*************

Chapter 18: The Keen Teeth from the Fierce Tiger's Jaws

She was wary the entire trip back to the apartment, looking over her shoulder at every turn, watching every face for someone else who might be reporting back to the Council. At Buffy’s side, Willow remained silent, pale and vigilant as she kept just as tight a watch, and it was with a breath of relief when both girls firmly locked the apartment door behind them.

“I can’t---,” Willow started, only to be cut off by the Slayer’s upheld hand.

Carefully, Buffy pressed forward into the hall, ears cocked for any telltale sounds of intruders. Her head tilted around the corner to survey the living room, before she disappeared to check out the bedrooms.

“All clear,” she said when she returned. “Not that that doesn’t mean they haven’t been here, but checking for bodies to pummel is about as far as I can go.”

“You don’t---.” Willow stopped and leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a sotto voce whisper. “You don’t think they bugged us, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think any more,” she said. “But we don’t have any place else to go, so we’re just going to have to take our chances and hope Travers thinks he’s done enough. Because, you know, the guy’s a pompous ass who’s used to thinking he can win, and he did get Charles, so I’m going to lay odds he’s sitting in his overstuffed chair, with his overstuffed shirt, and an overstuffed pipe stuck out the side of his mouth, just gloating about how they beat us.”

“Mr. Travers smokes a pipe?”

Buffy shrugged. “I dunno. It just kind of fit the image.”

When the Slayer began heading for the kitchen, Willow followed right on her heels. “Maybe we can go talk to Charles when the Council is done with him,” she offered brightly.

Shaking her head, Buffy pulled open the freezer and took out a small pint of ice cream. “Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to be very accessible when they let him go.”

“But obviously, they think he’s important or something.”

“That’s what it looks like.” Pulling out two spoons, she handed one to Willow before perching herself up on the counter. “That means we need to find out what he knows.”

“How?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

The room was silent as the two girls ate the ice cream from the container, the only sound the occasional clink of their spoons when they’d meet at the pint at the same time. It wasn’t until the treat was almost gone before one of them spoke up again.

“Didn’t you say Mr. Travers kept looking over files and stuff when you went to see him the second time?” Willow asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah.”

“And he didn’t let you see any of it.”

“No. And that Lydia person kept bringing him more, tons more than what they gave me at the first meeting I had with them.”

Willow grew silent again, digging into the corners of the ice cream container for another spoonful. When she’d swallowed it down, she mused, “It’s probably a safe bet to say the Council’s just a little anal about keeping records on everything, huh? I mean, Giles had to get it from somewhere, right?”

She began to see where the redhead might be going with her line of questioning. “There’s no way they’re not going to have some sort of record of Charles’ interrogation when they’re done with him,” Buffy said. Already, she was feeling a little lighter about the situation. “They might even videotape him just to make sure they’re being thorough enough.”

“Or at least an audio transcript. Not to mention all the other records they kept from you. You said they’re interested in Esme, so she’s probably got her own file and everything, too.”

Buffy scraped up the remaining ice cream before setting the container down on the counter. “The trick is to get a look at them,” she said.

“They probably never leave the building.”

“Under lock and key.”

“And magic. Don’t forget how big the Council is on using magic.”

“It’s probably some heavy duty mojo, too. Not exactly a Slayer specialty.”

Willow shook her head. “Maybe not. These are just ordinary files they’d be protecting. Not anything end of the worldish, I don’t think. They could just have the standard set of wards up.”

“That means you could probably get around them,” Buffy said, brightening.

“Uh, no. Even the Council’s basic stuff is beyond my reach right now. They’ve been going at it for centuries, which kind of puts my two years to shame.”

“But you made your magical stick thingy. That’s pretty serious, isn’t it?”

“With Giles’ help. He’s the one who got me on the right track with it.”

“Oh.” She deflated slightly as she lapsed back into thought.

“I could probably handle anything technical they had in place, though,” Willow suggested. “When Giles and I were doing the research on how to track the magic, he gave me what I needed to access some of the Council’s information online. It’s just front door kind of stuff, but once I’m in, I should be able to dig around to get in deeper and see what kind of security measures they have in place.”

Buffy frowned. “Giles gave you computer help? And his head didn’t explode?”

“It was information he got from his friend in Cambridge. Just passwords. Nothing he really paid much attention to.”

It wasn’t a plan she would’ve thought Willow would endorse. Breaking and entering back in Sunnydale was one thing; doing it on foreign soil, with a powerful organization just waiting for such a trick, was entirely different. Still, for lack of anything better, Buffy didn’t really have much of a choice. And if she got caught by the Council, she highly doubted she’d get turned in. She may not be on the proverbial payroll any more, but she was the only active Slayer they had. They couldn’t afford to have her behind bars.

“I guess that’s it then,” Buffy announced, hopping down from the counter. “Into the lion’s den for me.”

“Only after I check out their security,” Willow said.

“Right. We’ll hit them where it hurts Watchers the most. We’ll take away their information at the source.”

*************

Their carriage came to a stop before the Council building, but rather than opening the door to get out, Richard sighed and just stared at the edifice before him. The evening shadows veiled any of the welcome he normally experienced when he approached, turning small windows into gaping dead eyesockets mocking him in his ineptitude. “I cannot shake the feeling that we’re failing somehow,” he said quietly. “There is something we’re missing, some piece of the puzzle that’s managed to escape our attention.”

Rose’s hand was a soothing balm on his arm. “You just need some rest,” she said. “You’ve been without much sleep ever since I discovered the displacements around the Freston house.”

“Yes.” He rubbed wearily at his eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fob off the inquiry onto one of the others. I’m not certain how they would react to hearing about this illusive Slayer young William has somehow associated himself with. I just wish---.”

“Don’t. You mustn’t keep doing this to yourself, Richard. You’ve traveled to so many places, searched so many cities for her. You can’t be seeing her in every dilemma that faces the Council. Even April’s not that omnipotent.” She forced him to look at her. “For all we know, she’s dead, and all your searching is for naught.”

The shake of Richard’s head was firm. “No. She’s still out there. I would know if something had managed to kill her once and for all.”

“Perhaps…” Rose sighed. “No, I suppose asking you to give up this hunt is too much. You’ve spent the last thirty years trying to find her. I can hardly expect you to stop now, not when you’ve covered up so much, killed so many in this madness.”

“It has to be done. There’s no one else to do it.”

Curling into her husband’s side, she set her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “I know,” she said softly. “But it will kill you, Richard. Of that, I have no doubt.” She stiffened when he leaned out the window to address the driver. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going back to young William’s,” he replied. “If I can’t solve my own problems, the least I can do is help young Freston with his.”

*************

It was the most excruciating meal he’d ever endured, worse even than the Sunday dinner at his cousins’ when William was eight, where his Uncle Franklyn had found him scribbling away under the stairwell prior to sitting and proceeded to abuse his poems as napkins and amusement for the duration of the meal. At least then, he could disappear inside his head, pretend that he wasn’t in the presence of such heartlessness and instead lose himself in his own thoughts.

Now, he was forced to remain alert to David’s constant questioning, tense and agitated and fearful that he would somehow say something to exacerbate his situation.

The current topic under discussion was William’s choice of dress. For some reason William couldn’t fathom, David found it personally offensive that someone couldn’t care as much about the current fashions as he did, and was suitably chiding him for his lack of respect for his peers.

“It’s not just about you, you see,” David was saying. He played with the stem of his wine glass, watching the red fluid swirl around inside the crystal. “Everything you do, everything you are, is a reflection on those around you. To hold such disdain for how you present yourself is to show disrespect to me and to everyone else you associate with.”

He had arguments upon arguments to shoot down David’s pompous rhetoric, but they stuck in William’s throat with gangrenous claws that refused to relinquish their purchase upon their hold. His muscles crawled with the active panic so familiar from his youth, and his stomach rebelled against the rich food he’d barely managed to consume. Though he may have gathered some of Buffy’s strength unto his own, enough certainly to handle reading his poetry in semi-public, it would seem that it wasn’t nearly enough to overcome the years of staunch shame David and his peers had been able to instill. He doubted whether all of her Slayer strength would satisfy such a requirement.

“I’m sure you mean to marry some day,” David continued. “Not that I know of anyone who would consent to such an arrangement, given your current presentation, but I’m certain that is your intent, is it not?”

“Of course,” William stammered. Buffy’s face flashed before his inner eye, and he colored at the memory of the wicked smile she’d bestowed upon him during their last encounter, the way her flushed cheeks had glowed, the scent of her slick skin as it moved against his own…

His reaction did not go unnoticed. “Why, William!” David exclaimed, setting down his wine glass. “You sly dog, you! I would never have guessed! Oh, but you must tell me. Who is it that’s captivated you so?”

For the first time since running into the other man, William smiled shyly, his eyes falling to his plate as he played with his fork. “Just a girl,” he said. But the words refused to be held back, and he rushed forward with the need to tell someone---anyone---of the magic that was Buffy. “Though she is the most exquisite creature I’ve ever been privileged to know. She makes me feel as if I can do anything and yet, she does so without any necessity for reciprocity, without asking what I might do for her in return.”

“And do I know this supposed angel?”

Abashed, he shook his head. “I’m afraid her…path would not normally cross your own.”

David’s good humor faded. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve done something as ridiculous as become enamored with one of your staff,” he commented. “Even if it’s that ripe young thing I caught you with the other night, long-term dalliances with inferiors will only create problems for you in the long run.”

“Oh, no, it’s not---.”

“There’s the issue of inheritance down the road,” he went on, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And the risk of public disclosure, not to mention the fact that these girls, while amusing in the short-term, will become increasingly demanding the longer you carry on with them. You’d best to nip this one in the bud, William. Enjoy your little pleasures, and then move on. Life is much simpler that way.”

He was saved from rebuttal by the butler’s appearance at the dining room door.

“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a young lady who says she’s hear to see you. She says it’s a matter of life and death.”

David’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Did she give you her card?”

“No, sir. She is of the opinion that you will wish to speak with her. She is an associate of Mr. Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw.”

William paled at the Watcher’s name, his fork clattering clumsily to the table. Had something averse happened to Richard? A quick glance at David told him that his dining companion didn’t recognize the name, so surely, it must be someone looking for himself. If that was the case, it had to be someone from the Council, and yet, none of them were supposed to know of the particulars of his predicament.

“Is she alone?” David asked the butler.

“Yes, sir.”

“And her dress? Is she indigent?”

“Oh, no, sir. Quite elegantly presented.”

David nodded. Tossing his napkin onto the table, he started to rise, only to be stopped when William’s hand shot out to grab his arm.

“What are you doing?” William asked.

“I’m going to meet her, of course,” came the reply. He pulled himself easily away from the smaller man’s grip.

“I…I…I don’t think that’s wise. You don’t know her. She could be dangerous.”

The latter made David laugh out loud. “Really, William, you have the most ludicrous notions sometimes. I’m sure it’s just a prank of some sort. Or a simple misunderstanding of residence.” He laughed again. “She’s a woman traveling alone. How dangerous could she be?”

How dangerous indeed, William thought as he rushed to follow David to the front door. He would never have presumed Buffy Summers to be dangerous until she’d demonstrated it for him; unfortunately, his neighbor had no such experience to temper his actions.

The butler stood behind the open door as they approached, and both approaching men frowned. “You could at least have shown her to the drawing room,” David chastised.

“She declined, sir,” the butler answered. “She said---.”

“She is right here and can speak for herself.” The owner of the slightly accented voice stood on the doorstep, and all eyes turned to greet her. Though her voice was deep and confident, it was in stark contrast with her age. The young woman could not have been much more than eighteen, with porcelain skin and raven-black hair drawn up in curls that still managed to appear seductive where the stray tendril escaped to trail her long neck. The arch of her high cheekbones and slight tilt of her light brown eyes betrayed her Slavic heritage, while the corpulent curve of her lips offered secrets of its own, and she held herself with a definitive power that seemed oddly familiar to William.

“Which one of you is David Howard?” she asked, her gaze darting between them.

“I am.” David stepped forward with a confused smile. “My apologies, but I’m unsure as to your presence here. Do we know each other?”

“No. We have a mutual friend who is rather in trouble at the moment.” A gloved hand came up to her forehead, and her eyes fluttered closed. For a moment, William was convinced she was going to faint, but then she spoke again. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a glass of water, Mr. Howard? I’m afraid it’s been a long journey for me, and I’m…” She began to sway, only to catch herself before she fell. “I’m not exactly…feeling well.”

He was the very model of solicitude. “Oh, yes, of course, do come in.” Holding his arm out, David stepped forward to aid her, only to be met halfway when she crossed the threshold on her own. “Bring in some tea,” he instructed the butler as he led the young woman away from the front door. “We shall take our afters in the drawing room.”

William hung back when the doors closed behind him, and watched in growing trepidation as David escorted the mysterious girl to the chaise. His nerves were skittering to and fro, as if an instinct deep inside him sensed something amiss, but he could see nothing foreboding about their guest, other than her unfortunate dropping of Richard’s name. Her attire told him she was moneyed, and her manner fitted that of any other female in her station. And yet, there was a sensation of something more about her, of control being held in tight restraint, as if the wrong word or incorrect gesture could unleash a dervish of frightening proportions. And it was that which kept him as far from her as he could manage.

“What is your name?” David queried.

She smiled. “You may call me April.”

His brows drew together. “And yet, you’re not English.”

“No,” she agreed. “But…my father was, and being the sentimental sort, gave me the name for the month in which I was born.”

They grew quiet when the door opened again, forcing William to scuttle sideways out of its path, and the butler entered with a silver tray laden with tea and sweets. As he served, William found a seat at the window, settling himself equidistant from the door and the pair who were now diverted with their drinks. Though he was grateful to no longer be the target of David’s attention, neither was he happy with the awkwardness of the present situation, and he kept his silence even after the butler had adjourned.

They were making small talk, an effort at which William was an abysmal failure, and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught David taking a seat on the chaise directly next to his guest. It was a bold move, but then so was David and thus, to be expected. With a small sigh, William turned his gaze out through the wispy curtains.

April’s carriage sat in front of the house, a dark shadow made even darker by the lack of a moon that night. Leaning against its side was a tall, thin man, his features indistinguishable, while a boy of eight or nine scampered about the wheels. When the boy’s amusement caused him to stumble into the man’s legs, his reaction was swift, a hand around the boy’s neck and a powerful shove that sent the child in an extraordinary arc across the garden.

William leapt from his seat and swiveled to see where the boy had landed. Through the hazy reflection of the room behind him, he could barely make out the unmoving mass, and turned worried eyes back to a waiting April.

“Your boy,” he said. “I believe he might be hurt.”

She shook her head with a husky laugh. “He and Nathan are just playing, I’m sure,” she said. “They do that.”

“But---.”

“Stop worrying Miss April,” David commanded. He rose to his feet. “Really, William, if you continue to behave in such a manner, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Oh, but he can’t go yet,” April said, standing as well. “I haven’t conducted my business yet.”

“You don’t need William for that---,” David started. He was cut off with a gurgle when her hand shot out and wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air.

“But I do, Mr. Howard,” she said with a smile. “I need someone to convey my message as it’s obvious Richard is no longer here.”

As a frozen William watched, her face shifted into a monstrous visage, ridges erupting from her brow as her brown eyes lightened to gold. The fangs she now sported were quickly embedded in David’s neck before he could scream, and she held his struggling body tightly against hers as she drank from his veins.

The sight of the blood dripping down her lips was enough to rock William from his daze, and he bolted for the drawing room door. He skidded to a halt, however, when she beat him there, his eyes jumping back to where she’d dropped David’s lifeless body to the carpet before lifting again to gaze at April’s.

“Like a scared little mouse,” she commented, and licked at the blood that still clung to her mouth. “I can smell your fear, you know. It’s quite the aphrodisiac.”

She wasn’t making a move to hurt him, he realized, just barring him from running from the room. What was it she’d said to David? I need someone to convey my message. She wanted him to be that someone.

As bravely as he could muster, William lifted his chin. “What is it you need of Richard?” he asked. Though he did everything he could to prevent it, there was no mistaking the quaver in his voice when he spoke, and his lack of control made him inwardly cringe.

Her demon mask slipped away, revealing April’s otherwise warm smile. “So you know him, too,” she said. Her gaze raked over his rumpled suit, his disheveled curls, before alighting onto his spectacles. “I should’ve known you were a Watcher. Rather foolish of David, though, to invite me into his house, don’t you think?”

He ignored her question. “You said…you said you had a message?”

“Yes.” She was back to business now, straightening her dress before holding out her arm to him. “Walk with me, William.”

He had no choice but to obey, and followed her lead as they stepped from the drawing room and out the front door. Such close proximity revealed both the tepid temperature of her skin and the power within her grasp, and the goosebumps that erupted along his flesh startled William into an involuntary shudder. As their feet measured the distance of the front path toward the carriage, he allowed his eyes to jump to the still unmoving form of the boy in the garden. He doubted there was anything he could do now to help the lad, though the wish to do so overwhelmed him.

“Richard and I have the most unfortunate timing,” she said casually as they strolled. “We keep missing each other in our travels, which is really quite the shame considering how far we go back.” They came to a stop at the road and she released her grip on him to glide effortlessly into her waiting companion’s arms. “I’m prepared to change all that, William. If you would be so kind as to tell Richard that I’m in London, and that he doesn’t have his new minion to toy with any longer, I’d be forever in your debt.”

There was no obligation in her tone, and he knew that the vampire affected the graciousness as just another part of her game. Hadn’t Buffy prepared him for such an eventuality by telling him of some of the more cunning of her prey? He just had never imagined ever experiencing it firsthand.

William nodded, though the question that had lingered in the back of his mind refused to quit his thoughts. “Why haven’t you killed me as well?” he blurted, the adrenaline, and the fear, and the sickening sense of vertigo overwhelming his better sense.

“Because I need you,” she said simply. He stiffened when she suddenly leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his and inhaling deeply. “I know your scent now,” April whispered. “I can find you, no matter where you hide. And I’ve decided that you shall be my daytime liaison to Richard.” Cool lips caressed the hollow beneath his ear, causing a ripple of tremors to undulate throughout William’s body. “Congratulations.”

She was laughing when he stumbled backwards. “Run along, little Watcher,” she singsonged, and his stomach lurched when her vampire face emerged again. “I do believe I’m going to partake of Mr. Howard’s hospitality for a little longer. You’re welcome to stay, of course…”

Her words dissolved into wicked mirth as his feet finally listened to his head’s instruction, and William fled into the murky night.

*************

Chapter 19: The Story of Thy Days

They stared up at the stone edifice, the tiny windows black and foreboding, darker even than the night sky that pressed down from above. Behind them, the early morning hour made the London street sound hollow in its vacancy, and the lack of life made Buffy all too aware of her heart beating evenly inside her chest.

“And we’re sure this is going to work?” Willow whispered at her side.

“You tell me,” Buffy whispered back. “It was your brilliant idea.”

“Don’t say brilliant! What if it goes kaplooie? I’m not sure I really want that kind of pressure.”

“It’s no big. It’ll just be the end of the free world as we know it.” At Willow’s horror-struck eyes, Buffy poked her playfully in the ribs. “I’m kidding. Everything will be fine. And why exactly are we whispering?”

Uncomfortable, the redhead shifted the bag on her shoulder, wincing under the weight. “Can we go over the plan one more time?” she asked.

There was a creak from the alley that ran alongside the Council building, and both girls turned their head to see the sliver of light that was exposed by the side door opening from it. Around the door’s edge appeared a slim pale hand, followed immediately by Lydia’s ramrod figure. Her unsmiling gaze met Buffy’s and she lifted a condescending brow as she stepped further out to allow the two girls to enter past her.

“Too late,” the Slayer murmured, and began striding forward, her pace more confident than she felt.

*************

He wasn’t intoxicated, not yet at least. But, to William, the flicker of firelight through the amber in his glass was almost as hypnotic as the alcohol, dancing and swirling and churning in time with the rhythms inside his head, and the room began to dip and sway unbidden around him as he visually drowned in the ambient gold. He’d toyed with the intention of calling on Richard directly upon fleeing the Howard estate, but etiquette and his shaky nerves had quickly dispelled that notion, sending him instead to his home and the whisky that was kept for special guests. William wasn’t a drinker. Tonight, however, he was prepared to amend that.

Only luck and David’s over-confidence had saved William’s life, of that he was certain. Though he had contemplated the issue of his own mortality prior to the evening’s events, it had only ever been in the abstract. Even hearing of Buffy’s daily life and death confrontations hadn’t prepared him for the inevitability of facing it himself. Why should he? Her existence, while bestowing such vitality to his, was still so very much separate to anything he’d known, could ever know…or that had been his assumption, even after he’d encountered Richard and the Council on his own.

But he’d walked away from death tonight, and she had laughed as he fled, and William wasn’t entirely convinced that what he’d done was the right thing. A coward to the end, he thought bitterly as he took another sip of the whisky. Or even to the not-such-an-end.

He almost didn’t hear the distant neigh of the horses as a carriage rolled to a stop out on the street. Briefly, his eyes flickered to the closed curtains, but his curiosity stopped there, too weary to rise unnecessarily from his seat, too disconnected to care beyond the immediacy of his own situation. Not even the knock at his front door was enough to rend his attention from the whisky, the atypical thought that’s what the staff is for keeping him in his seat.

After a timid knock that went unanswered, the drawing room door opened to reveal a nervous Meg. “Pardon, sir,” she said, “but there’s callers.”

William waved his hand in vague dismissal. “It’s late,” he said abruptly. “Tell whoever it is to go home to their beds and praise their God that they’re able to do so.”

“Oh.” She didn’t seem to know what to do with his response, and frowned as her gaze darted back over her shoulder. “But it’s that Mr. Rhodes-Fanshaw again,” she started, and then jumped back in surprise when William leapt to his feet.

“Send him in.” Mere mention of the Watcher was seemingly enough to resuscitate William, and his eyes blazed as they remained fixed on the door.

With a curtsey, Meg backed out of the room, the muffled sound of her voice emanating from the hall before Richard took her place in the doorway. Directly behind him stood Rose, but it was only the Watcher that William could see at the moment.

“I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses,” Richard began. He was cut off by William’s sharp bark of laughter, completely bereft of mirth.

“And yet I wonder if it might not be better to be rid of them,” he said.

Rose pushed her way past her husband, a worried frown on her face as she approached the fireplace. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He skittered away before she could get close enough to touch him, his head ducking as he ran a shaky hand through his already disheveled curls. “Can you not see?” he asked, and his voice dripped with a sarcasm that shocked even him. He began to pace in front of the window. “I can. I have. Too, too much. And it makes me wish to hide behind walls that know nothing of Watchers, and monsters, and cowardice. Where I can return to my words with innocence I fear I will never know again.”

Richard’s eyes flitted to the tumbler sitting on the table by the hearth, his gaze hardening when it returned to William’s. “You’re drunk.”

“No,” the younger man shot back. “But oh, how I wish I were.”

“You have to calm down,” Rose said gently. “Something’s obviously agitated you---.”

“Not something. Someone.” William came to a halt. “Did you know that I witnessed a man’s murder tonight? In his own home, yet.” He gestured toward Rose. “He was standing no farther away than you are from me now, and still, I was powerless to do anything but stand and gawp like a terrified child. I finally ran, of course, but it was too late for him. Too late for either of us, really. He was already dead, and I was already bearing the brand of my weakness.”

“Were you hurt?” asked Rose.

“Only my pride, but then that’s not exactly a sturdy beast, now is it?”

Richard sighed. “It’s late, William, and we are all tired. Why don’t you come with us and get a good night’s rest in our home instead of here tonight? We can discuss what exactly happened in the morning.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m safe here. As long as I don’t invite her in, this house should be impermeable to her attacks, should it not? That’s the lore of the vampire, if I’m not mistaken.”

The look shot between Richard and Rose was unmistakable. “You saw a vampire attack?” he queried. “And you walked away from it unharmed?”

“She let me go. With a message. By the grace of hell itself, I was rescued from a similar fate as David’s, though I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps he did not receive the better bargain.”

“A message?” asked Rose. “What kind of message?”

But William’s attention was trained on Richard, both sets of eyes riveted to the other as silent understanding passed between them. “I think the time for asking me questions has passed,” William said. “You had your turn, and now it’s mine.” His head tilted in furious interest. “Tell me, Richard. Just who exactly is April?”

*************

“Here’s the drill.” In the dark corridor deep within the bowels of the Council building, to Willow, Buffy still somehow seemed to be larger than life as she stared down the female Watcher who’d accompanied them downstairs. “I’m tired of playing games with you guys, but if you’re straight with me, I’ll be straight with you.”

“I would expect nothing less from the Slayer,” the Watcher said, just as evenly.

It failed to get a rise from Buffy. “You want what I know about Spike, I want what you know about Esme. Fair exchange of information, right?”

“Correct.”

“Except here’s the part I don’t get, Lydia. How do I know you’re not going to run off and tell Travers that I’m here?” Buffy’s eyes were cold. “Why go behind your boss’ back at all?”

“Because you have information I can’t get anyplace else,” came the curt reply. “People who encounter William the Bloody don’t usually survive to tell the tale. Getting your input is an opportunity I can’t afford to miss.”

“Even if it means showing me the files on the sly?”

“Like I told you when you rang, there is very little in those files that Mr. Travers himself hasn’t already shown or told you about. If he were to find out about your presence here---which he won’t, as I promised---it’s unlikely to cause any real damage to his investigation.”

“There’s risk to you, though. You could get fired or something.”

“Highly doubtful. Mr. Travers doesn’t operate that way.” For the first time since greeting them at the door, Lydia smiled. “I may not understand some of his decisions regarding you, but when it comes to how he manages the Council, there are protocols that even Mr. Travers cannot bend.”

Buffy nodded. Lydia’s explanation was essentially the same as she’d explained to the two girls on the phone when they’d called, but hearing it live and in Technicolor seemed to be all the Slayer needed to confirm the truth in it. Not that Willow was sure of anything in this little scenario. It might’ve been her initial idea, but she hadn’t really expected Buffy to run with it the way she had. And she especially hadn’t expected to be standing in a dank English building in the wee hours of the morning carrying a bag she desperately hoped wouldn’t get searched.

“So how’s this going to work?” Buffy asked. “You sit me down and ask me some questions while Willow copies the files?”

Lydia’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “There will be no copying,” she said. Reaching between the two girls, she pushed open the door that they were standing in front of. “Miss Rosenberg may read over the files and take notes, but that is the extent of what I can allow.”

“But that’s not good enough.”

Doing her best to disappear into the wall, Willow listened to the argument between the two women, knowing full well that Buffy was doing it all for show. It didn’t matter whether or not they were allowed to copy the files. They were walking out with them in hand, whether Lydia approved of it or not. Buffy just wanted to make it look believable by being as difficult as possible up front.

The redhead glanced into the room behind her. It was tiny, barely eight feet by eight feet, with a table and two chairs against one wall. A small stack of file folders was on one corner of the table, while on the opposite corner, a pen rested on a stapled bundle. In between was a phone, and her eyes followed the cord from its back to where it disappeared into the wall. Bingo, she thought.

“That should be OK, Buffy,” she interrupted with a bright smile. “You know me and my notes. That’s as good a copy any day.”

Buffy’s eyes followed where Willow had just turned from, and after only a short moment, she swiveled again to Lydia and said, “OK, so what about our little interview?”

“I’ve prepared a written questionnaire, if you remember, Miss Summers. You should find the half hour I’ve managed to secure for you to look over the files sufficient time to complete at least a portion of it.” Stepping past them into the room, she pulled out the two chairs, and waited for the girls to take the seats. “As you can see from its rather austere furnishings, the Council doesn’t use this room very often.” She pointed into the bare corners. “It’s one of only three that aren’t even on our internal surveillance system, so you should feel completely secure.”

Buffy’s voice stopped her before Lydia had left the room. “You know this obsession you have with Spike borders on the incredibly sick, don’t you?” she said to the Watcher when she looked back at the girls. “Not that it doesn’t work to my advantage right now, but I would’ve thought someone as smart as you wouldn’t be taken in by a little bit of bleach and leather.”

Lydia smiled. “You underestimate William,” she said. “As I told you before, he’s not your typical vampire. Perhaps you’ve failed to best him because you don’t truly understand what a complex creature he truly is. Now. You have thirty minutes.”

When the door was closed, Buffy turned back to Willow, shaking her head. “You try to help a girl,” she complained, “and she runs upstairs into the arms of the boogeyman anyway. Go figure.”

“Some people just can’t be helped,” Willow agreed. Rising from her chair, she reached behind the phone and pulled out the cable, letting it fall to the floor as she knelt to where she’d placed her bag. Under Buffy’s watchful eye, she pulled out her laptop and a second cable, and proceeded to hook herself into the outlet on the wall, settling down Indian-style under the table.

“You OK down there?” Buffy asked.

“Just peachy.”

“We’ve got twenty-nine minutes. I got us inside the building. Now you’re sure you can get us inside their system?”

Willow sighed, eyes intent on the screen in front of her as her fingers flew over the keyboard. Her exploration at the apartment of the Council’s computer systems had showed her that once a certain point was reached within their files, a magical barrier prevented further breach. She’d posited a theory to Buffy about how to get past it, mostly as a launching point for brainstorming on what to do, only to be shocked when the Slayer thought it was doable. Now, she could only keep her fingers crossed that her hypothesis wasn’t a load of hooey.

“I’ll do everything I can,” she said out loud. And meant it.

*************

His guests were silent in the aftermath of his query, and as the seconds lapsed into minutes, with the twist of Rose’s head to stare at her husband and the falling of the logs in the fireplace the only movements in that time, William felt the wrenching in his stomach begin to worsen, his hands start to shake as the wait grew interminable.

“You saw her,” Richard finally said. His normally healthy complexion had taken on an ashen cast, but his eyes glittered in unexpected fervor. “How…did she…was she…?”

Each aborted question drew Rose closer to her husband, her worry rightly transposed with an alacrity William didn’t fully comprehend. Richard shrugged her off when she reached out to him, though, opting instead to move closer to the younger man.

“Tell me everything she did,” he demanded. “What she said, what she looked like. Everything.”

William shook his head. “I escape death, and you expect a narrative of the ordeal only minutes after? I’m not one of your Slayers you can bend to your every whim, sir. And might I add, you came to me. It is your fault I was meant to die tonight.” He lifted his chin, the small amount of alcohol he’d consumed fortifying his courage. “Don’t think that because I may not be as…assertive as yourself that I’m so willing to just lie down and accept such a fate. If that’s your purpose, we quit this alliance tonight. I shall find my mother on my own.”

His proclamation shamed Richard’s tirade, causing him to hesitate. “But…you said she killed another. That she deliberately chose you to live.”

“Only because she arrived with specific intent. I was dining at David Howard’s residence.” He didn’t wait to process the shock of his guests before repeating his question. “Now. Who exactly is she?”

Heavily, Richard sank into the settee at his side. “April’s the vampire who killed my wife.” At William’s startled glance to Rose, the Watcher sighed. “My first wife.”

*************

Twelve minutes. And Willow hadn’t said a word since she’d started, her fingers never stopping on her laptop’s keyboard.

Buffy was dying to ask her how it was going.

Lydia’s questionnaire sat in front of her, taunting her with the derivative queries that so fascinated the Watcher. While she waited for Willow to give her the word, Buffy scribbled half-hearted responses, feeling very much like she was scamming her way through a history test she hadn’t studied for, knowing that if their plan didn’t work, she would need something to be able to show Lydia. After all, the arrangement had been made in good faith. If it failed---.

“Buffy.”

She jumped at Willow’s voice, though the faintness of it did not bode well. “Do you have them?” she asked.

“Ummm…no.” There was no mistaking her apologetic tone. “I got more than I did back at the apartment, and I can see some stuff I couldn’t before, like…did you know there’s this whole huge file on the Watcher who had the figures? That Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw? All the stuff about how his Slayer and first wife got killed, and how his second wife went missing. I don’t remember seeing any of this when Giles and I were going over the records---.”

“Did I mention we’ve only got fifteen minutes left?”

“Oh. Right.” The sound of scrabbling preceded the redhead from popping out from beneath the table. “Well, remember that security wall I hit back at the apartment?” she said. “I found it again.”

“The magic one?”

“That would be it.”

“Is it really that bad? Now that you can see it up close and personal, I mean.”

“In the mystical world, we’re talking the Great Wall of China.”

“Damn it,” Buffy muttered. Her face was solemn, her mind racing. “I guess it’s time then,” she said with a sigh, and began to reach for the bag the redhead had carried in.

Willow clapped her hand over the bag’s top, blocking her friend from getting into it. “I still think this is a bad idea,” she said.

“Do you think it’s not going to work?”

“I told you. I’m just afraid that it might work too well.”

But she had been. And she still was, in spite of Willow’s protestations to the contrary.

“Tell me there’s another way to break through in the next ten minutes and I won’t do it,” Buffy said.

They both knew the answer to that, and slowly, Willow pulled her hand away, allowing the Slayer access to the stick inside. When the redhead curled her knees into her chest, ducking her head down to avoid Buffy’s gaze, she muttered, “Time to assume crash positions.”

*************

“It was 1848,” Richard said, and his eyes were fogged from the memory replaying inside his head. “I was living in Warsaw with my first wife when my Slayer was Chosen. We’d been in Poland for almost a decade training Masia. Her parents had been killed during an insurrection against the Russians, and so she’d come to live with us when she was nine years old. She had just turned eighteen when she was called. To be honest, I had begun to hope she wouldn’t be called at all.”

The Watcher seemed to have aged years just in the time since he’d first entered the drawing room. Though William watched him with more than a little anger and frustration at his cavalier attitude toward the events at the Howard home, he couldn’t help but feel the rising pity for the older man begin to swell inside him. The events of the past still plagued him, and William suspected relating the story aloud was but a shadow of the tale that must relive within him every single waking moment.

“It wasn’t as if she wasn’t prepared,” Richard continued. “She was an excellent student. Cunning. Resourceful. Strong-willed. Oftentimes, I just sat back and allowed her free rein as she approached an enemy. She frequently surprised me in her methodology for dispatching the demons. What she lacked in strength and speed prior to being Chosen, she made up for in craftiness. Then afterwards, she seemed unstoppable. Warsaw’s demon population took a dramatic downturn once Masia was the Slayer.” His face softened, his eyes shone. “I was so proud of her.”

“You loved her.”

“As my own,” Richard confirmed. He chuckled, shaking his head. “I was reprimanded on more than one occasion for what the Council referred to as an unhealthy attachment to my Slayer. ‘She is destined to die,’ they were fond of telling me. ‘You’ll only make it worse for yourself by strengthening the ties.’ But I didn’t care. I ignored their requests to move back to England and silently prayed that I would never be forced to watch this beautiful, brave young woman die.”

When he lapsed into silence, William took the seat opposite him, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees to intently study the Watcher’s face. “Did this April kill her?” he asked, and the resurgence of his ire began to flow away from his guests and back toward the demon who’d mocked his weakness. “Is this why she hunts you down even today?”

“In a manner of speaking,” came the eventual reply. Richard’s heavy sigh was accompanied by the passing of his hand over his eyes, and it was only when Rose stepped forward to rest her hand on her husband’s shoulder that the Watcher was able to look up again.

“It was spring, and Masia and I had averted a minor disaster by destroying a sect of Iphrogia demons who were attempting to locate some mystical Key they were convinced would give them the power to open transdimensional portals. The Council had concerns about a Hellmouth forming in the New World, and they were attempting to convince me to take Masia there to fight it. None of us wanted to go. Warsaw had become our home, and we were tired, and traveling was the last thing any of us wished to do at that time. I begged off on replying, and instead chose to schedule a brief holiday for us. A…reprieve from the stresses slaying was creating. I didn’t bother to inform the Council where we were going. I was young, and arrogant, and convinced nothing consequential would occur.” His eyes fluttered closed again as he sank further into his seat. “I was so very wrong.”

“What happened?” William prompted when the Watcher remained quiet.

“We were attacked.” Richard’s tone was muted, dripping from the pain of remembering, and the lines around his eyes deepened with each passing syllable. “Our coach was delayed, so our arrival at the country house I’d leased for the week was postponed until the small hours of the morning. I’ll admit, I dozed as we traveled. As did my wife. I was wakened by the horses’ screams, and the next thing I knew, the coach’s doors were torn from their hinges and we were dragged from within.

“They were vampires, a group of them. I was never able to determine exactly how many, though it wouldn’t surprise me to find that there were at least half a dozen. The fact that we were ill-prepared for such an attack was entirely my fault. I hadn’t accounted for traveling at night, and our late departure meant that more than half our journey was spent under the cover of dark. So when Masia began to fight, I had little to offer her in the way of weapons.”

“But she was the Slayer,” William said. “And you said she was resourceful.”

Richard nodded. “True. But she was also tired, and I failed to take that into consideration. She’d only killed one of them before they gained the upper hand. I was attempting to defend myself when I heard her scream for help, and after I’d managed to stake the vampire I was fighting, I looked up…” His voice broke, and it took several long breaths before Richard was able to resume. “Two of them were holding Masia, but two others had my wife in their clutches as well. The shadows seemed to pulse with all that evil, but all I could see was my wife’s eyes. She was so terrified. Though she knew of what we did, she never came into contact with it, not directly, and she was virtually helpless against their attacks.”

“Richard…” Rose murmured, but he didn’t respond to the consolation she was offering. Instead, he rose from his seat and turned to the fireplace, staring down into the flames.

“Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder if I would’ve done it differently,” he said. “But regardless of how many times I pose the question, and how many ways I present the situation, the facts remain the same. Masia could defend herself. My wife could not. There was no other way.”

“You attempted to rescue the woman you love,” William said.

“No,” Richard replied. “I did rescue one of the women I loved.” His hand gripped the mantle, his knuckles white. “When Masia saw me help not her but my wife instead, she began to fight again, so desperate was she to live. It distracted the vampires sufficiently for me to free my wife and get her to the horses, but by the time I’d turned back to aid my Slayer…they were already feeding from her, like a living trough, and I could only watch as they drained her very essence.”

William frowned. “But…I thought you said your wife was killed by this April,” he commented. “What does any of this have to do with that particular event?”

“So impatient,” Richard murmured. He glanced back at the younger man, sadness hiding his eyes from scrutiny. “You remind me so much of myself when I was your age.”

“April assumed I was a Watcher.”

A smile. “Yes. She would.”

“Was she part of the group that attacked your coach? Were you not able to get away?”

“We made it all the way back to Warsaw. My wife was shaken, but unharmed, and I put her to rest immediately before setting off to communicate with the Council. They knew of Masia’s death before I told them, of course. Another had already been Chosen, and I was instructed to return to England as soon as possible for interrogation. They weren’t interested in my mourning. Only in what I could provide for them for their precious annals.”

This time, when Richard stopped speaking, William held his tongue, reluctant to prod his elder even deeper into the anguish relaying the tale was causing. As heated as he’d become at being used as a pawn in the Watcher’s odd relationship with the female vampire, and as bothered as he was at his own cowardice in dealing with his situation, he couldn’t just ignore the distress that was visibly tearing Richard apart. Thirty years of grief poured out in his every word, and not even Rose’s comforting hand could act as a balm against it. It was inconceivable that William could allow himself to add to an already appalling state of affairs by reverting the attention back to his own attack.

“We took our time packing,” Richard said. “Neither my wife nor I were in a hurry to return to London. Warsaw had become our home, and it was only the prospect of continuing without Masia that convinced us to go in the first place. I remember the weather turned, as it does in the spring, and we became housebound while it rained for days on end. So when she showed up on our doorstep, soaked to the skin and begging for our aid, my wife did the only thing she would even consider. She invited Masia inside.”

“But she was dead. You said…you watched her die. And the Council…”

“I know. And my wife knew. But in that moment, facing those eyes, hearing her tears and the story of how she’d fought to get away…I doubt even I would’ve been able to think rationally.”

Memories of the vampire’s words when she’d been speaking to David all of a sudden clamored for space inside William’s head.

“They turned her,” William said unnecessarily. When Richard turned his back on him again to stare into the fire, the younger man rose from his seat to stand at his side. “But why would she come to you? Surely, she knew you would try to kill her. That’s what you do.”

“No, that’s what Masia did. I merely created the killer. Molded her into the perfect hunter. And then when she needed me the most, I betrayed her. I chose someone else, and the demon couldn’t forgive me for that. So she took from me the only love I had left at the time.”

“Masia did.”

The look Richard shot William was fierce. “Masia is dead. April is the one who walks this earth wearing my Slayer’s face. I refuse to allow that creature desecrate everything Masia accomplished during her lifetime by honoring her with her name.”

“And yet…she’s still alive. In all this time, all these years…you haven’t killed her.”

He wasn’t expecting the slump of utter defeat in the Watcher’s shoulders. “No,” Richard conceded. “Not for lack of trying, but every time the opportunity would arise…” A dry rasp took on the mantle of humor as the laughter erupted from Richard’s chest. “And now she’s here,” he gasped. “And all my years of trying to undo what she has done mean nothing because it isn’t about that any more. She wishes the battle to finally be over.” Bright eyes returned to William’s face. “I am sincerely sorry, my boy. It was never my intent to subject you to my own melodrama. You’d be best to leave London for the time being. My company is hardly safe any longer.”

“But you need me,” William blurted before he could stop himself. “She claims to want me as her liaison to you, and should I run…she can find me, she says. Is that a lie?”

“No.”

“So I have no choice but to stay.”

“There is always a choice. It’s just that, often, one of the alternatives is unacceptable.”

As they lapsed into silence, William knew that his mind was already made up. He had run once that evening, confronted the face of evil and fled from its threat, heedless of the repercussions of how his actions might be perceived by others. Buffy would never learn of his cowardice except from his own tongue, but he would know, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t be able to meet the valor of her gaze without feeling like a failure should he let it rest at that.

“You need me,” he repeated. “Just as I need your aid in finding my mother. You promised me that you would do everything in your power to help me, so the very least I can do is offer you the same.”

“You would do that?” Richard asked, incredulous. “After everything April did to you this evening? Why?”

Because it’s what Buffy would do, he thought to himself. Because I owe it to her to try. But out loud, William merely said, “Because I grow weary of being frightened. Because I’d rather die a right death than live a coward’s life.”

*************

Even Buffy felt the reverberations of the magic as she broke the stick over her knee. Like a resonant call from deep within her bones, the power erupted from its prison with the full force of a hurricane gale, rocking the Slayer in her place and slamming Willow into the far wall with a distinctive crack.

The witch crumpled to the floor, a cry of pain escaping her lips as her ankle twisted beneath her.

“Willow!” Buffy cried out, rushing to her side.

“Whoa,” Willow breathed, and brought a trembling hand up to her forehead. “I’m going to say that kind of worked.”

“Are you OK?”

The Slayer’s arm slipped around her friend’s shoulders, guiding to her feet. “I’ll live,” Willow replied. “Which is always a good thing, right?” Her worried eyes went to the door. “I’ve got a sneaky feeling that someone out there’s going to know what we just did, though.”

“Me, too.” Leaving Willow propped against the wall, Buffy crossed to the door and slyly pulled it open. The hall was deserted, all lights still out, and she hastily closed it again. “The coast is clear for now, but that fifteen minutes we had before is probably more like five now. Can you get what we need off the computer in that amount of time?”

Wincing, the witch stepped back to her laptop, crouching to work hurriedly on its keyboard. Almost immediately, the lines between her brows disappeared. “It’s already done,” she said in awe. “The overload must’ve acted as a propellant or something on the system. All the files I was trying to get are on here.” Her fingers flew across the keys. “I wonder why that is,” she mused thoughtfully.

“Wonder later,” Buffy prompted. “Run away now.”

“Right.”

*************

Lydia’s computer froze at the same moment the alarms began to peal inside the library. Frowning, she glanced away from the security cameras she’d been monitoring to see the books that were usually held in stasis behind the magical shielding fall from their position, toppling to the shelf below and creating a cascade effect that turned the otherwise normally quiet room into a madhouse.

As she leapt to her feet, there was no doubt in the Watcher’s mind about what exactly could’ve caused this.

She only hoped that Buffy Summers had at least filled out part of the questionnaire, since it was going to be her fault when Lydia got fired.

*************

She was watching April rising from her bed, fed and strong enough to stand on her own two feet, when Esme collapsed against the wall of the cave. It was as if a vacuum had suddenly appeared inside her chest, sucking at her strength with the ferocity of a starving beast, leaving the elderly witch dizzy and confused as the earthen walls spun around her.

“I think your witch is broken,” April commented to Nathan. She sniffed at the air as she approached where Esme had fallen, the lanky male vampire at her heels, and grimaced in distaste. “She reeks of Watchers.” Her head swiveled to stare at him. “Is this the best you could do?”

“She brought you back, darling,” he rushed in explanation. “She was the one who was able to break the enchantment.”

Light brown eyes fell back to the floor. “And she’s still alive…why?”

Esme watched Nathan hesitate. Fear still lingered deep within his aspect, but twisted with it was the desire to please the woman he’d fought so hard to bring back. In her weakened state, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop both of them, not with her body still reeling from the effects of whatever it was that had just sapped her strength. So, she spoke up before he could.

“Because you need me,” Esme said. “Because I can offer you power you’ve only dreamed of.”

The corner of April’s mouth lifted. “I’m already powerful, old woman. So unless you’re suggesting I make you dinner, I don’t think there’s anything I need from you.”

Gathering together her last remaining power, Esme muttered under her breath, her fingers swirling before her. A glowing orb appeared in front of the two vampires, the faint outline of a sleeping William barely visible within it, and April hissed as her clawed hand swiped it into swirling motes that dissipated in the close air.

“I know your enemy, Slayer,” Esme said quietly. “It would be wise to keep me as an ally.”

April didn’t say a word as she backed toward the entrance to the cave, her eyes unwavering as they regarded the witch. It wasn’t until she was outlined against the moonlight that the vampire spoke again.

“My enemy is the Council and everything associated with it,” she said. “That includes you. Now, you may be able to conjure pictures of dead men, and you may be responsible for whatever magic got me free of Richard’s little glass fetish, but I’m not interested in parlor tricks. Right now, I’m interested in dinner. If you don’t want to be dessert, I suggest you be gone before I return.”

As the two vampires disappeared into the night, Esme knew the threats that had been uttered weren’t idle. She’d been given a temporary bye due to her small show of power, but once April had fed, once her strength was rejuvenated even further, there would be no mercy. Esme would be dead if she stayed. Without her power---and the question of just what could have drained her so was not forgotten, even in light of her current predicament---she was no match for the demons. And she couldn’t be sure when her magic would return.

She had no choice. Well, she did have a choice, but the option of becoming April’s nightcap was hardly an acceptable one. She would have to leave the caves and wait until she’d regained a sufficient portion of her powers again before approaching the Slayer about the compensation she was owed.

At least she still had the Watcher and William’s mother in her keeping. If all else failed, she always had them as bargaining chips. If April refused to cooperate, perhaps the current Slayer would.

*************

Chapter 20: Hush the Night

His hands shook. Without the immediacy of his distress, or the stalwart presence of Richard and Rose, William found it impossible to restrain the panic that suffused his muscles, wresting their control from him and causing them to tremble violently of their own accord. Even tightening his grip around his quill as he attempted to write down the events of the day did nothing to diminish the shaking, and he was forced to throw it down to his desk in disgust as his feet pushed him from his seat.

All his proclamations to the contrary, the last thing William felt right now was strong enough to face the devil that was April. Reason dictated that he should run, and Lord knew his body was of the same accord, but somehow, every time he would just about talk himself into it, to take Richard up on his suggestion that he leave the city until the vampire was properly taken care of, the specter of Buffy’s face rose before him. She wouldn’t say a word. She’d merely watch him with those ancient eyes and then sadly reach out to touch his face.

And his resolve would disappear. As terrified as he might be, it was not in him to disappoint her. Even though she had no way of knowing just what was happening to him unless he told her.

Exhausted, William perched himself on the edge of his bed, his eyes straying to the tray that rested on the stand. His nightly ritual of Esmerelda’s tea---Esme’s tea, he was quick to remind himself---sat there, waiting for consumption, and though the desire to see Buffy again was overwhelming, the fear that she would see through him was just as strong, stopping him from automatically drinking it and driving him yet again to pace around the room.

He should properly sleep as well, he rationalized. It had been a draining day, and there was much information to process. If he wished to survive whatever ordeals facing April and finding his mother, he needed to be as strong as possible. Surely, a good night’s rest was the first, best step for that.

Except you sleep best when you visit with Buffy, a small voice chimed in. Using your fear as a means to avoid telling her what happened will only prove detrimental to your well-being in the long run.

William sighed. Somehow, he had a feeling…this was an argument he was going to lose.

*************

She heard his footsteps before he entered the room, and automatically, Lydia straightened in the library chair, her hands knotting together in her lap to quell their nervous trembling. With a soft swish, the door opened, and Mr. Travers entered, looking fatigued but no less alert than he did during the day, with Stuart close at his heels. Her mouth opened to speak, but the swift lift of his hand to cut her off was all it took for her to close it again.

A curt nod to the young man behind him made Stuart scurry forward and drop the black bag he carried onto the table. Lydia frowned as she glanced at the contents the gaping top displayed, and was still caught by its significance when she was left alone with her employer yet again.

“Our plans did not go exactly as we’d intended,” Travers said.

Ever the understatement with him, Lydia thought before she spoke up. “Sir, I have no idea how---.”

He silenced her with a shake of his head. “I’m not interested in protestations of ignorance. It would be best for you not to say anything right now, I believe. Between your ineptitude and Miss Summers’ surprising facility, my patience has been sufficiently tried for the evening.” He gestured toward the bag. “Be grateful that Stuart was able to find some interesting artifacts at their flat while you had them occupied here. If he’d come back empty-handed, you would not be sitting there merely on probation. Is that understood?”

Her mouth opened to confirm his statement, but at the last moment, she remembered his instruction and nodded instead.

“To say I’m displeased with the fact that all our security measures were subverted is minor compared to my feelings regarding how you handled this, Lydia. You placed the Slayer in an unmonitored room, and by your own admission, you failed to search either her or her friend for weapons when they arrived. Now I understand you were attempting to create a sense of trust with Miss Summers, but as you can see, that negligence has cost us a wealth of information I’d prefer to have not fallen into the wrong hands.”

The lecture was the least she’d expected. Mr. Travers would’ve excused just about any misdoing on her part, but the fact that the computer’s security had been breeched, and that both girls had managed to disappear from the Council building without being stopped, was more than enough to gain his wrath on the matter. She should be lucky that she was merely on probation. Lydia knew that it was well within his rights to fire her for such carelessness. Or worse.

She was grateful she wasn’t facing the worse.

“I’ve decided that you will remain here at the Council until this matter is resolved,” he went on to say. “Stuart is waiting outside to accompany you to your flat so that you can pack a small bag for the interim. You’ll be staying in one of the basement rooms under surveillance until I tell you otherwise.”

Oh. Probation was the current politically correct term for jailing. She should’ve known.

Remaining silent, Lydia rose to her feet and followed him to the library door he held open for her. On its threshold, however, she hesitated, glancing at him over the rims of her glasses.

“Did the Slayer’s belongings at least give you some of the answers you’d been looking for?” she asked, and then pressed her lips together to stop herself from saying anything further.

Travers’ look was long and measured. “They were…interesting,” he finally said.

Nothing more was going to be said on the matter. Quietly, Lydia nodded and stepped into the hall, following Stuart into the darkness.

*************

When Willow appeared in the doorway, Buffy lifted her head from the disarray of her bedroom, mouth grim. “Tell me it’s better out there,” she said.

“It’s better out there,” Willow replied automatically, and then shook her head. “Except not.”

“What did they get?”

The witch ticked them off on her fingers. “A lot of Giles’ books, all my notes on how to make the divining rod, some of the ingredients we bought.” Her eyes swept the room. “What about in here?”

“Some of my weapons, some of my clothes for some strange reason.” Buffy looked away, staring at the disheveled bed, the sheets that had been ripped from the mattress and left to lie. “And William’s journal.”

Willow’s sharp exhalation was her only acknowledgment on the enormity of what they’d done, but it was enough to twist the knife the Slayer felt in her gut just a little bit tighter.

“I should’ve known better,” Buffy said under her breath. “I should’ve realized she was just setting us up.”

“But we got what we wanted,” Willow argued. “We got all the Council’s files so they can’t play hide-and-seek with the information anymore. There’s no way they could’ve guessed we’d get past through their magical roadblocks. Heck, we weren’t even sure we were going to do it. Mr. Travers has got to be pretty steamed about that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. It didn’t make losing the journal any easier, though. Especially since it would be her only memento when she finally stopped drinking the tea to dream of him.

“What are we going to do?” asked Willow.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Buffy said. “It isn’t safe for us anymore to stick around here, not when they think they can just come waltzing in and Matilda us out of our comfort zone.” Marching over to the wardrobe, she pulled out her suitcase and began tossing the clothes that the Council had left scattered across the bed inside it. “Pack up as much as you can. We’ll use Giles’ credit card to get into a hotel for the night.”

Willow was half-turned to do as she was told when she stopped. “What about…the tea stuff?” she asked hesitantly.

She didn’t stop in her packing, but she kept her eyes averted from her friend’s so that the pain that shone there couldn’t be seen. “Please,” she whispered. “Without his journal…I don’t have anything left of him here except for the dreams.” Only then did she brave a glance toward the doorway. “Just until I get the book back.”

*************

Giles woke with more energy than he had earlier, though his strength was still far from normal. Gone, too, was the nausea that had so crippled him on his first foray from his cell, replaced instead with a gnawing hunger that made him question just how long it was since he’d had a proper meal. The scraps he vaguely remembered eating during his bedrest would hardly do to get him back up to par; he only hoped that whoever was jailing him would see that he needed further sustenance and supply what was needed.

The most pressing thing in his mind, however, was that of the mysterious woman across the hall. Clearly, she had befallen the same fate as he. The similarities between their present circumstances were just too blatant to ignore. But for what purpose were they being held? Was Buffy here as well? Could all this possibly be the Council’s doing?

Convinced that the woman would have more answers than he---or at least, different pieces to the puzzle so that he might get a better understanding of what was going on---Giles pushed himself upright, ignoring the vertigo and queasiness that suddenly overcame him. Crossing the distance of the room was easier, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the handle turned easily in his grip. He’d been momentarily frightened that someone would’ve discovered his earlier escape and proceeded to lock him in.

Everything was just as it had been the first time---the occupied cot, the chamberpot. When the door squeaked open, the woman on the bed started, her eyes fluttering open, and it took a moment of attempting to focus before she seemed aware of him standing in the doorway.

“What hap…?” she started to say, but the faintness of her voice, and the sudden rush of color from her cheeks was all it took to drive Giles to her side.

“Hush,” he soothed, crouching to the floor. Gently, his hands came up to press her back onto the mattress, smoothing the blanket over the old-fashioned nightdress she wore. “You need your rest.”

“Where…where am I?” she asked.

She had to ask a difficult question first, he thought in mild annoyance. “Sshhh,” he said instead of answering, hoping it would distract her from her queries.

But she was bound and determined to ignore his instruction. “Are you a doctor?”

It seemed as good an explanation as any, but somehow, Giles couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. Up close, she seemed even more familiar, an intelligence in her blue eyes that made him feel as if he should recognize her. The gentility of her accent reminded him of London, though there was a softness to it that he inexplicably associated with his grandmother.

“My name is Rupert Giles,” he said quietly. “Do you know who you are?”

“Anne Freston,” she replied automatically. Her eyes widened. “Where’s William? He’s not hurt, is he?”

“William?”

“My son.”

“He’s not here,” Giles replied truthfully. “I’m afraid it’s just you and I.”

For the first time, Anne’s eyes darted around the room, her brows drawing closer and closer together as the stone walls and sparse furnishings sank in. “I…I don’t…” Speaking was becoming a chore for her, and though he desperately wanted to hear her version of events, Giles also knew that pushing her further would only worsen her condition.

“You need to rest,” he reiterated. “My room is just across the hall. Should you wake and wish to speak---.”

He’d been rising as he spoke to her, but when it became apparent that he was going to leave her side, Anne’s hand shot out with surprising agility and grasped his forearm.

“Please don’t go,” she said.

The entreaty in her gaze cut through his determination, and Giles found himself sinking back down to sit on the floor at her side. “Of course,” he murmured, and leaned back against the stone.

*************

For some reason, the pebbles in the path that led to their bench seemed larger than usual to Buffy, and she found her step wobbling slightly as she made her way around the curves. Willow had been extra-nice once they got settled in the tiny hotel Buffy had found, making the tea before the blonde even had to ask for it, and then leaving her in privacy by disappearing into the bathroom while Buffy drank it. It was just as well. She needed alone time with her thoughts anyway, fury with herself about falling prey to Travers’ tricks yet again fuelling her desire to march out and pull a Faith. It was only the thought of William, and his unwavering belief in her, that kept her from completely exploding.

She heard him before she saw him, his voice carrying through the crystalline air of the park as clearly as if he stood before her.

“…quite remarkable,” William said. She froze in place to better hear what he had to say, not wanting the interruption to fluster him unnecessarily. “But when I saw her---.” He broke off, and Buffy could’ve sworn she heard him swear under his breath before continuing. “No, she’ll never believe me if I tell it like that,” he said. “I sound like a pompous fool.”

Buffy’s brows shot up. He’s rehearsing what he’s going to say to me? She smiled. That’s so cute.

In the distance, William cleared his throat. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen before,” he said, and this time, it was obvious he was practicing some sort of speech. “One moment, she seemed perfectly normal, and the next…monstrous. I wasn’t sure what to expect, though your descriptions of what a vampire looked like should most likely have warned me---.”

“What?” She burst around the corner of the path, unable to contain herself when she heard his words regarding the vampire. “You saw a vampire?”

Her sudden approach took William by surprise, causing him to whirl on his heel before stumbling back away from her vehemence. “Buffy…” he breathed, and then tripped over the bench, limbs flailing in every which direction as he went down in a heap on its other side.

“What’re you doing?” she said as she hurried to his side. Carefully, she slid her arm beneath his shoulders, helping him to rise to a sitting position, and noticed immediately how he flushed in her presence. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but there was a shortness to his tone that made her hesitate. When he followed his reply with a hasty but awkward leap to his feet, away from her embrace, the warning that had already started to peal inside her head turned into a five-alarm fire.

This is exactly how it was with Angel, she couldn’t help but think. A different person. How could I have been so wrong about William?

His back was to her, and he was brushing off his clothes when she spoke up again. “Are you going to talk to me?” Buffy whispered. The threat of tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them win, blinking to dispel the current burn. “Or do I at least get to pretend for a few more minutes that everything is just spiffy before you give me the speech?”

He turned to look at her, his brows drawn in confusion. “What speech?” William started to ask, and then saw the stiff set of her shoulders, the drained color in her cheeks. Immediately, he was back before her, nimble hands cupping her face to tilt it upward. “Don’t cry,” he said. His thumb stretched to sweep across her cheekbone, just below her eye, and Buffy was surprised to feel the wetness it trailed behind it. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I know this part of the movie,” she replied. “I practically wrote the script. This is where you tell me we had our laughs but now that we’ve…you know… you’ve had a revelation. That…I’m not worth a second go, and that…that…yadda yadda…”

He silenced her with a kiss, his mouth hungry and demanding. “Hush,” he murmured when he broke for air. Blue eyes searched her own. “I’ve handled this badly, just as I thought I would, but you must know…nothing could be further from the truth. I made you a promise, Buffy, and there is nothing, neither here nor in either of our worlds, that could make me break it. Please, don’t cry. Something inside me breaks when I think I might have caused you to cry.”

Her arms were around his neck at that, squeezing and holding him close, as if by letting him go, he’d disappear just as she’d thought he’d been planning. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I just thought…and you were all…and you wouldn’t let me…it’s been a really, really long, bad day.”

She felt him nod against her cheek. “On that, I must agree,” William said. His hands were in her hair, pulling it free from its holdings to let it tumble about her shoulders in soft waves. “Let’s not speak of it, shall we?” He almost seemed to be begging her. “Right now, I just wish to…”

It was her turn to cut him off, her lips sliding back to his to devour him in another kiss. Along the length of her body, she could feel him responding, hardening and lengthening inside his trousers until it pressed achingly against her hip, his hands falling from her face to curl with need into her waist. He did want her, that much was obvious, and the fear that she was going to have a repeat of what happened with Angel quickly dissipated.

With more force than he’d shown in their last meeting, William guided Buffy to the ground, ignoring the way her skirt twisted up around her hips as he sprawled along her side. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, not willing to settle in any one spot, while his mouth was determined to feed from hers, their tongues hot and searching as their desire mounted. His boldness was surprising, but not unwelcome, almost a natural postscript to the lovemaking of their last encounter, and her body thrummed in response to the sweep of his fingers across her skin.

His lips left hers to trail down the side of her cheek, one hand cupping the opposite to keep Buffy from turning her head away. She shivered when his teeth caught the edge of her earlobe, his breath hot and heavy, and then groaned out loud when his mouth found the bend of her neck and made its home there.

“Hush,” she heard him whisper against her skin, the single word floating up to break through the clouds that were forming inside her head.

“William…,” she breathed, but the firm pressure of his lips to hers silenced Buffy again, driving rational thought away and replacing it with sheer desire.

“Hush,” he repeated when he broke away to catch his breath. Pulling back far enough to look down at her, William’s eyes were black and glittering as he spoke. “No words tonight,” he said. “Please? There has been far too much talk today, and right now, I need…I want to just forget everything else.” His hand brushed back the hair from her brow, his gaze sweeping over her face as if he was trying to memorize every angle and curve. “I know I’m not equal to those who fight along your side, but---.”

“What?” Buffy stiffened, ignoring his request to stay quiet. “Why would you say something like that?”

William’s eyes fell. “Because we both know it’s truth,” he murmured.

“I know no such thing.” Rolling from underneath him, she sat up on the grass and dragged him with her, forcing him to look directly at her. “There are so many ways to fight the fight, William,” Buffy said. “My way just happens to be beating things up, and trust me, that doesn’t always work out for the best.” She paused. “What happened today that you don’t want to talk about?”

He looked broken by her words, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve already said---.”

“---that you don’t want to talk about it. Yeah, I got that part already.” It was her turn to touch him, to pull him back toward her when it looked like he was ready to flee. “Can we fast forward to the part where you tell me what’s got you so skittish tonight? One minute, you can’t stand my touching you, and the next, you don’t want me to stop. And now you’re back to thinking you’re not good enough? If that doesn’t scream something went seriously wrong today, then I’m Mary Poppins. So, please, just tell me what it was so we can put us both out of your misery.”

Her bluntness made him shrink inside himself, and he kept his eyes away from hers when he finally began to talk. But as William stumbled over the tale of how he’d come to witness a vampire attack in the very home of one of his neighbors, Buffy began to understand where exactly his fear was coming from.

She stopped him at the point in the story where he tried to run from the parlor. “You were scared,” she said simply. “You ran away because you were scared and now you think I’m going to think you’re a coward.”

“Don’t you?” The flush from his arousal was gone, his body limp and tremulous at her side. William’s eyes were fixed on the grass he’d been plucking out of the ground as he spoke, his fingers toying with the fine strands of green as he did everything but look at her. “I was no better than a child hiding behind my mother’s skirts.” He laughed, a dry, harsh sound. “Of course, that’s hardly possible now, but the intent is still the same.”

“I think you were smart.” She waited for his startled eyes to meet hers, and nodded. “You heard me, buster. Smart with a capital S. In that situation, the best thing you could’ve done was run. It’s called survival, William. And if it’s a fight you know you can’t win, there’s no shame in retreating until you can.”

“You wouldn’t have fled.”

Buffy shrugged. “No. But then again, I’ve been fighting vamps for the past three years of my life. I’m a little better prepared than you are.”

“But she…” He stopped, and she could see him debate internally about how he was going to continue. The words were right there, battling with him to come out, but Buffy knew how badly it was eating at him.

“You were right,” she said, and tugged him forward. “Not about the bad stuff, because you are most definitely someone I’d be honored to have fight with me. You can’t get knocked out as much as Giles, that’s for sure.” She was rewarded with a small smile, and pulled him even closer so that their chests were touching, her bottom resting in his lap. “Let’s just say we’ve both had bummers of a day and let it go at that. No more words. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

When his lips parted to speak, Buffy lifted her fingers and lightly covered his mouth. “No more words,” she murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him softly.

His hesitancy to believe her translated into hesitancy in his response, but Buffy was patient, keeping the caress gentle as she let her hands return to the back of his neck. There, her fingers entwined with the loose curls they found, scratching lightly at his skull in the manner she’d learned he liked, and she almost giggled when it elicited an uncharacteristic growl from his throat.

William’s hold tightened, and before she could stop him, he had turned her back to the grass, pushing her voluminous skirt up and out of his way as his hand sought the cleft between her legs. Buffy gasped as he pushed past her underwear to graze a single fingertip across her clit, and then exhaled when that same finger coated itself in her wetness before slipping inside.

The urge to say his name was stifled by the return of his mouth to hers, and she joined him in deepening the kiss. Their tongues curled and explored around the other, the impulse for more, and more, and more, fending off any more doubts about what either wanted at that particular moment, and she slipped her hands up beneath the hem of his shirt in order to better appreciate his strength.

Beneath her touch, William’s muscles quivered with anticipation, his skin both slick and hot as she pulled at the fabric that still covered his back. Her only thought was to rid themselves of the barriers that kept their bodies apart, and when he finally broke free of her mouth, Buffy pushed him upright so that he knelt on the grass in front of her.

He didn’t say a word, only watched as she set to undoing the buttons. When her fingernails caught on his nipple, his eyes fluttered shut, his head dropping back as the sensations washed over him. She could see William’s pulse pounding in the delicate hollow of his throat, and impulsively, leaned forward to press her lips to it, sucking at it gently as it throbbed beneath her tongue.

His reaction was electric. With a jolt that jarred both of them from their comfortable positions, William latched onto Buffy’s waist and pulled her down on top of him, his free hand releasing his erection from his trousers as her skirt ballooned out around them.

She felt the slick tip of his cock nudge against her underwear, hard and hungry. When she broke from the kiss he’d once again initiated, she just stared down into his eyes as she sat up, hands disappearing beneath her clothes as they worked to strip the last obstacle between them. William’s eyes followed the path of her hands, flickering with the flash of white when she tossed her panties aside, and then returning to meet Buffy’s.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Falling forward, Buffy smiled as her hair fell across his cheek. “I thought I said no more words,” she teased.

“Nothing will ever stop me from telling you that,” he replied. His breath caught when she lifted her hips, catching the head of his cock with her folds before lowering herself back down again so that every inch of him was quickly sheathed.

Buffy controlled every movement, taking him in shallow thrusts, never letting more than a few inches out at a time. “Is this all right?” she whispered. She stopped for a moment, the hairs from his groin and legs tickling at the soft flesh of her inner thighs, and just savored the feeling of him inside her.

“Is it pleasurable for you?” William asked.

She nodded, accompanying it with a small grind of her hips that caused her clit to rub against his coarse hair, and shuddered slightly at the shocks of pleasure that sent through her.

“Then it’s more than all right for me,” he said. A look of curiosity passed behind his eyes. “Is it the penetration or the stimulus you find so exciting?”

The scholar in him just wouldn’t give up, she thought in amusement. “Both,” she replied. “I think.”

“Let’s test it.”

Before she could stop him, William’s hand had slipped between their bodies, tickling down her tummy to tug at the skirts that barred his way. When she felt his fingers alight on her clit, she jumped, her inner muscles automatically squeezing in response.

He chuckled. “I would think it’s the stimulus,” he taunted.

Buffy slapped at his bare chest. “You don’t play fair,” she complained.

“What was that about no more words?”

She just smiled at his lighter mood, and fell back down against his chest, losing herself in each stroke she made with their hips. Longer, and deeper, and longer still…each thrust made it simpler to forget the disaster that had been her day. Without his journal to help her be strong, this time they spent together was all she had left. She wanted to savor it for as long as she could.

William was of the same mind, but the regular pacing of her strokes only heightened his excitement and soon, his knuckles were white where they gripped her flesh in an attempt to slow her down.

“Don’t,” he whispered, barely even audible as the veins stood out in his neck. “I’ll…”

“Sshhh,” Buffy replied. “Go ahead. We’ve got all night, remember?”

As if to spur him on, she squeezed around his length, drawing out another groan of pleasure. She hated using her greater power on him, but this was what she wanted and for some reason, he seemed to want to fight her on it. It only took a few more downward thrusts, her pace quickening, before his control collapsed, and Buffy felt William come inside her.

She waited until he’d relaxed beneath her, his eyes opening again to stare up in wonder, before she snuggled down against his chest. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

William’s hand came up to caress the back of her neck. “But…you didn’t…”

“So?”

“I would want you to enjoy our lovemaking as much as I do.”

She propped herself up on those words, green eyes dancing. “You think I didn’t enjoy that?” she asked.

William flushed. “But you didn’t…you were…quieter…I thought…”

“For one thing, stop thinking so much. I got exactly what I wanted. And another thing…” She smiled. “…how come you always get to be the pleaser around here? Can’t I do something just for you once in a while?”

“I would think you were of my time, with words like that,” William said. “What happened to your modern notions?”

“I don’t think wanting to make somebody happy is a notion that goes out of style.” With a contented sigh, she curled back against his warm body, listening to his heart beat beneath her cheek. “And besides, we’ve still got all night. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be getting my turn here.”

William’s soft laugh warmed her skin more than the sun that beat down overhead. “That you will, love,” he whispered. “That you will.”

*************

Willow couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that the tiny twin bed was just completely foreign to her---though what she wouldn’t give to be back in the tiny closet of a bedroom at the flat---but that her mind wouldn’t shut itself off long enough for her get more than five or ten minutes of rest at a time. The enormity of what they had done, and what the Council had done in return, gnawed at her, and all she could do was debate what could possibly happen next.

When the clock next to the bed finally slipped past six-thirty, Willow sat up and looked over at her best friend. Out like a light, and had been since before Willow had come back out of the bathroom. Not that the witch was thrilled to be aiding with the tea thing, but in light of what the Council had done with William’s journal, it seemed like the least she could do for Buffy.

Tentatively, she reached across and shook the Slayer’s shoulder. “Hey,” she said softly. No response. Not like she expected one, not with as tired as both of them had been, but Buffy had been adamant about not sleeping late so they could get a headstart on the Council’s files. She would have to try a little harder.

“Hey,” Willow repeated, shaking her again. When nothing happened, she hesitated, her heart starting to pound inside her chest. The Slayer’s non-responsiveness was eerily familiar, and it took her a long moment to remember where it sprang from.

This was exactly how Buffy had been that morning Willow had woken her to tell her about Giles being missing. It had taken all of the redhead’s power to stir her from sleep then.

“Buffy!” she cried out, fully awake now and standing at the bed’s side. Vigorously, she continued the shaking, desperation creeping into her voice as the minutes passed and not a single sound came from Buffy’s mouth. There wasn’t even a flicker behind her closed lids that she was hearing or feeling any of it.

It was as if Buffy wasn’t even there.

*************

It was the warmth he was aware of first. Soft, and radiant, pliant against him as it molded to his skin.

He would’ve said he was still dreaming, but the lifting of his lids revealed his waiting bedroom, the tea cup from his nightly taste still sitting on the stand. And yet…the warmth remained, only now it seemed to pulse with its own life, sidling along his back as a thin arm snaked around his waist.

“Did we fall asleep again?” he heard from behind him, a feminine voice so faint and muzzled by exhaustion. “I hate it when we lose our time together.”

William went rigid, all vestiges of his slumber vanishing. Slowly, his eyes crept downward to see the familiar hand resting against his stomach, her tanned arm golden against the white of his sheets. “Buffy?” he croaked, and was answered with a feather caress---her lips, most likely---between his shoulder blades.

“When did you put your shirt back on?” she started to say, but almost as soon as the words were out there, William felt the tension return to her muscles, the arm that had been holding him sliding back to disappear from his view.

Slowly, William rolled onto his back to see Buffy sitting up in his bed, her eyes wide as they darted around the unfamiliar surroundings of his bedchamber. She was naked, just as she’d been in the dreams, but oblivious to her bared breasts as she finally turned a startled gaze to him.

“Where are we?” she asked slowly. “Where’d the park go?”

“My bedroom,” he replied. “My…home.”

“But we’ve…all our dreams take place at the park. That’s the way they’re supposed to go. Since when do we hang out at your house?”

Slowly, William shook his head. From outside his window, he could hear the familiar clatter of coaches moving down the lane, the distant neighing of horses undercoating them in intimacy. “I don’t think we’re dreaming any more, Buffy,” he said.

*************

Chapter 21: Time's Fickle Glass

“But she made you up,” Buffy said. “You’re not real. You can’t be. None of this can be.”

From the far side of the room, William watched her twist and play with the sheet she now hugged tightly to her slim body. The truth of their situation seemed to have sparked some sort of current through her veins, driving each of her limbs to agitate, as if the extraneous energy would somehow spontaneously produce the answers for which she was searching. He had felt the walls come up between them, solid even while lacking true form, and given her the proper distance in accordance with her newfound fear, but inside, his heart was breaking.

Faced with the reality of William, rather than the dream of William, Buffy had retreated into the defensive shell she’d possessed at their first meeting. It had taken him so long to crack through her trust, to show to her that he wasn’t like the others who had hurt her so, and she’d finally made him believe that she would hold fast to that knowledge, regardless of whether she regarded him as fantasy or not. But now, confronted with the truth, Buffy saw him as something alien, viewing him through dubious eyes as she waited for her own reality to return. It was not a look he’d ever thought to see on her face, though, in retrospect, considering his history, perhaps he’d just been naïve in assuming that.

And that understanding was devouring his soul.

“Why do you say that?” he asked softly. He must tread lightly, he knew, but at least he had the advantage in knowing how her mind worked this time. Perhaps he could save the situation after all. “Did we not prove to each other that what’s real, what’s important, is what transpires between us? What matter is it where it happens?”

“Because the where is supposed to be in our heads, not in jolly old England. Emphasis on old.”

He couldn’t help the question that followed. “Was that all it meant to you then?” William whispered. He had to swallow hard to rid himself of the lump that had formed in his throat. “I was just…a distraction for you?”

She visibly started at his choice of words, and for a moment, he thought she was going to bolt from the room. “She made you up,” Buffy repeated desperately. She seemed incapable of forming any other sentences, clinging to her rationalization with the tenacity she’d displayed during their many talks. Only this time, it was the shattering world around her that she was trying to keep together.

“That’s the second time you’ve referred to this she,” he said. The puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place, and he took a step forward, suddenly eager to share the information he thought could help explain the situation. Maybe that was all it would take for him to get his Buffy back. “You’re speaking of Esme, aren’t you?”

He hadn’t seen her move that fast since her demonstration with the tree. As her forearm pressed against his neck, holding him in place against the wall, her small body quivered in barely constrained fury. “What do you know about her?” she demanded. “Tell me what you know.”

The force of her hold was causing the world to sparkle at the periphery of his vision, and he gasped for the air she was blocking with her arm. Something in his eyes must’ve cut through her anger, and William was rewarded with a lessening on his windpipe. There was still no way for him to move, however; Buffy was making sure of that.

“She’s been here,” he croaked. “When I couldn’t sleep…”

“She gave you the tea.” Without breaking her grip, Buffy’s head swiveled in search and quickly saw the tray resting on his nightstand. “You’ve been drinking the tea, too.”

“I didn’t believe you were entirely real at first, either,” he managed to say. “I only knew the tea brought us together. That was all that mattered to me.”

Slowly, she pulled away, her eyes now jumping between the empty teacup and William’s face.

“I thought she made you up,” she said in a small voice. All of a sudden, she was no longer the Slayer standing before him, righteous and beautiful in her deadly glory. Now, it was merely Buffy, frightened and unsure but still somehow radiant.

And also naked.

Moving past her to the bed, William pulled the sheet from its moorings and passed it back to her in silence, waiting as she wrapped it tightly around her nude form. “Nothing’s changed for me,” he said. At the swift rising of her brows, he hasted to add, “I mean, except for the obvious, of course. Having you here is more than I ever dared---.”

“You said…at first.” She was careful with her words, still skittish but already wary in the face of his admission, and William tensed at his error. “You knew?”

A knock at his door made him jump and his head twisted in time to hear a muffled, “Master William?”

“Thank God,” he muttered quietly. He’d never been so grateful for a servant’s entrance than at that very moment, any respite---brief or otherwise---a desperate boon for him to collect himself for Buffy’s inevitable queries.

He was halfway to the door when her astonished hiss made him stop.

“You’re just going to let me flash any Tom, Dick, or Nigel who might come knocking?” Buffy asked in disbelief.

His gaze swept over her near-naked body, her improper presence in his rooms made even worse by the clear dishevelment of her person. “Good point,” he said, and gesticulated toward the far side of the large bed. “Hide yourself. I’ll dismiss Meg as quickly as possible.”

He waited until Buffy was secreted from view, and then opened the door, mindful to block the young maid’s perspective on the room. There was no mistaking the way her eyes jumped over his shoulder, or the queer tilt of her head as if she was listening for something. But William ignored both, gripping the doorknob in an anxious bid to maintain normalcy.

“Yes?” His voice crackled and he cleared his throat as discreetly as possible, hoping Meg wouldn’t notice.

“There’s company, sir,” she said. “Mr. Rhodes-Fanshaw and his wife have returned.”

Though he’d retired not entirely at peace with the Watcher, in spite of his sympathy for his elder’s pain, the mere mention of Richard’s name now was all that was necessary to spark the tinder of renewed hope in William’s breast. “I shall be down forthwith,” he rushed, and pushed the door closed on the maid before she could say anything further.

His eyes were bright when William turned back to face a rising Buffy. “There may be something to alleviate some of your distress,” he said quickly. “Some of the events around my waking life have been…unusual, to say the least. The man who is downstairs now---.”

“He’s a Watcher.”

Her foreknowledge took him aback. “How do you know that?” he asked. “I didn’t tell you about…I mean, I was so careful not to…” Each additional word that fell from his lips only caused the line of Buffy’s mouth to thin even further, her eyes growing colder as the depths to which he deliberately withheld information from her sank in. “Yes, he is,” he finally conceded, and had to physically stop himself from shying away when she stepped up to him.

“Why?” she demanded. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t livid, but the utterance of that single word ripped into William’s flesh as effectively as if she’d assaulted him with razor-sharp nails. “You heard me explain it all away. Like it was all just a big nothing when you knew all along that it was something. A huge something.”

“Not all along. It’s only been a day or two---.”

“But you still knew. And you didn’t tell me. I thought…you said…you’re the one who’s supposed to…” She stopped as her voice began to betray her inner turmoil with the slightest of quavering, waiting only long enough for her to regain control. “What are you going to do now?” Buffy asked, and William’s stomach plummeted at the coolness of her tone, witnessing the professional Slayer come back to the fore as she noticeably chose not to dwell on the more painful topic of his seeming betrayal of her trust.

“I was going to ask Richard for his aid,” he said softly. “His resources…he could very well have answers to why exactly you’re here.”

“You know how I feel about the Council.” Accusation. Disappointment.

“This is not your Council,” William argued, though part of him agreed wholeheartedly with Buffy’s professed assessment as to the organization’s duplicity. In this, however, he had to believe they would do everything in their power to find the answers. At the very least, he knew that Rose would.

“Please,” he continued, “trust me. Stay here while I go speak with him. I’m certain he can help us.” Silently, he wished that she’d just acquiesce, that even a modicum of the trust she’d shared with him would return so that he could do this for her. And when she turned away from him, the sheet trailing behind her like a train, a resurgence of hope made him shiver.

“I don’t know what else you might expect me to do,” Buffy said. “Sunnydale might be more enlightened, but streaking down the city streets of London still doesn’t rank very highly in the Things to Do Before I Die list.”

He waited for her to turn back to him, but as the seconds passed, William realized that she was done speaking, and that he was only going to be blessed with the view of the back of her head for the time being. Still, he nodded as if she could see him, and backed toward the door.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, but as he stepped into the hallway, he hesitated, watching her curved shoulders with more than a mournful look. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not really knowing if Buffy heard him but not needing for it to be. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.

*************

She felt like someone had reached inside her chest and scooped out its contents with a dull spoon, leaving Buffy hollow and aching as she dropped heavily to the chair by the window. It was hard enough to wake up in the one place she last expected; it was another entirely to realize that the person she’d trusted the most---even if up to just a few minutes earlier she hadn’t believed him completely real---had lied to her about what he knew.

And now he was dragging in the English Inquisition to try and make things better when he knew that everything the Council touched turned to ash.

What was perhaps the most frightening was how relieved she’d been in that fraction of a second between realizing where she was and realizing where she wasn’t. Waking in William’s arms had been both wonderfully liberating and protective at the same time, and Buffy hated that it had been ripped from her all in the space of a single heartbeat.

Her mind was still tripping over the ramifications of her present location when a knock came at the door. She stiffened, and glanced back, her lips tightening as she debated answering the maid on the other side or risking the servant just coming in unannounced to find a half-naked girl on the head of the household’s bed. She didn’t really like either option at the moment.

“Miss Summers?”

It was a different voice than earlier, still female but more ragged with age. It couldn’t be the same maid, she realized, as any member of the staff---and he has a staff, how weird is that?---would know that William was downstairs with his guests instead of in his room. And this one knew her name. How could that be?

Before she could talk herself out of it, Buffy called back, “Yeah?”

The door opened, and in stepped a tall, middle-aged woman, thick white hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. Dark brown eyes gazed levelly at Buffy, and the corner of her mouth lifted in amused appraisal as she seemed to drink in the Slayer’s appearance.

“You’ve managed to put young William in quite a dither,” the woman said finally.

“Well, I’m not exactly light on the dither scale either, you know,” Buffy shot back.

A smile of amusement. “No, I’d imagine not.”

Her even temper surprised Buffy. There was a calming influence that seemed to surround the older woman, and surety about who she had to be spurred the Slayer to speak again. There wasn’t any physical resemblance, but who else of that age would enter a room so purposefully if the house wasn’t hers?

“This wasn’t exactly how I imagined meeting you,” she said, pulling the sheet more tightly around her. She was suddenly nervous, her stomach a bundle of surprised butterflies simultaneously taking flight. Even though she was currently not a hundred percent with William, she was still anxious about presenting as best an image as possible to the other important woman in his life. “OK, so I didn’t actually think I would ever meet you, since you’re not real, and the whole standing in front of me blows that theory out of the water, doesn’t it?” She was babbling, but there was nothing she could do stop it now that she’d started. “It’s either that, or Willow slipped some funny mushroom in my tea last night, which is majorly gross now that I think about it, but still, possible. Well, as possible as it might be that I can be here in the first place. Talking to you. Or trying to talk, at least. Because something tells me I’m failing and there’s no hope for extra credit to drag me up to a passing grade.”

The smile widened. “Who do you think I am?”

Buffy faltered. “Aren’t you…William’s mom?”

“Oh, no.” She stepped closer, holding out her hand. “I’m Rose Rhodes-Fanshaw.”

The momentary comfort she’d felt in the woman’s presence dissipated. That name again. “The Council,” she commented coolly.

A thin brow arched in surprise. “You know me?”

Unsolicited memories of everything she’d learned about the Watcher flickered through Buffy’s mind---Giles’ notes, Willow’s offhand comments while they’d been stealing the Council’s files. She desperately wished that she’d had the chance to find out more specifics; what was it Willow had said? Something about the first wife getting killed and the second going missing? Which one did that make Rose?

And if she really was in the past, was spilling what she knew going to screw everything up? What if she changed history? She’d seen Back to the Future too many times not to know that a single decision could change the course of a lifetime, and in spite of the load of responsibility she already carried, she wasn’t ready to take that one on, too.

“I’ve heard of your husband,” she said instead. So what if it was Hollywood logic? It was the only logic she had right now. “He’s Richard, right?”

Rose grew thoughtful as she nodded. “Slayers doing Council history as part of their training. Interesting.”

Obviously, William had told of more than her name. “How do you know I’m the Slayer?”

“Because you’re Buffy Summers. You’re the one William is so in love with.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it was a statement of incontrovertible truth, that some of the ache at William’s betrayal lessened for a split second. He’d spoken of her. Only after the initial rush of pleasure had vanished, though, did she wonder, what exactly did he say?

Time to change the subject. “If you’re Council, you should be able to tell me what’s going on,” Buffy said. “How I got here. Why I got here.”

Rose nodded. “We can certainly try.” There was a careful slide of her gaze over Buffy’s body. “Isn’t there something else you’d like as much as answers, though?”

“Clothes,” she replied automatically. “Clothes would most definitely be of the good.”

“Somehow, I thought that might be so.”

The questioning wasn’t going away. She had to ask. She had to know. “William…told you about us? About…how he felt?”

“Only parts. Until very recently, he’s been a bit possessive of your relationship.” Her confidence faltered. “Your query…it wasn’t we felt you said. Do you not…feel the same?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy admitted. It was pretty much pointless to try and feign ignorance. Besides, there was something about the older woman that made her want to trust her. “Don’t you get it? William is supposed to live in my head, not in some Upstairs Downstairs real world set-up. I was just starting to wrap my brain around how it could be possible someone I’ve only just met could know me so well, when I Rip Van Winkle, except backwards, and everything I thought I knew gets a good snowglobe shake. My world is more Tarantino than Dickens, so if this is real, then that means…that means…”

All the resolve and all the regained strength she’d found since first meeting William dissolved in her mounting confusion. Rose saw it, and with the instinct of a mother hen, took the Slayer into her arms, forcing her to nestle her cheek against her chest before the heaving got out of control.

“Ssshhh,” she said quietly, a strong hand rubbing Buffy’s back in a manner so reminiscent of her Mom. Instantly, the sobbing stopped, leaving her with a pervasive sense of peace, an odd knowing that everything was going to be all right in spite of wondering otherwise. “All that means,” Rose continued, “is that you’ve had a very unsettling morning. We’ll get you sorted for clothes, get some breakfast in you, and then address the issue of your presence here. But, Buffy…” She pushed the Slayer back, forcing Buffy to look up and meet her gaze. “There is no reason for you to start doubting your instincts regarding young William. His is a true heart. When he loves, it’s with everything he has. The loyalty he offers is no less than your own. That’s why you recognize it so.”

It was Mom advice, through and through. Straight to the heart of the matter, with a short detour through the realm of practicality. Buffy chuckled as she extricated herself from the comforting hug. “For being married to a Watcher, you’re not nearly as large with the cryptic as I’d expect.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good.” She tugged the sheet tighter around her, feeling much more ready to face the reality of being in Victorian England than she had been prior to Rose’s arrival. “Now, what was that about clothes?”

*************

The only good thing about Buffy still being completely dead to the world---oh, not dead, just asleep, focus on the non-fatal adjectives, Rosenberg!---was that Willow had plenty of time to go through the files they’d filched from the Council, without any constant interruptions of, “I’m hungry,” and “I think there’s a lipstick sale going on at the mall,” and her personal favorite, “I’m positive, Willow. They’ve one-hundred percent proven that reading too much can make your hair fall out.”

It didn’t mean that she wasn’t glancing over at the bed every minute or two, hoping to see some sign that Buffy might’ve moved since the last time she looked. But each time, it was the same old scene, and the longer it stretched on, the more erratic Willow’s thought processes became.

Maybe it’s a magical sleep, was immediately scolded with the of course, it’s a magical spell, don’t be completely stupid. From there, the witch’s mind hopped from every magical sleeping spell she’d ever heard of, until she’d managed to convince herself that the only way for Buffy to wake was to be kissed by her own Prince Charming.

OK, really need to lay off the caffeine while I’m reading, she thought as she glanced at the empty pot of tea nearby.

In between the irrational means of saving Buffy, she was gleaning some excellent information from the Council’s records. The first thing she’d done was look at the video file, only to discover they’d recorded their interrogation of the book shop owner, just as she thought they might. They’d cast a truth spell on him, to guarantee his honesty in answering their questions, and proceeded to ask everything he knew about Esme.

As it turned out, he had known the elderly witch. In fact, he’d been completely aware of her desire to hook up with Buffy. Willow waited for one of the trio who was quizzing him to ask him why, but they completely avoided the issue, focusing instead on digging around to try and find out where Esme was currently. There, they drew a blank, and no rewording of the question could make Charles budge on knowing nothing about that particular topic.

The files they had on the Council Head who’d been killed were fascinating as well. After the vampire attack that had killed his first wife and the Polish Slayer he’d watched, Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw had turned into quite the caped crusader, taking on the riskiest of missions as he traveled throughout the world, averting nearly a half-dozen apocalypses over a twenty-year period as well as personally avenging the deaths of his loved ones by ravaging the vampire community. It was during those years that he met his second wife, an anomaly who avoided any detailed inquiries by the Council, in spite of her obvious talents for prognostication and sensing magic. The opportunity to run the organization was presented four times before Rhodes-Fanshaw finally accepted, and then, only on the requisite that his wife be his personal assistant.

He’d been in London for just a few years when the incident with the crystal figurines had occurred. The wife was never told about his death; by the time the Council reached the Rhodes-Fanshaw home to tell her, she was gone, never to be heard from again.

All Travers’ notes that she’d read to that point, while rounding out the picture of what had occurred a century previously, managed to definitely confirm one thing for Willow. His focus on this matter was on Esme, not the figures. It was clear he viewed them as harmless, a legacy he’d inherited that he was surprisingly glad to be rid of. Most of his inquiries were into her whereabouts, and the fact that he kept making comments about a missing Giles could only mean that that was just as much of a mystery to him as it was to Willow and Buffy.

She still had over half the files to go through, and the more she read, the more Willow hoped that one of them was an in-depth analysis of who exactly Esme was. What did the Council know about her that they weren’t sharing? How was it she was so powerful? Why were they so interested in the first place?

And most importantly, how could Willow find out how to break the magical hold the dreams seemed to be having over her best friend?

*************

Esme would kill for even a fraction of her power to return.

As she limped down the hallway to the small room she’d rented in the local pub, she winced against the pain that shot through every muscle, the blood that trickled down the front of her blouse making her want to squirm even more. There were any number of healing spells that would alleviate her injuries, but not even the easiest was within her grasp at the moment. Whatever had drained her powers the previous night had done too good of a job; she was nowhere near being strong enough to try anything again.

It was her own fault. She’d disregarded April’s warning and lingered in the vicinity of the caves, waiting for them to return, hoping that either her magic would come back or that the vampires would somehow honor the original agreement. So when the pair had turned on her, attacking without warning and sending the witch rushing toward the nearby town, the only thing to save her life was the approach of the rising sun, the distinct sizzle of demon skin being fried accompanied by the stench of scorched flesh. It was little satisfaction in light of her forced flight, and there was nothing Esme wanted more at the moment than vengeance. Or complete cooperation to fulfill her goals. Either one would do.

Unfortunately, both required outside assistance at the moment. It was time for her to ask for help again.

She’d deliberately asked for a room with its own phone, and punched in the mobile number she knew from memory. When the voice mail responded, she wilted, eyes drifting closed as she plucked at the blouse that clung to her front. She should’ve expected not to reach him; after all, things were most likely heating up in London.

“It’s just me,” she said when the message was over. “We need to talk, but you can’t reach---.” Esme jerked when the other end of the line suddenly went live.

“You’ve got some cheeky nerve calling me after you’ve done,” Charles barked. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out about what you did to Ripper?”

She was too weary to deal with the shop owner’s attitude, but the fact that he brought up the Watcher could only mean one thing. “You’ve talked to Quentin.”

“Bloody right I have. He came after me just like you said he would. Not too kindly about it, neither.”

“Ever the predictable one, he is.” Unfortunately for her.

“Not like you, though.” Charles wasn’t ready to give up on the topic just yet. “If I’d known you planned on snatching Ripper, you can bet I’d never have agreed to help. Me and him got too much history for me to be stabbing him in the back like that.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you. Don’t worry. He’s perfectly safe. I just needed him for insurance in case everything went belly up. Which it has, by the way.”

The silence on his end was deafening, but the fact that he hadn’t hung up yet left a small flame of hope burning inside Esme’s chest. “I did my part,” Charles finally said. “You just count me out of whatever it is you’ve got concocted this---.”

“Quentin interrogated you?”

“Yes, complete with the truth spell you suspected he’d use.”

“So he knows about it?”
“It? You mean, the journal? ‘Course, he does.” His exasperation bled through the phone. “That was the whole point of keeping me in the loop, wasn’t it? So he’d go after it?”

Sighing, she leaned against the headboard. “Damn it,” Esme muttered. Sometimes, she hated being right all the time.

“Oh, now, don’t be sounding like that.” His dander was back up. “I thought you wanted Travers to get hold of the book so that it would take the Slayer out of the picture. Isn’t that what you told me? Without the journal to give her an anchor in this time, she’d be lost in the past.”

“Yes, that was supposed to be how it worked. Except I need her now.”

“And you’re bothering with me…why? You’ve got your Slayer vampire to help you now.”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

The unmistakable noise of him moving to hang up the phone made Esme startle to attention. “Something stole most of my power last night, Charles,” she blurted. under normal circumstances, she would never have admitted to the weakness, but these were hardly normal, and she desperately needed his help. “Without my power, I can’t control April.”

“But you said you couldn’t control the active Slayer, either,” he argued. “That all of Travers’ reports made Buffy Summers too hard to predict. That’s why you opted for the vamp.”

“And now that vamp is out for my blood, and by the time enough of my power comes back for me to defend myself, I’ll be Christmas pudding for the two of them.”

“So you’re looking for a champion of the people to come to your rescue?” Charles mocked. “Guess you should’ve thought of that before you took the Slayer out of the picture.”

“I was rather hoping it hadn’t come to that yet.”

“A day late and a quid short, Esme. Best luck to you.”

More noise to hang up. “Wait!”

Charles sighed. “This is getting old,” he said. “I already told you no. Not after your stunt with Ripper. I don’t care what you promise me this time.”

“All I’m asking for is a little help. I can’t just let April come after me---and you read the transcripts, you know she will.”

“Buffy Summers most likely can’t help you now.”

“No, you’re right there.” Esme took a deep breath. This was where she had to swallow her pride. “That little friend of hers can, though.”

“Who?”

“Willow Rosenberg.”

*************

Chapter 22: As Any Mother's Child

As she twisted and turned in front of the mirror inspecting her reflection, Buffy knew she’d gotten lucky. She’d seen too many sepia-toned pictures, and watched the lacing-up scene in “Gone With the Wind” too many times, not to know the horrors women used to have to endure for the sake of fashion. Not that platform heels didn’t have their own dangers, but at least they didn’t cut off one’s circulation like corsets did.

But Rose had forsaken sending for anything like that, opting instead for simple bloomers and a camisole to go with the outfit Buffy currently wore. “This is already difficult enough for you,” the older woman had explained when she’d laid them out on the bed. “No reason to add unnecessary discomfort to your list of ailments at the moment.”

“Giles would be proud,” Buffy now said quietly as her fingers worried the tweed fabric of her skirt. Between that, the plain white blouse with the high collar, and the braid in which she’d done her hair, the young woman looked more scholarly than Slayer-y. “Will wonders never cease…”

She was just slipping on the slightly too-big slippers that completed the ensemble, when a gentle knock came at the door. “Come in,” Buffy said. There was no point in denying her presence in the house any longer. She’d had to practically peel the young maid---Meg---off her with the assertion that she was more than capable of dressing herself.

It opened slowly, and Buffy looked up to see William hovering in the narrow space of the open door. Though he was immaculately dressed in the brown suit Meg had fetched for him, his hair was a tangle of curls, wild and disheveled as if his fingers had been powerless to stay out of them. Behind his glasses, his eyes seemed too large for his face, and the hollows of his cheekbones were even more gaunt, as if he’d been without sleep for days.

Rose’s characterization of Buffy’s effect on him haunted the Slayer as she rose to her feet. …quite a dither…so in love with…a true heart… Guilt for the way she’d treated him at their last encounter stabbed at her gut, and she debated how she could go about apologizing for her behavior.

“Since the hour is advancing,” William said, before she had the opportunity to speak, “I’ve asked Cook to set out a light meal. I’d thought…if you want, or if you’re hungry…meeting with Richard and explaining what’s happened might be easier over food. Or, if you’d rather keep it social, that’s possible, too.”

“It’s not blood pudding, is it?” she joked, hoping that might be enough in lieu of directly expressing her regret. Surely he’d be able to pick up that she was in a better mood now, right?

He immediately appeared distressed. “I don’t know,” he said in a flurry. “Do you like blood pudding? If it’s not, I’m certain I can get Cook to---.”

She stopped him from fleeing to check in the kitchen by stepping up to him and resting her hand on his forearm. “Stop it,” Buffy said. She had to tighten her grip to prevent him from pulling away. “I was kidding. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine.” She smiled. “Unless it is blood pudding, because you know, I really see enough of people thinking blood is a sixth food group with the whole Chosen thing.”

His eyes searched hers, keen to ferret any sign of mocking or sarcasm. “Are you…were you…I didn’t mean…” Flushing at his inability to articulate, his head bowed to eye her thin fingers on his arm. “The last thing I ever wished was for you to hate me, Miss Buffy,” he murmured. “Please accept my humblest apologies for…for…it all.”

It was hearing him revert to the more formal address that made Buffy finally pull away, the shame at having driven him to such measures overwhelming her better senses. Sure, everything since opening her eyes was pretty much wig-worthy, but at least, being wigged out was a state she was accustomed to. She’d weathered things like this and more, ever since she’d been called.

On the other hand, William was an innocent, in more ways than one. Offering her his heart had been tantamount to entrusting her with his life, for it wasn’t in him to consider any other alternative. Having the unusual thrust upon him so had to have been disconcerting at best, and he’d managed with the conflict as best he could. She only wished she’d been able to see it a few hours earlier.

“I don’t hate you,” Buffy said softly. “I could never hate you. Don’t you know what you’ve done for me?”

In spite of the earnestness of her tone, the corners of his mouth drooped as he kept his gaze locked on the carpet. “I’ve somehow stranded you away from your home, from your loved ones, and then lied to you about the possibility that it could’ve happened in the first place,” William replied. “Trust me. I’m well aware of what I’ve done.”

“Were you the one who made me drink the tea?” she asked. “No. And were you the one who made me find the journal in the first place? No. I could’ve just walked on by and not read it, so you can just stop with the---.”

“Journal?” He looked up at that, not caring now if he interrupted her. “What journal?”

Only then did Buffy remember that she’d deliberately chosen not to divulge how she knew so much about him in the beginning, because she didn’t want to freak William out even further than he had been. Seeing his face now, the color deepening as he waited for her to answer, was exactly the sort of thing she’d thought might happen, prompting her to clamp her lips shut and refrain from making the situation worse by admitting to what she knew he feared.

When she didn’t speak, William brushed past her to cross to his desk, opening the top drawer to extract a familiar leather-bound text. “This journal?” he asked, holding it up for her to see.

She had no choice but to nod, but hurriedly added, “I didn’t read the whole thing. Just bits and pieces. And I thought you weren’t real, remember?”

Long fingers absently caressed the edges of the pages as he studied her. “That’s how you knew who I was that first day,” he mused. His voice was distant, but not as faraway as his eyes, a cool blue that had softened as he lost himself in ruminations. “That’s why you responded so appropriately all the time. Because you knew exactly how to force me to respond to you.”

“I wasn’t playing you! Do you honestly think that I would do something like that?” The edges of his accusations scissored her softer mood, grating and sharpening until angry glints flashed in the green of her gaze.

“How else is it possible?” William queried. Finally, he looked back up, and the resigned melancholy that resided there was unambiguous. “Don’t be cross about it, Miss Buffy. You would not be the first---.”

“Stop it with the Miss Buffy crap again!” she raged. She felt like stamping her foot; his continued obstinacy in seeing only the worst in himself was infuriating at best. “Look, I realize this morning kind of threw both of us for a loop, and yeah, maybe I haven’t exactly been Pollyanna in trying to get my head around showing up in Wonderland, but don’t for a second think that I’m anything like the backstabbers who walk around here not seeing how great you are. I don’t play games when it comes to my friends, and if nothing else, you’ve always been my friend, William. OK, so I’m not too thrilled about having the Council dragged in. And lying to me about what you knew? Never cool. But I’m here now, and, like it or not, we’re all we’ve got, no matter how much you may trust Rose and Richard. So, let’s say we just turn today around and move on, OK? Because I hate thinking I’ve hurt you. I don’t want to be one of those people.” She stopped, her anger evaporating, shifting into a sorrow oddly reminiscent of her depression prior to coming to England. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be. And you were showing me again that I was better than that.”

“You are,” he said softly, and then added, “Buffy.”

Such a small step, for both of them, tremulous and demure like a hothouse flower desperate to bloom, and yet the gulf that had separated them at his arrival seemed less chasmal, as if they needed only a short bridge to find each other again rather than the massive span that would’ve been required at the start. She ached to reach out to him, and wondered if he felt the same, but without confirmation, there was no way she was going to initiate it this time. She wasn’t quite ready for that just yet.

“So,” Buffy said instead, “you’re not mad at me for reading your diary?”

He frowned at her query. “Why would I be?”

“Because of the fact that it’s yours, and it’s private? It’s kind of a big no-no to be such a snoop, don’t you think?”

That elicited the first smile she’d seen on William’s face since her eruption earlier. “But don’t you see?” he said. “If I have any words worth sharing, I have them because of you. You’re the one who made it possible for me to capture the words that always proved so elusive, and you’re the one who heard them without contempt. You’re the one who helped me find my voice, Buffy. What are a few more scribblings compared to that?”

The candor of his response bandaged the last of the wounds their arguments had incited within her. It wasn’t enough to forget the misdemeanors of their morning, but it was enough of a balm to allow her to move beyond them with a decorum that William deserved. In the face of the understanding, an overpowering sense of shyness rendered her mute, and she was only able to smile at him before turning back to the mirror one last time.

She pretended not to take notice when he set the book down on the desk, nor when he stepped up behind her, opting instead to absorb herself in the smoothing of her skirt. She felt him, though, the heat of his body seeping through the thin cotton of her blouse, and silenced the prayer of gratitude that came unbidden at his nearness.

“I must confess…it’s very…extraordinary seeing you like this,” William murmured. His hand ghosted above her arm, carving the shape out of the air as it came up to the plait. She knew his fingers itched to touch it, but their tenuous concord held him back, and it fell again, lonely, to his side.

“I look like I should be teaching in a one-room schoolhouse,” Buffy complained with a wrinkling of her nose.

“They’re only clothes. You’d be beautiful regardless what you wore. But…that’s not what I meant.” His eyes were intent on her reflection when she looked up. “I cannot apologize enough for our…troubles this morning,” he said. “But I can’t say that I’m sorry for the gift of having you here. Even if Richard finds a means for you to return to your time before our meal is finished, I’ll thank every god ever created for giving me these few extra hours. I don’t know what I’ve done to possibly deserve it, but I swear to you, I won’t disappoint you again, Buffy.”

The sincerity radiated from him in sultry waves, so strong that the Slayer wondered how it was she could’ve been so harsh with him upon waking. There was no denying that she wanted to surrender to the simplicity of it by touching William in some way, but while it was that simplicity that had called to her all along, it also scared her. Stepping away from their waiting reflections to break the spell, she couldn’t help but wonder if mirror-Buffy would somehow find the strength to beat the fear and kiss mirror-William until there were no more tomorrows left.

She hoped so.

“Let’s go eat,” she said with more chirpiness than she felt. “Rose and her husband are probably eating the plates by now.”

*************

Giles held the plate steady for Anne, well within her reach, and watched as she picked at the fruit that had been left for them. He’d woken from a brief nap, stiff and sore from sleeping propped against the wall, to find the food waiting, a covered tray laden with an assortment of cold meats, bread, and fruit, right at his side. As if they’d known, and not cared that their captors were currently sharing quarters.

Or not sharing, Giles corrected. As Buffy would say, just…hanging out.

“You’re being very quiet,” Anne said, wiping her mouth. More color had returned to her cheeks, and her voice no longer shook from the nausea that had incapacitated them for so long. She gestured toward his untouched food. “Are you not hungry?”

“Not particularly,” he responded.

“You’re thinking about our circumstances, aren’t you?” When he looked up at her in surprise, Anne’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “I may not be completely well, but I’m not blind, Mr. Giles. I’m aware that I’m not in my home, and though you’ve made the most valiant efforts to not distress me, I’m also aware that you’re not entirely comfortable with whatever has happened.”

Setting down the plate, Giles removed his glasses, using the edge of his shirt to wipe the lenses. “You’re a very astute woman, Mrs. Freston.”

Those oddly-familiar blue eyes regarded him, slightly blurry without his spectacles, the lines of her face softened by the same. “You weren’t the one who brought me here, were you?” she asked. “I’m afraid I don’t remember what exactly has happened.”

His hope plummeted at her question. “No,” he replied. “I was rather hoping you would be able to tell me. I have my…suspicions, but that’s all they are.” He returned his glasses to his nose. “You mentioned your son. He couldn’t have something to do with this, could he?”

Anne’s laughter was light and airy, in direct contrast with their predicament. “William? Oh, no. All he’s concerned with are his books and his poetry. He uses more ink in a day than we do tea.”

A scholar. Perhaps he was affiliated with the Council in some way. That would certainly support Giles’ theory that their abductions were related to the crystal theft.

“What about his employer?” he asked. “Perhaps this could be work-related.”

She seemed appalled at such a suggestion. “William’s a gentleman, sir,” Anne said. “He doesn’t work.”

Her curious terminology made Giles pause. It was an antiquated word, one his great-grandmother would’ve bandied about with little hesitation. “How does he support himself then?” he quizzed cautiously.

“The family money is more than sufficient to meet our household needs. And William has simple tastes. He’s not partial to horses, or fancy coaches, or holidays abroad. Just his poetry.”

His first thought was that Anne Freston and her son were members of the gentry. It would more than explain the horse reference. But the second, combined with the slight stilt in her accent and her old-fashioned speech, set off warning bells inside his head.

“Madame,” Giles said, clearing his throat and affecting his most proper manner, “if I might be so impertinent as to ask…what was the last full date you remember being in your home?”

Her reply was automatic, but it wasn’t the month that caught his attention.

It was the year.

1879.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Giles?” Anne asked when he fell back against the wall, the lines deep in his forehead as he contemplated this newest information. “Have you been here longer than I?”

He snorted at that. By her calculations, he shouldn’t even be born yet. Or she should be long dead.

There were only three options as he saw it.

One. That Anne Freston had actually been abducted on that date and somehow managed to survive more than a century without aging. Highly unlikely.

Two. That Anne Freston was delusional or impaired in some capacity, confusing the years in her mind. A possibility, but still one he considered unlikely. He’d dealt with the unstable before, and she seemed more than in control of her thought processes.

And three. That Anne Freston had somehow been snatched through time, or he’d been brought back to join her.

It was the last to which he kept coming back. The year she’d left was the same year the figurine collection had first fallen into the hands of the Council, and since its theft was the only matter that he’d been involved in prior to being taken from London, it seemed far too circumstantial not to be connected.

“Do you have any other children?” he asked.

“No. It’s just William and I.”

“And your husband?”

“He’s been dead since William was young.”

“He didn’t happen to work for the Council of Watchers, did he?”

“The Council of…what?”

It had to be the son, then. Somehow, Anne’s William was associated with the events Giles had been investigating. Perhaps he was the one who stole it, Giles thought.

As she waited for whatever query he would pose next, the Watcher eased into a more comfortable position, offering her a conciliatory smile. “My apologies,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m rather stuck on trying to sort out what’s happened to us.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t the foggiest,” he lied. “Let’s move on to a more pleasant topic, shall we? Tell me about your son.”

She spoke easily of William, telling tales of a gentle boy in love with words, more comfortable in the company of books than of people. More than one story illustrated an intelligent mind, capable of formulating the most elaborate plans---even Giles couldn’t help but chuckle at how a young William decided the best way to sit through church services without getting scolded for fidgeting was to paste himself to the pew using honey, as it was the stickiest thing he knew---only to abandon most of them when impatience got the better of him. The lack of true companions for her adored son was an obviously tender subject with Anne, and Giles was just beginning to suspect that perhaps he’d overanalyzed the affiliation, when…

“…the most dreadful nickname,” Anne was saying. “I don’t believe he heard them discussing his poetry, for I’m sure he would never have agreed to read at my dinner party the other evening if he had.”

“What was it?” he asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity by that point.

She hesitated, coloring slightly as her head tilted slightly to regard him. “It’s hardly worth repeating,” she said. “But…behind his back, they call him William the Bloody. For his bloody awful poetry.”

He didn’t hear her protestations that William’s work was hardly awful, and in fact, had improved greatly as of late. The only thing Giles heard was the resounding peal of the sobriquet inside his skull.

William the Bloody.

Spike.

Now he knew who Anne Freston reminded him of. It was the eyes. Spike’s eyes, albeit kinder and gentler. The cheekbones, too, if he was being honest. The bone structure that made the vampire’s looks so striking obviously came from his mother; he didn’t know how he could’ve missed it before.

“Your son,” he said gently, interrupting her most recent tale of the love poem he’d recited at her dinner party. “Is he a…nocturnal sort?”

For some reason, she found this funny. “Heavens, no. Provided the weather is suitable, he’s often out to sit on the banks with his inks, composing his verses. He very much adores the sun.”

So, not Spike, Giles thought. Or at least…not yet.

It had been vampires who had stolen the collection from the Council. And there had been evidence of vampires when the collection had initially been left in its care. Even though it appeared that Spike---or William---was not yet created, surely the coincidence was just too much to disregard. Perhaps that was why Quentin had wanted Buffy’s input. Perhaps they knew all along that Spike was involved, and since she was the Slayer who had last encountered him, she would be best prepared to beat him in this.

The only difficult part in his theory was reconciling the gentle man Anne described with the brutal killer he knew Spike to be. It went against every hypothesis about the vampire’s origins that had ever been made, and frankly, Giles would’ve dismissed it as complete rubbish if he wasn’t at that moment sitting next to the woman who gave him life. Because Giles couldn’t ignore the physical similarities, as much as he may wish to.

He realized then that Anne had fallen silent, watching him quizzically as he just sat there. “I’m sorry,” Giles said. “Did you say something?”

“I’m merely wondering what it is that’s distracting you so,” she replied. “Have you come up with an idea about why we’re here? Or even what here really is?”

“I’m working on it.” He rose to his feet, swaying only slightly from the leftover effects of the magic. “Will you be all right if I leave for awhile? I want to see what else I might find.”

Anne nodded, stifling a delicate yawn. “I rather feel like a nap,” she admitted. “You will…come back and tell me what you discover?”

“Of course,” came his automatic response.

He just hoped that what he found wasn’t a vampire for a son. He feared that would shatter too many of her illusions.

*************

Chapter 23: For All My Vows Are Oaths

Richard wasn’t anything like she’d been expecting.

First of all, he bowed when William introduced her, taking her hand in his leathered grip and brushing a courtly kiss across her knuckles. She knew it was the polite thing to do in this time period, but still…since when does a Council Head care about making Slayers feel like people?

Secondly, it was the feel of his fingers against hers, the skin worn and rasped, as broken and rough as his clothing was smooth and polished. Watchers read books, and got paper cuts, and had downy-soft palms that knew how to handle a weapon but didn’t bear the callouses of doing so for very long at any one time. They didn’t have fingers that looked to have been broken and reset---more than once---and they sure didn’t have splinters from living with a stake in their grip. But this one did.

Thirdly, when he straightened from his bow to meet her eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sad half-smile that made Buffy feel like Richard was opening a door for her to pass through, welcoming her through an entrance that housed secrets he wished to share, because he knew he could trust her. Maybe it’s a Slayer/Watcher thing, she wondered when her hand fell back to her side. Something innate in order to help harbor hope for a scared young girl newly called.

But she knew that was a rationalization. There was just something about Richard. Kind of like there was just something about Rose. They were most certainly a couple…although a couple of what, she hadn’t quite decided yet.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Summers,” Richard said smoothly.

Her eyebrows quirked at the “finally” and she turned her head to the side to look inquisitively at William. “How many people did you tell about me?”

He colored at her inquiry, but Rose saved him from an explanation by stepping to her husband’s side.

“William’s been quite the gentleman in preserving your privacy, Miss Summers,” she said. “Richard’s only heard the sparest of details regarding your identity. And those were completely by accident, I’m sure.”

Buffy returned her narrowed gaze to the Watcher. “But you know I’m the Slayer,” she said carefully.

“I know you’re a Slayer.”

“Right. Because there’s already one in this time period.”

She wasn’t sure she was supposed to catch the look exchanged by the two older people, but she wasn’t allowed to dwell on it when Rose took her arm and led her to the already-set table.

“I’m sure you’re hungry,” she said. She gestured toward one of the seats, taking her own without regard to the two men who hovered behind them in wait. After only a moment’s hesitation, Buffy joined her, waiting to start until the others had taken their places.

It was muted, so-polite-it-made-her-face-hurt conversation that carried the quartet through the soup first course. Out of the corner of her eye, the Slayer caught the curious glances cast in her direction by the young maid as she cleared for the next dish, but as soon as their gazes met, Meg bustled back to her duties, carefully avoiding any more contact. She scurried from the room as if she couldn’t leave fast enough, but just before leaving, Buffy saw the maid steal one more glance at the young blonde, curiosity and a little bit of something she couldn’t put her finger on lurking behind her eyes.

It didn’t make returning to the meal any easier. Everything about the arrangement was eggshells, and the longer it went on, the more she could feel it cracking.

Until she did.

“So,” she said, so chirpy it made Willow sound like Oz, “show of hands of everyone who doesn’t belong in this century.” Buffy’s smile was bright as she patiently waited for a response from the startled ensemble, her arm the sole limb to rise. “Just me then? Guess we should probably do something about that, huh?”

William grinned, and then coughed to cover it up when Richard frowned at him, hiding his mouth behind his napkin as his twinkling eyes shyly met hers.

“Before we begin,” Richard said, “we should lay some ground rules.”

Buffy sighed, her smile fading. “Yep. You’re a Watcher.”

He ignored her comment. “Assuming you’re on the same timeline as we---.”

“I am. William’s journal in my time talks about me.”

“Then, we need to take extra care to minimize both your exposure to our time and ours to yours, in order to preserve the timeline as much as possible. Only spare those details that are actually relevant to your presence here, as you see it, and we shall do the same.”

“Agreed.” Frankly, she’d already reached that decision. Even though she only knew generalities, Buffy wasn’t comfortable carrying the information that she did about the fate about the man opposite her. Sometime this summer, he would die after receiving the mysterious crystal collection; even if she remembered the specifics---and boy, would Giles have a field day extolling the virtues of memorizing boring, historical dates with this one---she knew she couldn’t save him for fear of changing the past, and then changing the future. If she wanted a home to go back to, she needed to keep things as close to how she knew they happened as possible.

“Buffy can stay here,” William offered. “I’ll be responsible for anything she might need.”

“What about your mom?” Buffy asked. “I think she might have something to say about a strange woman living in your house.” She seemed to notice for the first time Mrs. Freston’s absence. “Where is she, anyway? Doesn’t she need to eat, too?”

“You haven’t told her?” Richard posed to William.

“Told me what?”

William’s eyes were downcast as his fork suddenly seemed the most interesting thing in the world. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said softly. “You had enough---.”

“And how many times have I told you I’m a big Slayer and can take care of myself?” she interrupted, back to all-business. “What happened?”

“Mother’s been…missing for several days now. She disappeared the same time your Mr. Giles did.” He looked up at that, his hand coming out to cover hers. “That’s why I didn’t mention it. You were so focused on trying to learn what you could to find your Watcher, that I didn’t wish to burden you further with my own troubles.”

The reference to Giles served to drag Richard deeper into the conversation. “Your Watcher disappeared? Was it temporally-related as well?”

“We don’t know what-related it is. The only thing we’ve learned is that it’s probably something to do with one of the Council’s witches.”

“This has to all be connected,” Rose said. “There are too many coincidences for it not to be.”

Buffy’s lips thinned. There was only one connection between Giles getting snatched and her encounters with William. And with another temporal disturbance surrounding a missing Anne Freston…

“Esme,” she said out loud.

William was nodding, having reached the same conclusion as well. “If she’s the reason we were brought together, it would be logical that she’d be involved with these other temporal folds as well.”

Richard’s gaze darted between the two younger people, brows drawn in concentration, eyes dark. “I believe you two have some explaining to do,” he said sternly.

Avoiding the obvious Ricky Ricardo joke that he wouldn’t understand anyway, Buffy tentatively launched into the story about the tea, relating how she’d found the journal…how Esme had given Willow the spell to induce the dreams…how Travers had told her of Esme’s connection to the Council. It was all done without specifics regarding the theft; she merely characterized her current problems as “Slayer-related vampire crap,” and left out all reference to the history and the crystal figures. The fewer details, the better, Richard had said. Well, she planned on sticking to that.

“What about you?” the Council Head asked, turning to William. “What interactions have you had with this Esme?”

He was uncomfortable beneath the direct questioning, squirming and shifting in his seat. “I met her first at the banks,” he stammered. “She…seemed to know my mother, and I…I…I just talked to her.”

Under the table, Buffy stretched her leg out to reach William’s shin, rubbing her toe along the calf reassuringly. “I thought she looked normal, too,” she said when his surprised gaze jumped to hers. Some of his tension eased at the physical contact, and she let her foot hook around his ankle in a semblance of hand-holding. “And she completely fooled Willow, as well as the head of the Council in my time. I don’t think we need to feel bad about falling for her tricks.”

William nodded, and then his eyes widened behind his glasses. “She had my journal,” he blurted. “During that first meeting. She took it from me…and…said something…” He struggled to remember. “Latin, I thought, or a derivative thereof.”

“An incantation on the journal,” Rose murmured, the first thing she’d said since Buffy had started speaking. She seemed lost in thought. “To provide a conduit through time for you to travel. Ingenious.”

“Yeah, she’s a regular Albert Einstein,” Buffy said. “Does that mean you know how to send me back?”

“Not yet,” Rose said. “Though I fail to understand why you would suddenly be trapped in our time instead of your own all of a sudden. What changed for you, Buffy? Did you drink more of the tea, perhaps?”

“No,” she argued. “Everything was exactly the same---.”

And then she stopped.

It hadn’t been the same. Not exactly.

“They took it,” she said. “Last night was the first time I didn’t have William’s journal.”

“They?”

Her voice was bitter. “The Council.”

Confusion darkened both Richard’s and Rose’s faces. “But that doesn’t seem right,” he said. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“Because it’s physically impossible for a Council guy not to have a secret agenda,” came the derisive response. “No offense.”

When Meg entered the room to clear the half-empty plates, the table fell back into silence, this time mostly uncomfortable from the new information that had been bandied about. For Buffy, guilt about William churned what little food she’d managed to eat, distracting her from the cake that was placed before her for dessert. He’d been coping with his mother’s disappearance without her support, and she’d been too wrapped up in her own world to notice. It didn’t exactly score high points for being an attentive friend, and if she was even going to admit to being a girlfriend, it would probably score negative points there.

“Is that how you got involved with William?” she asked Richard once Meg was gone again. “You’re helping him find his mom?”

“That’s how it began,” the Watcher said cautiously. “But you mustn’t worry about his exposure to the Council. They don’t know of his true identity.”

“They gave you an alias?” she teased William with a small grin.

He nodded, though his eyes remained immune to her kidding. “To them, I’m David Howard,” he said simply, and then stared at Richard with what Buffy would’ve sworn was anger. “Not a very fortunate choice, as it would appear.”

The two men began to argue on what seemed like quite a heated topic, but Buffy was oblivious to the details. She may not have Willow’s smarts, or Giles’ intuition in deciphering the smaller pieces of Scooby puzzles, but this was one mystery that even Daphne could’ve solved, she realized.

William Freston and David Howard were one and the same as far as the Council was concerned. And their records dictated that the latter, and the former if she wanted to be particular about it, had been the man Richard had named on his deathbed as the deliverer of the collection.

Which meant William was at risk from whatever vampires had been present when the crystal figures had been left in the first place.

And William had mentioned another vampire attack during their dream.

Whatever it was…it had already started.

Fast and furious, the thoughts tumbled inside Buffy’s head, images of a bleeding William lying twisted in their dream park blurring with his desire-darkened aspect when he’d gaze at her after lovemaking. He was going to be hurt somehow in all this, of that she was suddenly certain, and there was no way she could trust that this uneasy friendship he had formed with Richard would be nearly enough to protect him from harm. If she wanted him to remain safe, she would just have to see to it herself, for as long as she was with him.

“Buffy? Did you hear me?” William said gently, interrupting her reverie with a jolt.

“Huh?”

“I asked if there was anything else you wished to ease your stay here. More clothes, perhaps? Rose has offered to send over anything you may want while she investigates the spell.”

“Oh, more clothes would be good.” She smiled at him in assurance, and received one back, but inside, Buffy was already plotting what she was going to need in case William did fall into trouble.

There was no way he was going to get hurt. Not on her watch. Not if Buffy had anything to say about the matter.

She cared about him too much to let that happen.

*************

No change in a sleeping Buffy meant the hour had officially arrived for Willow to take drastic measures in breaking the spell.

Well, the hour had arrived and gone already, considering she’d had her epiphany just before lunchtime and it was currently mid-afternoon, but it didn’t change the fact that she knew what she needed to do if she wanted to get Buffy back.

She had to find Esme.

And the only way she could think of to do that, without having a Slayer to use as bait, was through Charles.

Finding the shop owner had been ridiculously simple once Willow found his profile in the Council’s notes. Though there had been no response at his home phone number---not that she really expected there to be, but she had to be thorough about finding him, didn’t she?---using his utility bills, she’d been able to hack into the BT corporate database and find another number, this one for a mobile phone issued under a different name but the same billing address, and on a lark, called it.

When he’d answered, she swore her heart had skipped a beat.

He’d almost hung up on her, but after some frantic pleading, Willow had convinced him to hear her out, spilling the story of Buffy not waking and Giles going missing. She thought it was the latter that had him most interested, and when he’d suggested meeting up so that they could figure out how to best help his old friend, she’d jumped at the chance, even though she had yet to bring up the issue of Esme.

She wasn’t so foolish to suggest someplace where she wouldn’t be safe, so had arranged to meet Charles at one of the many McDonald’s in Leicester Square. And there she sat, perched on one of the stools in the window as she watched the tourists go wandering by, her eyes straying to the long, winding line for the half-price theatre tickets booth and then back to the people who passed, and wondering if maybe she’d gotten confused and was sitting in the wrong fast-food restaurant after all.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind her.

Willow jumped in her seat, the straw that had been lodged in her mouth scraping roughly along the inside of her gum as she turned to stare into Esme’s dark eyes. When Willow’s gaze jumped over the room, searching the crowd for any sign of Charles, the older witch just smiled.

“He’s not here,” she said. “But then again, it wasn’t really him you wanted to see, was it?” She gestured toward one of the tables away from the window. “Do you mind if we sit over there?” she asked. “A young thing like you might not have problems with these tall stools, but I’m afraid these old bones aren’t quite up to the challenge right now.”

She didn’t wait for a response, but went over with full expectation that Willow would follow, sitting down tiredly in the farthest chair.

Esme really didn’t look good, Willow decided as she moved her fries and vanilla shake to the new table. Dark shadows made her wrinkled face seem even older, and beneath the high collar of her coat---and wearing a coat in this summer weather? How much sense did that make?---she could’ve sworn she saw the edges of a white bandage poking through.

“What happened to you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“I’d tell you it’s nothing, but that would be a lie,” Esme joked, only to immediately sober again. “Aren’t you surprised to see me?”

“After everything that’s already happened since we came to London? Not so much.”

“Tell me you’re at least a little nervous. I think my ego would be bruised if you weren’t at least marginally frightened by my presence.”

“No offense, but after being threatened by a psycho Slayer and then killing a giant snake demon before he can eat my graduating class, everything else pretty much feels like small potatoes. Although, if it’ll make you feel better, you’re probably more of a hash brown than a tater tot, you know, because of the whole magic thing.”

“Well, considering beggars can’t be choosers, I guess I’ll just have to be satisfied with that.” When Esme shifted in her seat, Willow couldn’t help but notice the wince of pain that crossed the woman’s face. “You saved me a lot of trouble, you know,” she went on, ignoring her pain. “And considering time isn’t exactly on my side at the moment, that’s a very good thing.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not dying, are you?” The abruptness of her inquiry shocked Willow, even as it came out of her mouth, and her eyes widened as she hastened to cover her clumsiness. “Not that you’d naturally be dying, of course, just because you’re so much older than me, because we’re all dying if you think about it, and to ask if you’re dying is pretty moronic since I won the science award the past three years and everything, and…I’ll just be shutting up now.”

Esme smiled at the babble. “You’re a very smart girl, Willow. That’s good. It’ll get both of us very far.”

“Both of us?”

“I need your help. That’s why I’m here.”

A chill went down Willow’s spine. “Oh, no. You’re kidding, right? I can’t help you. You kidnapped Giles!”

“Well, yes---.”

“And the Council thinks you’re public enemy number one because you stole that crystal collection.”

“Actually, technically, I just helped orchestrate the theft---.”

“And that stupid tea you told me about put my best friend in some magic-induced coma. These are not things that are conducive to me helping you in any way.”

But Esme was no longer listening to her, the elder woman’s brows pulled into a frown as Willow’s last statements sank in. “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” she muttered as she began pulling her coat tight around her again to stand up.

“What is it?” Willow asked. Her eyes followed Esme when the witch stood up, although considering how short the woman was, it wasn’t that long of a path. She’s leaving? She can’t be leaving! I haven’t found out how to fix Buffy yet! “Where are you going?”

It was as if she was reading her mind. “You want to save the Slayer, right?”

“Well, yeah. Can’t you just…unzap whatever it is you did?”

A tired sigh. “You should know it doesn’t always work like that, young lady. Now, if you’d managed to hold on to the journal for a little longer, we wouldn’t be in this predicament right now, but since you’re worried for your friend, I’m guessing that means Quentin already took it away from you.”

“How did you know that?”

She was walking away, albeit slowly, and Willow had no choice but to hop up and follow her if she wanted any chance of getting Buffy back.

“Because that’s what I wanted,” Esme admitted as she headed for the exit. “Because I needed the Slayer out of the way.”

“And now you don’t?”

“Exactly.”

“So…what is it you’re going to do?”

Esme paused in the entrance, her gnarled hand trembling slightly as she held the glass door open. “We,” she emphasized, “are going to get the journal back. Now hurry it up. We need to purchase a few supplies before we head to the Council building.”

She stood there in shock for a long moment after Esme stepped out into the busy square. “Wait a minute!” Willow called after the witch when she finally came to her senses. She scurried to catch up. “You want me to break into that place again?”

There was no reply at her side, just Esme’s amused chuckle, and the odd pair of women disappeared into the crowd.

Next