Last Call
Rita shouldered her flamethrower and glanced beyond her girls to the dismal street. The windows had been blasted out, and
the glass lay scattered in glittering shards across the floor, the sidewalk, the asphalt. The icy wind that blew in was like an
open-handed slap in the face, a reminder of all they had lost in the last 12 hours.
Gritting her teeth, Rita returned her focus to her girls. She tightened the shoulder holster on M. K.’s back, cinching it tight
under the scarred leather jacket that had protected the girl from the Kostzchie bone darts and the teeth of the Shedim. In
turn, M. K. adjusted the splint on Serina’s thigh. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the femur was a long way from healed.
However, as long as she could still stand, Serina could fight. And she wanted to.
Rita’s jaw trembled with pride as she looked at them, the Fateful Eight: Rita, M. K., Serina, Lori, Becca, Kourt, Deeds,
Miranda, and Elana. They were all that remained now. All that remained of the 21 who came from Paris and Rome to bolster
London’s numbers.
As Kourt checked the gauges and hoses on Rita’s flamethrower, Rita checked the knife at Becca’s hip. It was bloody, but
serviceable. Had they time, Rita would have liked to sharpen it, but time was one thing they lacked.
They were heading into their final battle. She knew it; they knew it. They didn’t waste time on prayers or hopes. There was
no time for wishes, not when the clock was chiming twelve and the ball was at an end. Rita was okay with that.
They were Slayers. They had a war to fight. In the end, that was all it was.
Satisfied with the weapons check, Rita gave the signal – a closed fist at shoulder level – and as a group, they fell in. Ignoring
the doors, they stepped over the ragged ledge of the shattered windows and into the desolate street.
Rita panned the block north and south, dimly acknowledging the carnage of human and demon bodies strewn in the street
amongst wrecked lorries and cars. All was eerie quiet and still. The screams had died out hours ago, preceding the plaintive
wails of the alarms. The fires had guttered as well, leaving incongruous ravages in their wake: an unscathed storefront
alongside the charred heap of a double decker on its side, the exposed flank peeled back like a sardine tin. A claret red
canvas banner proclaiming the arrival of the Russian Ballet at The Royal Opera House lolled from its awning like the tongue of
a dying beast. An empty sneaker lay on the sidewalk, a flurry of frenzied uneven footprints blurred into the black ice of the
crosswalk.
Under the quiet, Rita heard the grind of machinery. Not heard so much as felt, and it annoyed her.
M. K. caught her eye, and lifted one eyebrow. Rita read the question easily, and replied, “Tanks.”
A smirk curled into the corner of M. K.’s lip. “You’re welcome,” she said, unable to resist the sardonic retort.
Someone in their ranks groaned, and the eight shared a tight smile.
“We have our heading,” Rita said grimly. She motioned for them to head in the direction of the grating, not-too-distant
noise of the British Army.
Connor felt the spring in his step as he fell in line. With all the internal conflict finally shoved into its place, Connor felt like
he could dance.
He glanced up at Sabnock, who awaited the command of his master.
“The one in the middle,” Connor said, barely audible, his smile stretched tight as he spoke. “She will do all the work. We have
to let her. The rest will guard her, and so we’ll fight them. We stop her before she closes the gateways. Until then, we let
her work, understand?”
“Aye, Master,” Sabnock said, signaling with his ham-hock hands to the other Sulksquelawtna. “We understand-eth thee.”
As one, the demons surged forth, a sinewy wave of putrid flesh fueled by bloodlust.
Dr. Chapman plowed through the police barricade, sirens blaring. The ambulance fishtailed, but he saved it from a fatal skid
in time to shoot down the wrong side of an abandoned thoroughfare. Adrenaline pumped through him, pulsing red as the
flashing lights above him, and had he the time to examine it, he would have said he’d never felt so thrilled to be alive.
As it was, his patient whined from the strapped-down gurney in the back, and the blond one – Spike – popped his head
through the window.
“It’s not bloody NASCAR,” he said. “Mind slowing up a bit?”
Dr. Chapman let his foot off the gas for a moment, but with the darkening sky, he wasn’t keen on getting trapped out of
doors after seeing what the previous night had delivered to the hospital’s doorstep.
Spike slid through the window and into the seat beside Dr. Chapman, shoving the shiny black doctor’s bag into the
floorboard, spilling out the patient’s clothing and a box of glass morphine vials.
“Hey, wotcher!” Dr. Chapman shouted. “We’ll need that…”
The blond one clenched his jaw. “We’ll need what’s in your icebox back there more, so do try to not wreck this death cab
before we get there. Gotta make a call,” he said. “Try not to drive into anything for twenty seconds, will you?”
Dr. Chapman started to say something snarky in return, but it would have been wasted since the blond one already had his
cell pressed to his ear. He steered the ambulance onto the sidewalk to give a flaming newsstand wide berth.
After a moment, the blond one said, “Rita? William. Yeah.”
Dr. Chapman could hear the muffled tones of a female voice. A handful of seconds passed before William answered her with
dark laughter.
“Pet, you’n’I both know what lot of good they’ll do,” William said. “Look, it’s going down at Triumvirate. Can you get
there?” He paused, looking out the city street scrolling before them, one bleak flash after another reflected in the headlight’
s glare. “Try,” he said, and snapped the phone shut.
More silence ensued. The patient groaned in his sleep, something about angels.
Finally, Dr. Chapman asked, “Will they make it?”
William tilted his head to the side, and enigmatic light in his eyes. “They always do,” he said.
Willow flung out her arms and shouted, “Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise a wall!”
A circle of light emitted from her fingertips and expanded like a bubble between them and the demons. The Sulksquelawtna
bounced off of it like demonic bumper cars.
Xander gulped loudly. He couldn’t drag his attention away from the hideousness that was the Sulksquelawtna Clan as they
sneered and clawed at Willow’s magickal barrier.
At last, he said, “Good goin’, Wil. That’ll hold ’em.” He shot a worried look from them to her. “It will hold them, right?”
Willow adjusted the strap on her messenger bag. “Theoretically,” she said. She cut her eyes to Dawn, Maya, and Giles.
“Better get started. Up the stairs. Maya, use the crystal to find the nexus point.”
Dawn fell back. The broad staircase behind them led up to the loft overlooking the ruined dance floor.
“Willow?” Dawn asked, as they reached the base of the stairs.
“Start without me. I’ll catch up in a minute,” Willow said, pouring her focused energy through her fingertips. The glimmering
energy wall spread from floor to ceiling the entire width of the room, covering Dawn’s retreat.
With Thellian leading the way, Dawn and Maya disappeared up the stairs, with Rachel and Giles following.
Xander frowned and shrugged. Behind the barrier, they couldn’t hear anything except their own echoing voices and slightly
elevated breathing. He continued to watch the demons as they soundlessly leered and tore at the barrier. “Wow. All we
need is a vaudevillian piano score and popcorn.”
“It’s like Charlie Chaplin. With demons,” Lorne chuckled uneasily. “Thanks, BTW, for the dramatic entrance. We were about
two plays away from being drafted into a highly lethal rugby match.”
“Our pleasure,” Xander said. Willow’s brow twitched with concentration as she strained to uphold her barrier.
“We’re here, Willow,” Oz said. Clem whimpered pitifully, but nodded his assent.
Faith stepped up to stand beside Willow. “Did you know?” she asked, her voice tense as piano wire.
Willow shook her head once. “Not completely, no,” Willow said.
“Know what?” Xander asked.
“That Connor was gone,” Faith said, and even Xander, who sometimes didn’t get things, saw Faith swallow the final word
down.
Xander had to squint his eye to even see Connor behind the squadron of demons at his beck, but when he did, he beheld the
glint of green fire ringing Connor’s eyes, and the unmistakable Cheshire Cat curve of his lips…
“What’s he smiling about?” Xander asked. “Scowling’s the In Look for evil this season. Smiling traitors went out of fashion
with hoopskirts and frilly collars.”
Sweat broke out on Willow’s forehead. Cold fingers of dread tickled up Xander’s spine as he realized what was happening -
that the demons were already wearing her down.
“He’s smiling because he knows,” Faith said.
“Knows?” Xander asked, a note of panic in his voice. “Knows what?”
Willow said, “He knows I can’t hold this shield and bring Buffy back at the same time. I can protect us, or find her. Not
both.”
“But Dawn?” Xander said, watching the demons with escalating distress.
“She’ll open the doors like she planned, and then she’ll close them…” Willow said.
"Without Buffy," Xander finished.
Faith pulled the Scythe from its scabbard on her back and held it steady and level before her.
“Drop the wall,” Faith said. “I’ll do my job.”
“No,” Clem said. “Drop the wall and we’re the crunchy light snack before the main course…”
He shivered as he felt something cold brush along his shoulder to stand between him and Faith. Morna, green taffeta
rustling, held her thorn-shaped dagger like a bride’s bouquet. On her shoulders, Scout stretched up his neck and watched
with knowing eyes.
“Summitto porta,” she said.
“What does that mean?” Xander asked uneasily.
Willow and Faith exchanged a loaded look. Willow pulled Xander back two steps and with a clap of her hands, the wall was
gone.
From the loft, Dawn saw Willow drop the barrier. She watched Faith fly into battle, the Scythe catching the dim glow from
the icy skylight, scattering the beams as she whirled and sliced through the Sulksquelawtna’s ranks. She watched Willow
send a burst of flame into the demons’ midst, and heard the foul and angry screams of pain. A cloud of stinking purple smoke
filled the dance floor – the stench of flash-fried demon skin. But after that, the smoke obscured the battle, and Dawn needed
to focus.
She turned in slow motion, feeling detached from everything, to find Rachel and Maya in the process of setting up the circle
for the spell.
“We’ll stand guard,” Giles said, trying to sound reassuring. He took up sentry at the top of the stairs, gripping the haft of
his sword like the handle of a cane. Standing beside him, Thellian looked much more capable at fending off attackers, and he
was weaponless.
Maya directed Rachel to complete the rest of the circle while she held up the enchanted crystal in her palms to find the
nexus point of the circle.
“We need Willow,” Maya panted. They heard a crash below, followed by a blinding light and a demonic howl.
“They need Willow,” Dawn said. She pulled the sheathed athame from her pack and slid the shining silver blade from its
scabbard. The moment the light reflected from its surface, she remembered the last time she’d seen this same knife. Andrew
had used it to cut the buttons from her black dress. A pang of sweet regret pooled in her stomach.
What of the boy? Spike had asked. No, William, Dawn thought. Here, he was William. Back then, he was Spike. Her head
swam as if her whole world was a tiny ship in a turbulent sea.
Andrew understands the price, she’d said. This was their plan.
“I can start on my own,” Dawn said hollowly. She put the point of the blade to the skin of her forearm. “Shallow cuts,” she
said, and made a thin incision. A seed of red-black blood bubbled forth.
Maya brought the crystal forward. A drop of Dawn’s blood caught on the smooth surface, and a rosy light bloomed in its
depths. Dawn recognized the miniature version of the burst of crackling light, but to Maya, it was breathtakingly beautiful
and terrifying, all at once. It paralyzed her completely.
“What did it…?” Maya asked.
“It’s a tiny gateway. My blood opened it,” Dawn answered flatly. “Use it to find the center of the circle. I’ll stand there to
complete the ritual.”
Maya’s wideset eyes blurred with tears as she stared into the marbled glass. She stumbled away from Dawn, using the
crystal as a divining rod – the irony of that simile wasn’t lost on Dawn either – and before long, the glass shimmered with the
brightness of a self-contained nebula.
“That’s it,” Rachel breathed. “You’ve found it.”
Dawn’s legs felt stiff and uncooperative as she approached the center of the circle, as if her body was leading its private
revolt against what her head had in mind.
She closed her eyes and shut out the noises of the battle below them. She held up the arm she’d already cut and positioned
the athame over her wrist, just as she had done before. There were scars there, faint white traces that she hid under
sleeves and by folding her arms. Scars made by a demon named Doc, who came to finish the job once Glory was gone.
She remembered, then, what Gregor of the Byzantium Order had said, the night Glory caught up to them. He’d called her
the instrument of chaos.
It’s in me, isn’t it, Dawn had asked. It’s inside me. The power to destroy the universe.
Buffy had promised then not to let anything happen to her. And then she died.
Dawn opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” she said, and let the blade bite deep into soft, pliant skin of her arm. But she
didn’t cry. It ran down the inside of her arm and dripped in a claret red rivulet onto the patterned rug.
A bright blue fissure of crackling energy ripped through the floor, sending a violent tremor that knocked everyone in the
building sprawling. Everyone, except Dawn.
A raging wind rose up, tearing at their hair and clothing. Downstairs, the fighting momentarily ceased. Rachel and Maya
scrambled to the edge of the circle, but Dawn raised the fist that clenched the dagger toward them.
“Hold on tight,” Dawn cried over the keening wail of the fissure. “Maya, be ready with your part. And no matter what
happens… don’t try to stop me.”
Her hands no longer trembled as she brought the knife down against her skin. She felt a tugging sensation. That was all. No
pain. No fear. With each drop, with every cut, the fissure widened to engulf the circle, and soon she could see all the way
down.
All the way down into Hell.
Rita shouldered her flamethrower and glanced beyond her girls to the dismal street. The windows had been blasted out, and
the glass lay scattered in glittering shards across the floor, the sidewalk, the asphalt. The icy wind that blew in was like an
open-handed slap in the face, a reminder of all they had lost in the last 12 hours.
Gritting her teeth, Rita returned her focus to her girls. She tightened the shoulder holster on M. K.’s back, cinching it tight
under the scarred leather jacket that had protected the girl from the Kostzchie bone darts and the teeth of the Shedim. In
turn, M. K. adjusted the splint on Serina’s thigh. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the femur was a long way from healed.
However, as long as she could still stand, Serina could fight. And she wanted to.
Rita’s jaw trembled with pride as she looked at them, the Fateful Eight: Rita, M. K., Serina, Lori, Becca, Kourt, Deeds,
Miranda, and Elana. They were all that remained now. All that remained of the 21 who came from Paris and Rome to bolster
London’s numbers.
As Kourt checked the gauges and hoses on Rita’s flamethrower, Rita checked the knife at Becca’s hip. It was bloody, but
serviceable. Had they time, Rita would have liked to sharpen it, but time was one thing they lacked.
They were heading into their final battle. She knew it; they knew it. They didn’t waste time on prayers or hopes. There was
no time for wishes, not when the clock was chiming twelve and the ball was at an end. Rita was okay with that.
They were Slayers. They had a war to fight. In the end, that was all it was.
Satisfied with the weapons check, Rita gave the signal – a closed fist at shoulder level – and as a group, they fell in. Ignoring
the doors, they stepped over the ragged ledge of the shattered windows and into the desolate street.
Rita panned the block north and south, dimly acknowledging the carnage of human and demon bodies strewn in the street
amongst wrecked lorries and cars. All was eerie quiet and still. The screams had died out hours ago, preceding the plaintive
wails of the alarms. The fires had guttered as well, leaving incongruous ravages in their wake: an unscathed storefront
alongside the charred heap of a double decker on its side, the exposed flank peeled back like a sardine tin. A claret red
canvas banner proclaiming the arrival of the Russian Ballet at The Royal Opera House lolled from its awning like the tongue of
a dying beast. An empty sneaker lay on the sidewalk, a flurry of frenzied uneven footprints blurred into the black ice of the
crosswalk.
Under the quiet, Rita heard the grind of machinery. Not heard so much as felt, and it annoyed her.
M. K. caught her eye, and lifted one eyebrow. Rita read the question easily, and replied, “Tanks.”
A smirk curled into the corner of M. K.’s lip. “You’re welcome,” she said, unable to resist the sardonic retort.
Someone in their ranks groaned, and the eight shared a tight smile.
“We have our heading,” Rita said grimly. She motioned for them to head in the direction of the grating, not-too-distant
noise of the British Army.
Connor felt the spring in his step as he fell in line. With all the internal conflict finally shoved into its place, Connor felt like
he could dance.
He glanced up at Sabnock, who awaited the command of his master.
“The one in the middle,” Connor said, barely audible, his smile stretched tight as he spoke. “She will do all the work. We have
to let her. The rest will guard her, and so we’ll fight them. We stop her before she closes the gateways. Until then, we let
her work, understand?”
“Aye, Master,” Sabnock said, signaling with his ham-hock hands to the other Sulksquelawtna. “We understand-eth thee.”
As one, the demons surged forth, a sinewy wave of putrid flesh fueled by bloodlust.
Dr. Chapman plowed through the police barricade, sirens blaring. The ambulance fishtailed, but he saved it from a fatal skid
in time to shoot down the wrong side of an abandoned thoroughfare. Adrenaline pumped through him, pulsing red as the
flashing lights above him, and had he the time to examine it, he would have said he’d never felt so thrilled to be alive.
As it was, his patient whined from the strapped-down gurney in the back, and the blond one – Spike – popped his head
through the window.
“It’s not bloody NASCAR,” he said. “Mind slowing up a bit?”
Dr. Chapman let his foot off the gas for a moment, but with the darkening sky, he wasn’t keen on getting trapped out of
doors after seeing what the previous night had delivered to the hospital’s doorstep.
Spike slid through the window and into the seat beside Dr. Chapman, shoving the shiny black doctor’s bag into the
floorboard, spilling out the patient’s clothing and a box of glass morphine vials.
“Hey, wotcher!” Dr. Chapman shouted. “We’ll need that…”
The blond one clenched his jaw. “We’ll need what’s in your icebox back there more, so do try to not wreck this death cab
before we get there. Gotta make a call,” he said. “Try not to drive into anything for twenty seconds, will you?”
Dr. Chapman started to say something snarky in return, but it would have been wasted since the blond one already had his
cell pressed to his ear. He steered the ambulance onto the sidewalk to give a flaming newsstand wide berth.
After a moment, the blond one said, “Rita? William. Yeah.”
Dr. Chapman could hear the muffled tones of a female voice. A handful of seconds passed before William answered her with
dark laughter.
“Pet, you’n’I both know what lot of good they’ll do,” William said. “Look, it’s going down at Triumvirate. Can you get
there?” He paused, looking out the city street scrolling before them, one bleak flash after another reflected in the headlight’
s glare. “Try,” he said, and snapped the phone shut.
More silence ensued. The patient groaned in his sleep, something about angels.
Finally, Dr. Chapman asked, “Will they make it?”
William tilted his head to the side, and enigmatic light in his eyes. “They always do,” he said.
Willow flung out her arms and shouted, “Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise a wall!”
A circle of light emitted from her fingertips and expanded like a bubble between them and the demons. The Sulksquelawtna
bounced off of it like demonic bumper cars.
Xander gulped loudly. He couldn’t drag his attention away from the hideousness that was the Sulksquelawtna Clan as they
sneered and clawed at Willow’s magickal barrier.
At last, he said, “Good goin’, Wil. That’ll hold ’em.” He shot a worried look from them to her. “It will hold them, right?”
Willow adjusted the strap on her messenger bag. “Theoretically,” she said. She cut her eyes to Dawn, Maya, and Giles.
“Better get started. Up the stairs. Maya, use the crystal to find the nexus point.”
Dawn fell back. The broad staircase behind them led up to the loft overlooking the ruined dance floor.
“Willow?” Dawn asked, as they reached the base of the stairs.
“Start without me. I’ll catch up in a minute,” Willow said, pouring her focused energy through her fingertips. The glimmering
energy wall spread from floor to ceiling the entire width of the room, covering Dawn’s retreat.
With Thellian leading the way, Dawn and Maya disappeared up the stairs, with Rachel and Giles following.
Xander frowned and shrugged. Behind the barrier, they couldn’t hear anything except their own echoing voices and slightly
elevated breathing. He continued to watch the demons as they soundlessly leered and tore at the barrier. “Wow. All we
need is a vaudevillian piano score and popcorn.”
“It’s like Charlie Chaplin. With demons,” Lorne chuckled uneasily. “Thanks, BTW, for the dramatic entrance. We were about
two plays away from being drafted into a highly lethal rugby match.”
“Our pleasure,” Xander said. Willow’s brow twitched with concentration as she strained to uphold her barrier.
“We’re here, Willow,” Oz said. Clem whimpered pitifully, but nodded his assent.
Faith stepped up to stand beside Willow. “Did you know?” she asked, her voice tense as piano wire.
Willow shook her head once. “Not completely, no,” Willow said.
“Know what?” Xander asked.
“That Connor was gone,” Faith said, and even Xander, who sometimes didn’t get things, saw Faith swallow the final word
down.
Xander had to squint his eye to even see Connor behind the squadron of demons at his beck, but when he did, he beheld the
glint of green fire ringing Connor’s eyes, and the unmistakable Cheshire Cat curve of his lips…
“What’s he smiling about?” Xander asked. “Scowling’s the In Look for evil this season. Smiling traitors went out of fashion
with hoopskirts and frilly collars.”
Sweat broke out on Willow’s forehead. Cold fingers of dread tickled up Xander’s spine as he realized what was happening -
that the demons were already wearing her down.
“He’s smiling because he knows,” Faith said.
“Knows?” Xander asked, a note of panic in his voice. “Knows what?”
Willow said, “He knows I can’t hold this shield and bring Buffy back at the same time. I can protect us, or find her. Not
both.”
“But Dawn?” Xander said, watching the demons with escalating distress.
“She’ll open the doors like she planned, and then she’ll close them…” Willow said.
"Without Buffy," Xander finished.
Faith pulled the Scythe from its scabbard on her back and held it steady and level before her.
“Drop the wall,” Faith said. “I’ll do my job.”
“No,” Clem said. “Drop the wall and we’re the crunchy light snack before the main course…”
He shivered as he felt something cold brush along his shoulder to stand between him and Faith. Morna, green taffeta
rustling, held her thorn-shaped dagger like a bride’s bouquet. On her shoulders, Scout stretched up his neck and watched
with knowing eyes.
“Summitto porta,” she said.
“What does that mean?” Xander asked uneasily.
Willow and Faith exchanged a loaded look. Willow pulled Xander back two steps and with a clap of her hands, the wall was
gone.
From the loft, Dawn saw Willow drop the barrier. She watched Faith fly into battle, the Scythe catching the dim glow from
the icy skylight, scattering the beams as she whirled and sliced through the Sulksquelawtna’s ranks. She watched Willow
send a burst of flame into the demons’ midst, and heard the foul and angry screams of pain. A cloud of stinking purple smoke
filled the dance floor – the stench of flash-fried demon skin. But after that, the smoke obscured the battle, and Dawn needed
to focus.
She turned in slow motion, feeling detached from everything, to find Rachel and Maya in the process of setting up the circle
for the spell.
“We’ll stand guard,” Giles said, trying to sound reassuring. He took up sentry at the top of the stairs, gripping the haft of
his sword like the handle of a cane. Standing beside him, Thellian looked much more capable at fending off attackers, and he
was weaponless.
Maya directed Rachel to complete the rest of the circle while she held up the enchanted crystal in her palms to find the
nexus point of the circle.
“We need Willow,” Maya panted. They heard a crash below, followed by a blinding light and a demonic howl.
“They need Willow,” Dawn said. She pulled the sheathed athame from her pack and slid the shining silver blade from its
scabbard. The moment the light reflected from its surface, she remembered the last time she’d seen this same knife. Andrew
had used it to cut the buttons from her black dress. A pang of sweet regret pooled in her stomach.
What of the boy? Spike had asked. No, William, Dawn thought. Here, he was William. Back then, he was Spike. Her head
swam as if her whole world was a tiny ship in a turbulent sea.
Andrew understands the price, she’d said. This was their plan.
“I can start on my own,” Dawn said hollowly. She put the point of the blade to the skin of her forearm. “Shallow cuts,” she
said, and made a thin incision. A seed of red-black blood bubbled forth.
Maya brought the crystal forward. A drop of Dawn’s blood caught on the smooth surface, and a rosy light bloomed in its
depths. Dawn recognized the miniature version of the burst of crackling light, but to Maya, it was breathtakingly beautiful
and terrifying, all at once. It paralyzed her completely.
“What did it…?” Maya asked.
“It’s a tiny gateway. My blood opened it,” Dawn answered flatly. “Use it to find the center of the circle. I’ll stand there to
complete the ritual.”
Maya’s wideset eyes blurred with tears as she stared into the marbled glass. She stumbled away from Dawn, using the
crystal as a divining rod – the irony of that simile wasn’t lost on Dawn either – and before long, the glass shimmered with the
brightness of a self-contained nebula.
“That’s it,” Rachel breathed. “You’ve found it.”
Dawn’s legs felt stiff and uncooperative as she approached the center of the circle, as if her body was leading its private
revolt against what her head had in mind.
She closed her eyes and shut out the noises of the battle below them. She held up the arm she’d already cut and positioned
the athame over her wrist, just as she had done before. There were scars there, faint white traces that she hid under
sleeves and by folding her arms. Scars made by a demon named Doc, who came to finish the job once Glory was gone.
She remembered, then, what Gregor of the Byzantium Order had said, the night Glory caught up to them. He’d called her
the instrument of chaos.
It’s in me, isn’t it, Dawn had asked. It’s inside me. The power to destroy the universe.
Buffy had promised then not to let anything happen to her. And then she died.
Dawn opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” she said, and let the blade bite deep into soft, pliant skin of her arm. But she
didn’t cry. It ran down the inside of her arm and dripped in a claret red rivulet onto the patterned rug.
A bright blue fissure of crackling energy ripped through the floor, sending a violent tremor that knocked everyone in the
building sprawling. Everyone, except Dawn.
A raging wind rose up, tearing at their hair and clothing. Downstairs, the fighting momentarily ceased. Rachel and Maya
scrambled to the edge of the circle, but Dawn raised the fist that clenched the dagger toward them.
“Hold on tight,” Dawn cried over the keening wail of the fissure. “Maya, be ready with your part. And no matter what
happens… don’t try to stop me.”
Her hands no longer trembled as she brought the knife down against her skin. She felt a tugging sensation. That was all. No
pain. No fear. With each drop, with every cut, the fissure widened to engulf the circle, and soon she could see all the way
down.
All the way down into Hell.
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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
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
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
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
.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
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal
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
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal