarot
cards, its lid propped against the box to catch the rays of the rising sun, the top card overturned.
With deft fingers, he lifted the card. The Lovers. Of course.
Thellian tucked the card into the lapel pocket of his linen jacket. Then he heard Willow on the stairs.
He was watching out the window, at the dusting of snowflakes that had begun to fall, when she came in. He sensed she was
startled to find him so near the sun’s light.
“Thellian?” she said.
Without turning he said, “I will need to feed before embracing the girl.”
Willow closed the door behind her. “Y-yes,” she said. “Um. There’s the driver downst-”
“I would no sooner touch him than you would the putrid corpse of a gutted pig,” Thellian said.
He felt her heartbeat flutter, and he shut his eyes to savor it. His tone had done what he’d hoped. Willow feared that she’d
displeased him. She would be more amenable to his suggestions if she felt she must appease him.
After a moment, he turned to her. “William is right, Willow,” he said. “If you follow through, the Slayer will never forgive
you. Are you prepared to handle that?”
Willow stepped closer. She’d reclaimed some control, but he relished the aftertaste of her dread in his throat. He closed the
gap between them and lay his hand over the hollow of her throat, which scattered her wits like a storm of butterflies.
She struggled, chest rising and falling, to regain her senses.
“Willow,” he whispered.
“I’ll talk to her,” she said. “I’ll make Buffy see the sense of it.”
Thellian turned from her and went again to the window. “Can you now?” he asked.
Willow gingerly fingered the places where he’d touched her, and felt the cold silver of the star pendant she wore.
When she could breathe again, she asked, “What choice do we have?”
He looked back at her, his gleaming face impassive.
“My blood,” Willow blurted. She blushed then like sunlight through milk glass, and Thellian thought he wanted nothing more.
But it could wait. She moved forward, fragile and timid as a virgin bride. “Take mine.”
“Sweetling,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. He brought her wrist to his face and breathed her in, the soft, vernal
scent of her, like strawberries and clover. He kissed the delicate flesh of her wrist, then curled her fingers into his. “You
will need your blood. You’ll need your wits for the ritual.”
She lowered her eyes, plainly disappointed.
Thellian lifted her chin with his index finger. “None of that,” he purred, a faint smile on his lips.
Again Willow’s quickened pulse betrayed her need to please him. “Who then?” she asked.
Thellian caressed her face with the back of his fingers, trailing them along a lock of her hair. With a noncommittal shrug, he
said, “You’ll think of someone.”
After some debate, Willow went along with Xander, about which he grumbled because she was needed more in the arena of
spell prep, but for which he was greatly relieved. He’d choose Willow over Spike any day, though it went without saying.
The way to the Watcher’s Council was treacherous, too. The tube stations were closed and they had to navigate through
police barricades, but Willow would flash her passport, claiming she was a reporter for the London Times, and they let them
pass, prompting Xander to quip, “The Force can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.”
“They’re not weak-minded, Xander,” Willow chided. “It’s a confusion spell, which would work on anyone, especially if they’d
spent the night defending the city from demonic frogs.”
Xander edged the Volvo up to the sidewalk in front of the five-story stone building that was the Watcher’s Council, and
shifted into park.
“Speaking of,” he said. “Those guys are… where, exactly?”
Willow stepped outside. She scanned the abandoned street. Across from the business park, a row of shops – a copy place, a
coffee place, and a men’s shoe store – stared blankly at the sidewalk, windows broken, trash bins overturned. Banks of dirty
snow choked the gutters, and here and there, she saw blotches of red-brown blood. A bitter breeze blew off the river.
Willow wrinkled her nose at the cabbage-y scent of it.
Drawing her suede coat around her, she bent to look through the window at Xander.
“It’s clear,” she said. “We should hurry.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Xander said. He got out, sliding his two-handed sword from the back seat.
They crossed the snowy courtyard and burst through the unlocked doors of the Council building to find the expansive main
hall bustling with Watcher’s and their Slayers.
“Uh?” Xander said.
He and Willow stared in silence at the operation before them. In the back of the grand hall, they had set up a screen onto
which slides of various demons were projected. The slides contained stats on the demons, including weaknesses, strengths,
and places of origin. Watchers assembled in rows of chairs to watch the slideshow and take notes, while others engaged in
discussions around conference tables laden with timeworn volumes the likes of which they had at the Magic Box, only never,
ever so very many. In the corner, alongside a table piled with donuts, muffins and scones, was a first aid booth with eight
military cots, several supply carts, and a portable defibrillator.
“Place is jumpin’,” Willow muttered.
“Like demon frogs on a hot plate,” Xander answered.
Nearby a young girl shrieked, startling them both so badly Xander dropped his sword with a clangorous clatter to the green
slate floor. Which attracted the attention of everyone in the hall. Only, there was no cause for alarm as the girl turned out
to be MK, shouting with glee at seeing Willow and Xander.
MK rushed forward, pigtails flying, and flung her arms around Willow. “You’re all right!” she gushed. “You survived the
night.”
Xander retrieved his sword. Clutching it firmly, he said, “Ironically, my pride is dead.”
MK stepped back, clasping her hands together in front like a little girl. “Tell me, please. Rita says Mr. Giles is back. We’ve
heard nothing, except that Spike made it home safe.”
Xander touched his bruised eye and glowered.
Before he could say anything, Willow said, “Spike is back, and we have a plan on how to stop the bad guys from getting in.
But we need some things. Giles gave us a list.”
Willow reached into her shoulder bag to get it. MK placed her hand on Willow’s wrist, and stared up at her with huge green
puppy-dog eyes.
“Please tell me,” MK said, her voice thick with tears. “What of Mr. Wells?”
“Who?” Xander asked.
Willow jabbed Xander’s ribs. She took MK’s small hand in hers. “Dawnie says he’s at Parkside,” Willow said gently. “He’s not
dead…”
A tear streaked down MK’s cheek. “We feared worse, o’course, when we didn’t hear from him yesterday.”
“Oh Andrew,” Xander said.
Ignoring him, Willow said, “Andrew will be fine.”
MK looked away. It took a moment and some effort for the girl to pull herself together. At length, she said, “We’ve lost so
many.”
Willow hugged the girl again, feeling the swell of her own grief like a vise on her heart. She took the girl by her shoulders and
set her upright.
“We have a plan,” Willow assured her. “Okay? Everything will be fine.”
MK nodded. She shook herself, and nodded again. “Right. You said you needed stuff. You’ve a list?”
“Yep,” Willow said. She took it from her bag and passed it to MK.
MK puzzled over the list until she got to the end. “Kostzchie anti-venom,” she said, brightening. “We got loads of that.”
Willow and Xander exchanged a look of relief.
“As for the rest,” MK said, her expression comically Buffy-esque. “Spell-age: not my forte. Looks like a job for Robson. BRB.”
She bounded away gazelle-like, their list in hand, leaving Xander feeling ancient as Stonehenge.
He turned to Willow, hand raised like he was about to ask a question, when she said, “It means ‘Be right back.’”
“Were we ever that young?” Xander asked.
Willow looked at him. Here was the little boy who shared an art table with her in Kindergarten, who at naptime would sing
Knick-Knack-Paddy-Whack to make her laugh, who wore Aquaman Underoos until fifth grade, and who, on many occasions
slept in his Cub Scouts tent in her backyard because he preferred that to the bedlam that was his Mom and Dad.
As kids they’d endured field trips, immunizations, lemonade stands, and macaroni art. Then they met Buffy, with whom they
endured vampires, demons, apocalypses, Prom, graduation and each other.
Yeah. They were that young…
“We were younger,” Willow said.
Willow cupped his stubbly chin. She wished again that he would have let her heal his eye for him back in Sunnydale, when it
would have been possible to re-grow tissue and regenerate the damaged nerves. She understood better now why he wanted
to keep the wound.
Xander had a sense of honor, and Willow appreciated that. Though he was often stubborn say-the-wrong-thing guy, he knew
what he believed and stood up for it. If he had doubts, all it took was a look in the mirror to remind him.
Plus, Xander said the eye-patch intimidated his construction crew. You had to take the good where you could get it.
“Wil?”
She let her hand fall. “Sorry, Xand. I just…” Willow’s brows came together and her lower lip pursed all pouty.
“You’re worried about Dawn,” he said. “And about what Spike said.”
“Mind-reading: definite perk of life-long friendship,” she said, still frowning.
Xander put his arm around her shoulder. He didn’t know what else to say, so he told her everything would be all right, even
though they both knew it wasn’t true.
They left the Watcher’s Council with a bag full of the ingredients they needed for Dawn’s ritual and the anti-venom, but
took the bleak, empty streets back home in solemn silence.
Giles sat in his swivelly chair at the head of the dining room table, poring through Andrew’s carefully organized research
material. Magazine and newspaper articles were grouped according to geographic locations on the world map Andrew had
unfurled on the tabletop and anchored with pewter figurines from his Lord of the Rings chess set.
Andrew had collected printouts and notes into manila folders, each labeled with cartoonish block letters: Waking Potions,
Buffy Gone?, Monster Handbook, The Triumvirate & the Sulksquelawtna (which he’d scrunched into tiny block print to fit it
all on the folder tab), and Miscellany.
Each manila folder had corresponding folders on Willow’s laptop. Then there were books – stacks of them by his chair and
Dawn’s - each one feathered with neon sticky notes.
Giles dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth. Rachel sat beside him, her right knee touching his left. The Miscellany folder
absorbed her complete attention.
“Rupert,” she said, not looking up from the photocopied documents. “Listen to this: the Taonyx Parchments refer to a set
of spells and rituals for opening portals between worlds.”
Giles took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “We know that part.”
Rachel held up her hand. She continued to scan the photocopy. “Here. He mentions a legend that initiates the rituals.”
Giles set his glasses aside. “A legend?”
“Yes. He highlighted the word legend, and he’s included a list of synonyms.”
“Read it,” Giles said, sitting forward.
“Very well,” Rachel said, humoring him. “Legend: code, codex, fable, fiction, folklore, inscription, key, lore, map, motto,
myth, passage, posy, saga, story, table, tale, and tradition.”
Giles drummed his fingers on the table’s edge. “Anything else highlighted? Underlined? Circled?”
“Sure. He circled the words inscription, key, map, myth, passage, and table,” she said. “And he drew a small flower over the
word posy.”
Giles uttered a short laugh. He lapsed into thought, while Rachel continued to leaf through Andrew’s notes.
Finally, she said, “I’m curious, and I don’t mean to step on toes here, but why are we doing this if Dawn’s already figured a
way to stop it?”
“Because,” Giles said, as if he’d expected the question. “I believe Andrew has something here. He understood something
we’re not getting. If we can piece it together, it may save Dawn’s life.”
Rachel sifted idly through the folders. “He has lots of somethings,” she said.
“Indeed. Clutter aside, however, I don’t believe it’s random. We’ve already deciphered the grouping of his articles with the
Hellmouth locations on the map.”
“We have?” Rachel said, then. “Oh.”
Giles replaced his glasses. He breathed out a frustrated sigh. “Andrew, what are you trying to tell us?”
Rachel stood and stretched. She went to the window behind Giles’ chair and parted the curtains. A dusting of snow drifted
through the meager light. She thought she could smell it, cold as bleached white bones.
“It’s snowing,” Rachel said. She couldn’t explain the lump in her throat, or the forlorn sense of hopelessness that settled on
her as she watched the flakes tumbling from the sky. Usually, she loved snow…
“You know,” Giles said. “I believe you were right.”
She turned from the window, smoothing chills from her arms. “How’s that?”
“I went to Rapa Nui in pursuit of paper-thin leads to find Buffy, when I should have been here. The Council needed me. He
needed me.”
“He seems to have done his job, Rupert,” Rachel said. “The Council’s dealing quite well.”
“Oh yes. They’re reacting rather efficiently to their impending demise,” Giles said. “They haven’t a clue how bad it will be.”
Rachel returned to her chair. “Look,” she said, leaning forward. “Let’s not tread the path of ‘should have’. You should have
been my father. My mother should have lived long enough to tell you so. You weren’t. She didn’t. Here we are.”
Giles moved to caress her, but his sleeve peeled back, revealing the desiccated flesh of his arm. He dropped his hand to the
table before Rachel saw it. Unfortunately, she read it as an abandoned attempt at affection. Giles saw the hurt on her face
plain as the snow outside, but could do nothing. He smelled his own withered skin, dry and musty as the books he tended. He
didn’t want her to see it.
Rachel took mercy on him by diving into Andrew’s research. After a moment’s blank staring, she said, “Does Andrew mention
the Dragon’s Eye in his research?”
With his good hand, Rupert flipped through the pages. “Not that I’ve seen,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Thellian said the Glass was stolen from a legendary vampire,” she said.
“Ludwig, King of Bavaria,” Giles said.
“Maybe there’s a link?” Rachel said, thinking aloud. “Legends, maps, keys?”
“Here,” he said, pushing Willow’s laptop toward her. “Do a search. Look for crystal balls, seer’s glasses, scrying tools,
divination. Anything related to its origins. Cross reference with King Ludwig and the words highlighted in Andrew’s
research.”
She turned the laptop to face her and started typing. “Do you think we might find something that might save Dawn?”
Giles thought for a moment. “It may, though I doubt what’s done can be undone at this point. The Hellmouths are opening.
Dawn can close them. This may help us stop it from happening again, once she’s...”
Rachel flicked a glance over the screen of the laptop. She was pale in the screen’s glow, and her eyes reflected blue, so that
she looked the image of her mother.
Giles thought it only right he’d be visited by ghosts now. He closed his eyes and let them assail him.
“Rupert,” Rachel said, jarring him back. “You all right?”
“I’d say decidedly not,” he said. He got from his chair, his joints and muscles screaming from stiffness. “Perhaps some tea?”
Rachel eyed him, concerned, but too unsure of where they stood to say anything. “Yes. Sure,” she said. “I’ll keep
searching.”
Willow and Xander entered the Flat to find it much the same as they left it: tense, desperate, terrified. The only difference
was the green scent of alfalfa and boiling water in the kitchen.
Faith met them under the archway of the parlor, her eyes underscored with dark circles.
“You got it?”
“We did,” Xander said.
“Just needs a little mixy in the kitchen,” Willow said. “But Robson assured us it works.”
Faith stretched her arms, cracked her neck. “Good. Do it quick,” she said, and returned to Connor’s side.
Xander muttered, “You’re welcome.”
Willow steered him around the wooden crates toward the kitchen. “Leave her be, Xander,” she said quietly. “You don’t
know what they’ve been through.”
Maya and Giles were in the kitchen when Xander and Willow entered, still conversing. “Still, you’d think a little gratitude
would be in order,” Xander said. “Life, limb and extremities risked in the procuring of the potion. A thanks would go far.”
He passed the paper sack to Maya who said, “Thanks.”
Maya and Giles joined them at the breakfast bar to peer into the grocery bag.
“They had everything?” Giles asked, pulling the flask of anti-venom from the sack. He placed it on the bar beside Willow’s
silver athame.
Willow nodded. “Everything. We’re set.”
Xander surveyed Maya’s preparations. She was still stand-offy with him, which made for awkwardness. He poked at a cluster
of grass bunched in white silk cord.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Maya’s eyes darted to his, then away. “It’s alfalfa,” she said. She hesitated, which Xander didn’t understand until she
spoke again. “To help Dawn’s blood flow during the ritual. So it won’t hurt as much.”
Xander paled. “Ye gods,” he said.
Maya removed a jar of Valerian root, parcels of powdered Asafoetida, Betony, and Galangal, the ashes from a silver birch
burned at the Jupiter's midsky, five feathers from a red-wing blackbird, a plastic bag of dense-packed peat moss, and the
velvet drawstring bag that held the orb. She balanced it between her hands, and looked to Willow for confirmation.
“It’s not the Orb of Thesulah,” Willow said. “But we can enchant it, so it’ll work like the real thing.”
Maya blew out her breath. “Really hope so,” she said.
“And if it doesn’t work,” Xander asked. “How will we know?”
Maya worked the strings on the bag and eased the crystal into her palm, testing its weight. The clear glass reflected them
upside down in its convex surface.
Willow smiled faintly. “It goes all glowy when it works,” she said.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Maya said.
“Nah,” Xander agreed. “Sounds almost like heaven…” and then he trailed off, thinking he didn’t like that comparison after
all.
“Yes,” Giles said. “I have Rachel looking up a reference Andrew made to a legend that would initiate the ritual. She believes
the Dragon’s Eye might be involved.”
“Do you?” Willow asked pointedly.
Giles swirled the tea in his cup. “At this point, I’m not certain it matters.” With that, he left them.
Willow pushed the flask of anti-venom across the bar to Maya. “Mix this in a poultice of peat moss,” she said. “Robson says
to apply it directly to the wound. I’m going upstairs.”
“Gotcha,” Maya said, using the athame to pierce the plastic sheaf of peat moss.
Xander caught Willow’s arm as she was leaving. “Checking on your vampire boyfriend?”
“Xander!” Willow said.
“I gotta know, Wil,” he said. “If you’re boning Mister Tall, Blond and Genocidal...”
Willow yanked her arm from his grasp. The look she gave him could have melted the steel girders in a skyscraper. “You
should know me better, Xander,” she said.
Xander shrugged. “I know,” he said. “And I do. But there is something going on. Just, please. Tell me.”
Behind them, Maya attempted to make a show of not listening by vigorously grinding moss with her mortar and pestle.
For a moment, Willow considered telling. Except, she realized she could no more explain it than she could count the stars, or
read a butterfly’s thoughts. It was far too complicated and strange.
“There is something,” Willow said coldly. “But you wouldn’t understand.”
Willow left him gulping like a beached fish, and Maya didn’t say a word.
Thellian listened. He heard Willow and Xander return. Heard them talk with Faith about the anti-venom. He smelled the
cigarettes-and-stale-beer of the driver lying comatose and forgotten on the parlor floor. He heard Rupert talking about the
Glass. Cursed Glass, Thellian thought, touching the diaphanous curtains that strained the weak sunlight from Willow’s rooms.
He heard Dawn as well, knew she had cried herself into fitful sleep, and his ancient heart ached. He twisted the curtains into
his fist.
Thellian knew that William had left the house, and that the rest either didn’t know, or didn’t care. He heard Xander and
Willow argue, and felt Willow’s distress when she left.
Things had fallen apart. All the king’s horses, all the king’s men...
As he twitched the curtain back into place, a glimmer of silver caught his eye. He turned to find the slender case of Tarot
cards, its lid propped against the box to catch the rays of the rising sun, the top card overturned.
With deft fingers, he lifted the card. The Lovers. Of course.
Thellian tucked the card into the lapel pocket of his linen jacket. Then he heard Willow on the stairs.
He was watching out the window, at the dusting of snowflakes that had begun to fall, when she came in. He sensed she was
startled to find him so near the sun’s light.
“Thellian?” she said.
Without turning he said, “I will need to feed before embracing the girl.”
Willow closed the door behind her. “Y-yes,” she said. “Um. There’s the driver downst-”
“I would no sooner touch him than you would the putrid corpse of a gutted pig,” Thellian said.
He felt her heartbeat flutter, and he shut his eyes to savor it. His tone had done what he’d hoped. Willow feared that she’d
displeased him. She would be more amenable to his suggestions if she felt she must appease him.
After a moment, he turned to her. “William is right, Willow,” he said. “If you follow through, the Slayer will never forgive
you. Are you prepared to handle that?”
Willow stepped closer. She’d reclaimed some control, but he relished the aftertaste of her dread in his throat. He closed the
gap between them and lay his hand over the hollow of her throat, which scattered her wits like a storm of butterflies.
She struggled, chest rising and falling, to regain her senses.
“Willow,” he whispered.
“I’ll talk to her,” she said. “I’ll make Buffy see the sense of it.”
Thellian turned from her and went again to the window. “Can you now?” he asked.
Willow gingerly fingered the places where he’d touched her, and felt the cold silver of the star pendant she wore.
When she could breathe again, she asked, “What choice do we have?”
He looked back at her, his gleaming face impassive.
“My blood,” Willow blurted. She blushed then like sunlight through milk glass, and Thellian thought he wanted nothing more.
But it could wait. She moved forward, fragile and timid as a virgin bride. “Take mine.”
“Sweetling,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. He brought her wrist to his face and breathed her in, the soft, vernal
scent of her, like strawberries and clover. He kissed the delicate flesh of her wrist, then curled her fingers into his. “You
will need your blood. You’ll need your wits for the ritual.”
She lowered her eyes, plainly disappointed.
Thellian lifted her chin with his index finger. “None of that,” he purred, a faint smile on his lips.
Again Willow’s quickened pulse betrayed her need to please him. “Who then?” she asked.
Thellian caressed her face with the back of his fingers, trailing them along a lock of her hair. With a noncommittal shrug, he
said, “You’ll think of someone.”
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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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
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
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone