Word Games


By Gail M. Eppers

	Dawn lay on her bed, still in her black dress, and kicked off her pumps, letting them thump to the floor unseen.  The funeral had been dreary.  Contrary to popular belief, it did rain in Southern California.  A light misty drizzle had fallen all through the service, suiting Dawn's mood just fine.  For some of the people at the service, the rain helped explain away the moisture on their cheeks.  But Dawn had run out of tears long before the service.  She was numb, with barely the emotional strength left to appreciate it when Giles offered to take her home.
	Just down the hall, she heard the water run briefly, then footsteps coming toward her room.  Her door was slightly ajar, and Giles pushed it open wide with his elbow.  In his hand he held a small glass of clear water.  His black suit still showed dark patches of moisture from the rain, having sacrificed his umbrella to shelter her on the walk back to his car, then into the house.  His hair was damp around the edges, and curled a bit.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  "I want you to take this.  It'll help you rest," he said, handing her a small pill.
	It wasn't even a full pill, she realized as she took it.  It had been cut in half.  Unquestioning, she put the half pill in her mouth and sipped the water to swallow it, then set the glass on her nightstand.  "What's going to happen to me now, Giles?"
	"Well," he said, "I suppose Social Services will want to place you somewhere."
	"Giles!" Dawn objected immediately.
	He placed a calming hand on her arm.  "Don't worry about it right now.  I'll look into it and I promise I'll do everything in my power to see to it that you stay here with us.  But you've had a very long two days and need to rest."
	Dawn nodded silently, and Giles stood to leave.  But as he reached the doorway, he heard Dawn say, in a voice almost too soft to hear at all, "It should have been me."
	Stepping back into the room, he told her, "No.  Dawn, you musn't think that."  He kept his voice gentle, but stern.
	"But I'm the key, Giles."  She couldn't look at him as she explained, "It was my job.  That's the reason I'm here.  And I couldn't do it.  We both knew what needed to be done and I couldn't.  So I let Buffy do it.  I stood there and let Buffy jump off the tower."
	"Let?"  Giles retook his seat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head.  "No.  You couldn't have stopped her."
	"I could have beaten her to it."  Now she did meet his eyes, knowing she was right.  "It shouldn't have happened that way.  I should have been the one who jumped.  I stood up there waiting for Buffy to save me, and all the time I should have been helping them kill me."
	Giles took a moment to think about his response.  He had to be careful.  It was normal for her to experience survivor's guilt, but he couldn't let her torture herself over this for the rest of her life.  Maybe sleep was all she needed and he wondered when the valium would kick in.  Perhaps she could have tolerated a whole pill, but given her slight frame and her state of emotional exhaustion he hoped half would do the trick.  "Dawn," he began, "if you had jumped, Buffy would have jumped right after you.  I have no doubt.  You were everything to her."
	That thought hadn't occurred to Dawn.  At least we'd be together, she thought.  But she didn't say that to Giles.  Instead, she yawned and pretended the pill was making her sleepy.  It may have been true, since lying here had relaxed her somewhat, and now she really only wanted the sweet release of sleep.  She wondered how long she could stay unconscious.  She wanted it to last forever.
	Giles slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door.  He came down the stairs just as Willow, Xander, Anya and Tara were returning from the funeral.  Giles was tired of seeing black clothes.  "How is she?" Tara asked.
	"Resting."  He looked up the stairs, then back at them.  "I gave her something to help her sleep."
	Willow took the lead and sat on the couch.  The rest, including Giles, followed her into the living room and sat down also.  "Thank you, Giles."  She popped the dress shoes off and began to massage one tired foot.  
	"I want the rest of you to go home and rest as well."
	"It's the middle of the day, Giles," Xander said, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his suit.  "I outgrew naps a long time ago."
	"Yes, but ... I'm going to have to ask you to ... um ..."
	Only Willow got the drift.  "You need us to patrol tonight?"
	"Yes.  And I think you should concentrate on the area of, uh, Buffy's grave."  He seemed reluctant to even voice his thoughts.
	But Anya, as usual, wasn't reluctant at all.  "You think demons may try to desecrate it?   The grave of the Slayer?  Or vampires, wanting a drink of Slayer blood?  But she was embalmed, wasn't she?" She produced a sly smile.  "Wouldn't THAT leave a bad taste in their fangs, eh?"
	"Ahn," Xander said, embarrassed for her.  "Let's not go there, okay?"
	"But Giles said we should ... oh, you mean you don't want me to talk about that."  With an apologetic look all around, she added, "sorry if I grossed you out."
	Getting back to the subject at hand, Willow spoke up.  "You won't be joining us Giles?"
	"No," he said thoughtfully.  "I believe I'll try a little surveillance.  If I mingle, maybe I'll overhear something useful."

	
	It did start out as surveillance, just like the night before.  Giles overheard countless conversations about who was sleeping with whom, and who had slashed someone's tires or shoplifted the latest PC Game.  But nothing about the Slayer having died.  It was a little disturbing, as if her death had meant nothing.  As if her life had meant nothing.  Eventually, sinking into an even deeper depression, he drifted toward the bar, and ordered a drink.  He was still there three hours later.
     The bar at the Bronze was crowded, the music was loud, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. And Rupert Giles was very drunk.  To the amazement of the waiters and patrons, Giles sat in a dark corner, his back to the room and the far edge of the bar, staring at an undecorated wall.  It was easier to concentrate on the conversations, he told himself.  Without the distractions of seeing all the happy, animated faces at the same time.  But the truth was he wasn't in the mood to watch people having fun.  He swivelled his stool only to gain the attention of the bartender and order another drink.  He didn't really see the wall in front of him.  He didn't see anything.  He tried hard not to think anything, either, but the words kept coming back.  Buffy was dead.  He should have been prepared. Afterall, she had survived longer than most other Slayers, but she'd still been very young.  Twenty.  Not even legal drinking age, he thought.  And the last four years of her life had been filled with fighting and killing and nightly trips down terror lane.  It wasn't right.  Giles cursed himself for even being involved, destiny or no destiny.  Then, Watching for her had been an honor.  It wasn't a job.  It was just what he did, without thinking, without doubts and without any reluctance.  He could no more have not Watched for her than he could have stopped breathing.  And now he wanted nothing to do with any of it.  
     Now he was a Watcher without a Slayer.  He should still be Watching, should be prepared
for the new Slayer to arrive, but his heart just wasn't in it now.  He didn't want to move from this stool.  Didn't want to stop pouring alcohol into his system.  Didn't want to breath.  Didn't want his heart to beat, if he had a choice.  If only he could go back in time.  Instead of spending time smothering Ben, he could have rescued Dawn before her blood opened the doorways between dimensions, making Buffy's sacrifice unnecessary.  Of course, if he hadn't smothered Ben, Glory would easily have finished the ritual herself anyway, but Giles didn't think about that.  He wallowed in "if only"s like a pig in mud.  If only Buffy had gotten to Dawn before she began bleeding.  If only Dawn had had the courage to sacrifice herself...Giles admonished himself for this.  It was the scotch talking.  No, he couldn't blame Dawn.  There was no one to blame. Except Glory, who died in mortal form as Ben by his hand.  It was small consolation.
     As he sat there, the song playing on the jukebox ended and there were clicking sounds as
the next song was cued up.  It was Bruce Springsteen singing "Glory Days".  Something squeezed
his heart even tighter and he groaned.  "I hate that song."
     The bartender overheard and stepped over.  "It's a public juke.  I can't tell them what to
play."
     "Just pour me another."
     The bartender flipped his bar towel over his shoulder.  "Mister, you haven't even finished
your last another."
     Without looking at it, Giles lifted the glass in his hand to his mouth and downed the liquid inside it, draining it dry.  He set the glass on the bar and met the bartender's gaze.  "Pour."  The song worked on him twofold.  The word Glory reminded him of the hellgod whose years long quest had ultimately caused Buffy's death.  And the thought of Buffy's glory days was equally disturbing.  He didn't want to remember.  But at the same time, he didn't want to forget.  So he drank, hoping that physiology and chemistry would solve his dilemma.    
     As the bartender stepped away to get a bottle, Spike approached.  He was accompanied
by a dapper, dark-haired man in a crisp gray suit.  The stranger carried an umbrella hooked over
his right arm.  "This is him."  Spike said.
     Giles recognized Spike's voice more than his face.  His vision had blurred some time ago. 
"Oh bloody hell."
     "That's my line,"  Spike objected.  "Fellow to see you."  He glanced at the stranger. 
"Okay, I found him for you."
     The man held up a ten-dollar bill between two fingers.  Spike grabbed it and disappeared,
the crinkling ringing in Giles' ears like Big Ben.
     Giles tried to focus.  It took considerable concentration.  He took off his glasses, polished them with his shirt front, then put them back on, but it didn't help much.  The man stood by patiently.  The face continued to blur, but Giles could distinguish the gray suit enough.  He assumed it was someone sent from the Watcher Council and anger began to stir.  "Oh, what do you want now?  Haven't you done enough?  You people are heartless, you know.  Utterly
heartless if you expect me to go back to work for you."  As he ranted, the bartender returned with a bottle of scotch and poured some into Giles' empty glass.  Giles picked it up, looked down into it and contemplated throwing it into the man's face.  "No.  It would be a waste of good liquor."  And he swallowed half of it at once.  He pointed at the man with a finger of the hand that held the glass.  "You just go back to England and tell your precious Council to get another whipping boy."
     Finally, the man deigned to speak.  In a quiet, dignified voice, he said, "I don't know who
you think I am, but --"
     Giles drank and swallowed quickly as he thought of more to say.  "Just who do you think
you are, anyway?  You like playing God, do you?  Well, I've got news for you, you don't know
how to play that game!"
     "My name is Scott L. Blona," the man said in the same quiet voice, then spelled the last
name.
     "Blona?  What kind of name is that?"  He harumphed a small spray of liquor.
     "Scott L. Blona," the stranger repeated, not offering his hand or making any sort of
physical introduction.  His eyes stayed on Giles' face as if he were sending a mental projection.
     Somewhere in Giles' muddled brain, a muffled alarm began sounding.  He was at least
passingly familiar with the names of people in the Watcher's Council and didn't recognize his at
all.  Perhaps they'd been recruiting.  If his head had been clearer, he might have questioned Scott's identity further, but the alcohol and the anger mixed like sugar and water, setting his thought process on a single track and keeping it there.  He seemed to be from the Watcher's Council and therefore he was from the Watcher's Council and experience had taught Giles that visits from Council members never boded well.  It always meant trouble.  Trouble he was seemingly powerless to avoid.  "Well, I suppose you expect me to just roll over and Watch another Slayer for you, hmmm?   Well, I won't stand for your bullying any longer!"  Clumsily, he braced one elbow on the edge of the bar, slipping off first then trying again, preparing to rise.  "Whatever you're here for now, I'm not going to take it lying down!"
     With that, Giles stepped off the stool and promptly crumpled to the floor unconscious.
     Scott looked calmly down at Rupert Giles.  And smiled.


     Gray clouds drifted across the thin crescent moon as Xander, Willow, Tara and Anya walked
slowly through the graveyard, the moist earth spongy beneath their feet.  There was a chill wind, and Xander zipped up his windbreaker and pushed his fists into the pockets of his jeans.  No one had said anything since they'd joined together.  Buffy's absence was still palpable and no one knew quite what to say.  They passed headstone after headstone, none daring to even look at the names.  Somewhere near stood a grave with a temporary marker bearing the name of Buffy Summers.  And although all of them wanted to think of something else, none of them wanted to risk seeming insensitive by speaking in the quiet of the graveyard.  Finally, Willow, in a long wool skirt and belted tunic, burst into nervous chatter.  "I wonder how long before the new Slayer gets here," she mused.  "And will we like her?  I mean, there's no way she'll be as great as Buffy, but it would be nice if we got along.  Hey!  Maybe she won't even let us in on things.  You know how Buffy got sometimes," and here she began to mimic Buffy's voice, "'It's too dangerous. I can't look after you AND fight demons.'"  Her voice returned to it's normal flightiness.  "What if the new Slayer is like that?  I mean, it's not like I really enjoy putting my life on the line every night, but I think I'd miss patrolling, and research."  She looked around at her surroundings, realizing where she was and why.  Somewhere, an owl hooted.  "Mainly, I think I'd miss the research."  A dog howled.  "Yeah.  Research."  As she spoke, she'd fallen a bit behind the others and double stepped to catch up.
     Xander noticed and slowed his pace a bit.  "I wonder how long before Giles comes out of
his funk," he said.  "Maybe we shouldn't have left him at the bar like that.  I know he needs to
work it out, but it would be really nice if us ersatz Slayers had a Watcher." Giles had used the excuse of surveillance for the past two nights, Xander believed, to avoid going on patrol.  And tonight, patrolling the gravesite, would be hardest yet.  It worried him that Giles couldn't handle it.  How were they supposed to deal with such a thing if the primary adult in their lives couldn't do it?
     "And you don't have anything to work out?"  Willow asked, astonished at Xander's
apparent insensitivity to Giles' feelings.
     "Well, I do.  I mean, I did."  He narrowed the distance between himself and Willow and
lowered his voice.  "But I found crying like a baby surprisingly useful."
     "Oh, Xander," Willow said sympathetically, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.
     "Don't tell anyone I said that."
     "Not a soul."
     Seeing that they had unknowingly taken the point, Anya and Tara stopped and waited for their friends to catch up, Anya tapping one stiletto heeled foot as she reached behind her head to tighten her ponytail.  Wanting to participate in this sudden gift of conversation, she said, "I wonder how much money the Magic Box will make this year. Last week was bad, but I think things are picking up."  After Xander and Willow merely stared at her, she added, "What?" Then she gave an awkward look.  "Oh!  You were expressing remorse, weren't you?  Sorry.  Please continue."  
     "Anya, look out!" Xander exclaimed.     
     She whipped her head around one way, then the other, her ponytail lightly whipping each
cheek in turn, "Is there a demon coming after me?"  Tara's head also whipped around, just in case.
     "No," Xander replied with a sarcastic bob of his head, "It's just that I'm about to hit you!"
     "Guys," interjected Willow, "I really don't think that -- Anya, look out!"
     This time it really was a demon, leaping at them from behind a large headstone. The
vampire, in a dusty denim jacket and black jeans, grabbed at Anya's shoulder length hair, catching the bunched up hair easily and pulling Anya's head backward.  "Hey!"  She yelled.
     Instantly, Xander threw a right cross into the vamp's left jaw and he stumbled backward
but didn't fall.  He growled at Xander and made a frontal attack, slamming himself bodily into
Xander and knocking them both to the ground.  For a moment or two, the combatants rolled in
the moist, sparsely grassy dirt, while Willow pulled a wooden stake from her skirt pocket.  "Hold him, Xander!"
     "Right!" he replied, panting from exhertion.  "No problem."  Although he was being
sarcastic, no sooner had the words left him than he found himself on top, straddling the vamp.  His well-tuned biceps pinned the vamp's arms to the ground above his head.  The vamp's mouth opened and closed in a biting motion, trying to reach Xander's right wrist, and his hips bucked in an attempt to throw Xander off.  As Xander slid his hold outward to avoid being bitten, he lost his balance and plopped down on the vampire's chest.  The vamp, suddenly seeing Xander's carotid artery within reach, surged upward, fangs bared, but Xander leaped up and back
quickly.  He fell backwards onto his butt and the vamp was back on his feet.
     Willow stood with stake poised.  When Xander fell, she rushed forward, ready to plunge
the stake into the vampire's chest, but he saw her coming and caught her wrist in mid-thrust.  He twisted, and Willow was forced to drop the stake.  Kicking as high as she could with her left leg, she pulled away from him, but also lost her balance and fell.  Tara ducked down and forward, retrieving the stake and handed it back to Willow.  By this time, Xander had regained his footing and was preparing another attack. He shot forward, chivalrous thoughts rushing through his head to inspire himself.  
     With the vamp busy fighting in two directions, Anya came up behind him and kicked the
vampire's legs out from under him.  As soon as he was on his back, she brought the other foot up
and stepped on his chest.  He grabbed her ankle and drooled, but Anya did not pull away.  "Do
you really think I wore these because they're comfortable?" she asked.  Shifting her weight
forward, she drove the sharp stiletto heel through his ribs and punctured his heart.  The vamp
dusted and her foot came down on an embedded stone, the heel snapping off at its base.  She stared down at where he'd been, not even noticing the broken shoe.
     "Way to go, Anya!"  Xander said, raising one hand for a high five.  Anya did not
reciprocate.  "What is it, Ahn?" he asked, lowering his hand to his side.
     "It doesn't feel the same," she said, then looked at Xander questioningly.  "Did I do it
wrong?"
     Exchanging a look with Xander, Willow replied softly, "No, you didn't do it wrong, Anya. 
It feels different because Buffy's not here."
     "Why?"  Anya seemed reluctant to leave the spot.  "I don't understand."
     Xander put an arm around Anya's shoulders and gently pushed her onward.  "No one
does."    
     Anya bent down and picked up the severed heel. "I had them specially made, you know."
     "Don't worry.  I know a good cobbler."
     "You do?"
     "Yeah.  Peach."
	They walked quietly for awhile, then spotted the mound of fresh dirt that was Buffy's grave.  Xander flung out an arm, stopping everyone in their tracks.  "Someone's there."  A hint of anger ran through his voice.  A dark figure crouched there, facing the head of the grave where the temporary marker hung on a tall metal rod, his back towards them.  "Slowly.  Quietly," Xander said.  They began walking.
	As they neared, Tara relaxed.  "I can see the top of his head.  I think it's Spike."  Remembering the deep feelings Spike had had for Buffy, she added, "Maybe we should come back later."
	Spike stood up and turned toward them, unashamedly wiping his eyes.  "It's all right.  Come on."
	"Spike, if you'd rather be alone, we can --" Willow began.
	"No.  I said it's all right," Spike repeated.  "I know why you're here."  The four of them gathered around, careful not to step on the fresh earth and saw that a single rose had been placed there.  Spike's jaw worked as he pulled himself together.  "You don't need to worry about it, though.  I'm not leaving."
	Xander's eyes narrowed.  He never quite knew whether he could trust Spike.  He was a vampire, after all.  He'd hindered them as often as he'd helped them.  The question was, which was he doing now?  "We're patrolling, Spike.  We ..." he couldn't finish his thought.  We have to because Buffy's not here anymore.  Where she is, she can't protect herself now.  It's up to us.
	From the look on Spike's face, Xander didn't have to say it.  "Patrol somewhere else then.  This is my --" he almost said 'turf' but stopped himself.  "I'll protect her.  The Little Bit by day, Buffy by night."  There was a fierceness in those words that filled all four of Buffy's friends with confidence.  "No one is getting near her."


     
     "Giles, you're drunk."
     "Hmmm?"
     "I said, you're drunk."
     Giles opened his eyes wide.  There, standing right next to him, was Buffy Summers, the
Slayer, the Chosen One, dressed in a lavender tank top and stonewashed jeans, her beloved
crossbow slung across her shoulders. "Buffy?  How--?" 
     "Nevermind how.  You're drunk and you're dreaming and I don't have much time."
     "I have every right to be drunk," he muttered.  "I'm in mourning.  You're dead, you know. 
For real.  Dead and buried.  God, I need a drink."
     "Stop it, Giles!"  He had never heard her sound so forceful.  "Things are not as they seem,
Giles.  Remember that.  Are you listening?"
     "Of course I'm listening."
     "No, you're not." 
     Her voice had gotten much lower suddenly. He blinked and focused. Giles lifted his head
from the table.  Table?  He didn't remember moving from the bar, but he was now seated in a
booth, his head resting on his folded arms.  He raised his head slowly, afraid it would fall from his shoulders and held back a groan.  In front of him, he noticed a cup of steaming coffee, and reached for it greedily.  "I knew I should have cut you off," said the bartender, standing in the aisle. "I'm closing half an hour late on account of you."
     "Excuse me?"
     Impatiently, the bartender tapped his wristwatch.  "Closing?  Remember?"
     Giles finally raised his head and looked around, seeing the empty room.  Chairs stood
upended on the tables.  A collection of napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and ketchup
bottles crowded one side of the bar.   On the far side of the room, a waiter dipped a rag mop into a bucket of sudsy water and began pushing it over the floor.  The jukebox was blessedly quiet.  "Oh, dear."
     "Sober up already." The bartender pointed to the hot coffee.  "You need a ride home?"
     He sipped the coffee slowly, feeling his head clear.  "No.  No, thank you.  I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
     The bartender sniffed.  "I'm going to finish closing out the register.  You've got until then to finish the coffee and get your butt out of my bar."
     "Yes, sir."
     He returned behind the bar and began counting money.  It reminded Giles of his own shop
and how Anya would be counting the day's receipts ... no, wait, they left for patrol.  He glanced at his watch and was mortified at the late hour.  By now, they would have finished patrolling and gone home to bed.  Probably have been asleep for a good hour or more.  He snuck a few more sips of the coffee, then put himself together, leaving a ten dollar bill on the table for the man's trouble.  Seeing the ten jogged his foggy memory and he flashed on the ten dollar bill the stranger had given to Spike.  Saw Spike take it in a crumpled handful.  Saw the stranger standing there.
     Driving extremely carefully, he was thankful to return home, park his convertible, and step
into his own home.  As much as he wanted to crawl upstairs and fall into bed, instead he went
directly to his bookshelf and pulled out several volumes.  Settling into his easy chair, he picked up a legal pad and a Bic pen, wanting to write something down while it was relatively fresh in his mind.  What was the name the man had said?  Scott.  Yes, he remembered that clearly.  Scott what?  He'd spelled it, hadn't he?  B-L-O-N-A.  Again, he found himself making a face at the name.  It was an odd one at that.  Well, with a name you could find out about just about anyone, if you knew where to look.  He fingered the spines of the books, selecting one by hooking his finger in the binding.  
     Soon, though, he was sound asleep, open book upside down on his chest, glasses slipping slowly down his wheezing nose.
     
     


     Willow took Tara's hand under the table and guided it to her knee.  Above the table, Tara
tried to block a grin, then coughed into her hand instead, clearing her throat.  "Anya, it's such a big apartment.  How does Xander afford it?"
     "Well, he does make more money than Giles does at the shop,"  Anya blurted.  Giles
coughed loudly.  "But we also cut down on some expenses."
     "Meaning food?"  Willow suggested, knowing Xander's insatiable appetite.
     The bell over the door tinkled softly as Xander, the last to arrive, entered the Magic Box.  
     "Of course, it was hard at first.  I mean, Twinkies don't grow on trees you know.  At
least, I couldn't find any spell that would make them do that ..."
     "She's right," Xander said, stepping down into the sunken reading area and taking a seat. 
"I was really miserable until I discovered Little Debbie."
     Dawn giggled and Xander smiled at her, making her blush.  He was glad to see her smile.  After yesterday, he wasn't sure he'd ever get to see her do that again.  The good night's sleep seemed to have done the trick. 
     Also at the table, behind several large, aged, hardcover books, some open, some closed,
sat Giles, secretly nursing one hell of a hangover.  "Ah, Xander,"  Giles said.  "Good of you to
come.  How was patrol last night?"
     Willow answered Giles' question.  "We dusted a couple of vamps."
     "Until Anya ran out of footwear..." Xander muttered under his breath.
     Giles looked at them quizzically, but didn't ask for further explanation.   "Quiet night?"
     "Too quiet," Xander responded.  "And I don't like it.  I don't like it at all."
     "Quite right," Giles agreed.  
     Xander went on.  "You'll never get me, copper!  Never!  You're the dirty rat who killed
my brother!"  Then he jutted out his chin and began to scratch it.  "I gave him an offer he couldn't refuse," he said in a passable Brando voice.
     Giles couldn't take it.  "Xander, enough.  We have a problem here.  I was at the bar this
morning --"
     "Still?"  At the glare from Giles, Xander ran pinched fingers across his lips.
     "As I was saying, I received a visitor.  I've been unable to find any record that he attended any of the schools I did.  I believed he was a member of the Watchers Council but I can find no reference to him in their records, either."   His gaze passed around the table.  "Something about him, appearing now, makes me uncomfortable.  There is no Slayer." And here his voice cracked slightly.  He hoped no one noticed.  If so, they remained silent. "The Demon Rhelm must therefore be preparing to make a move, and soon, before a new Slayer arrives."
     Willow spoke up.  "Did he warn you?" Seeing that this conversation was going to require
her full attention, she gently slipped her hand out of Tara's.  Tara brought her hands to the top of the table and folded them.
     "No."
     "Did he attack you?"  From Dawn.
     "No."
     "But you think he's a demon?"  Tara asked.
     "Yes.  I do."  He shook his head, not understanding his own conclusion. "There was a --
dream, of sorts.  Buffy may have been trying to warn me, I'm not sure.  An instinct, perhaps, but I do believe he intends to do me harm."
     "Why?"  Dawn was confused.  "I mean, Glory wanted to kill me because I was the key,
and they all wanted ... Buffy ... because she was the Slayer.  Now they want you?  Because you're the Watcher?" She was guessing, her words working as her own sounding board.
     "Precisely." Giles confirmed.  "Without a Slayer or a Watcher, they would have virtually
free reign.  They could do whatever they wanted."
     "Giles?"  Xander asked, after a pause.  His eyes were unfocused as he imagined such a world.
     "Yes, Xander?"
     "Don't die."
     "I don't intend to."  He rose and walked slowly around the table.  "When a Slayer dies,
another is called.  She's not here yet.  If there's no Watcher for her, the balance of the team is still compromised.  And she would lack a trainer.  He means to kill me."
     Turning her head to follow his progress around the table, Willow asked, "If a Slayer is
called, wouldn't a new Watcher be called, too?  Hey, maybe we'd get Wes!"  She winced at
herself, "Sorry.  No offense intended, Giles."
     "None taken.  I think."  His expression was doubtful.  "But yes, a new Watcher would
come if they are successful in disposing of me.  The Hellmouth cannot be unguarded.  In the
meantime, the Demon World would --" He cut himself off, not wanting to voice what he
imagined.  "And they wouldn't need very long,"  he finished.
     "So what did he look like?"  Anya asked.  "Horns?  Hairy ears?  Tail?"
     "He looked human."
     "Okay, looked human, sounded human, could he be a duck?"  asked Xander.  
     "And he gave me a name.  Blona.  B-L-O-N-A."  Reaching his own seat once again, Giles
sat.
     All present responded, "Blona?"
     Without much apparent thought, Xander asked, "So, does your Blona have a first name?" 
At the irritated looks from his friends he shot Giles a pointed look of his own.  "Well?"
     "As a matter of fact, yes.  Scott.  And middle initial L."
     Anya sat up straight.  "Middle initial?"
     Now it was Anya who was the center of attention as the rest of the Scoobys looked to her
to expand.  "Demons don't use middle initials.  I mean, they might use a middle name, but they
wouldn't use just an initial."
     "So what does it mean?  He really is just a human?" Giles almost seemed disappointed.
     Anya reached excitedly for one of the books and began paging through it.  "Wait, I
remember seeing something...."  She pushed that book aside and grabbed another, flipping pages
quickly.  "Aha!  Found it.  Right here.  I knew it."
     "Care to share?" Willow's hand snaked over toward the book, but Anya picked it up and
held it as if doing a biblical reading, the open spine supported by the palm of her hand.  
     "Demon Names.  When demons use a specific name that cannot be traced to a living or
dead human," she read, then looked up at Giles who nodded for her to continue, "it indicates that the demon was conjured for a specific purpose."  She looked up from the page and explained,
"Conjured demons are easy.  They live by a strict set of rules.  They have a specific task to
perform and once it's done they disappear. 
     Giles spoke quietly, "His task is to kill me, Anya."
     Her balloon deflated.  "Oh."  She took a deep breath.  "Then we have to find out how to
kill him."  She began flipping pages, but slowly this time.  "It probably won't do any good to chop his head off.  He'd just grow a new one.  They also die by a strict set of rules.  When the demon is conjured, the conjurer can determine what will kill him.  You cannot conjur an invincible demon.  It depends on what kind of conjured demon he is.  He could be a retrieval demon -- Vamps use them all the time to go into homes where they haven't been invited, you know, to get stuff.  When things disappear, sometimes a retrieval demon took them.  Or a fyarl demon, although those usually don't appear human."
     "I know," Giles muttered to himself, remembering the time that he himself had been turned
into a fyarl demon by his old friend Ethan Rayne, who now sat in a cell guarded by the Initiative as a result of that very incident.  While Anya went on with her audible thinking process, Giles rose.  "If he's a conjured demon, then someone conjured him."
     Everyone at the table responded, "Who?"
     Scanning all the faces, he replied, "I don't know.  But I know someone who might," and
he crossed to the counter and reached behind it, "with a little persuasion."  He slipped something into an inside jacket pocket.  "Continue with the research.  I'll return later."
     "Giles, where --?"  Willow began, but the Watcher was already out the door.



     "You just go out of your way to get in my way, don't you?"  Buffy said, or rather, the
ghost of Buffy.  The echo of Buffy's voice which haunted Spike's crypt.  It had been a long night guarding her grave.  He actually did have to dust one vamp, but only one, and she had simply mistaken him for a human and tried to get to his neck.  Imagine that, mistaken for a human.  She hadn't been interested in the grave at all.  After hours of vigil, he could have sworn he could hear Buffy's voice in his head.  So he'd come home, and he sat there now,
cross-legged on his slab, listening to it.  He remembered her visiting here one day.  She had pulled the heavy cement slab out from under him as easily as a magician pulling a tablecloth off of a table full of china.  The china usually fared far better than he had, but then, his nails had been freshly painted and he was unable to catch himself as he fell backward into the tomb.  It had angered him then.  He longed for such a moment now.  
     Hearing the door scrape open, he looked up weakly, instinctively leaning away from the
shaft of light that crept into the room. He eyed Giles suspiciously.  "What do you want?" 
Obligingly, Giles pushed the crypt door closed.  
     "Information, Spike."
     "Bugger off. I don't have any."
     Giles stepped closer, but still kept a respectable distance, his hands casually hidden in his pants pockets.  "The gent you introduced to me last night.  Where did you meet him?"
     "Around." Spike spun on his black leather clad buttocks and turned his back on Giles.  
     That was a mistake.  Giles rushed around the tomb and was in Spike's face before he
finished turning.  "I know someone sent him after me.  Who was it?"
     Spike turned again.  "Don't know."  And, over his shoulder as an afterthought, "Sorry."
     While stepping around the sarcophagus yet again, Giles slipped one hand inside his jacket and pulled out a small spray bottle.  He moved into Spike's eyeline with it.  "Tell me, Spike."
     "I'm not a cat, you gonk."
     Giles sprayed a fine mist that settled on Spike's arm, making it smoke.  Spike leaped
backward off the slab, howling and waving his injured arm. "Hey there!  What are you doing?"  
     "Now, Spike, I thought I'd let you know that this bottle has two settings.  Spray," he
stopped to turn the tip of the nozzle, "and jet stream."  Carefully aiming, he continued, "Now, talk to me or spend the rest of your natural undeath as a eunuch."
     "You wouldn't."  Spike knew that was a silly thing to say.  Giles would.  In a heartbeat. 
At the moment, the cement sarcophagus stood between Giles and his intended target, however.  "I told you, I don't know the bastard!"
     Slowly, deliberately, Giles walked around the tomb for the last time.  Spike backed away
from him into the crypt wall, eyeing the nozzle of the spray bottle.  Just as deliberately, as he narrowed the distance between them to a handsbreadth, Giles let his trigger finger twitch.  "If you so much as think this is hitting below the belt, I'll squirt you right now."  He was in no mood for Spike's flippant remarks, and that was just the sort of thing he'd say.
     The silver haired vampire panicked and blurted, "This blighter comes up to me in the alley. 
He says, 'Do you know where Rupert Giles is?' I say 'Who wants to know?' and he says, 'I'll pay
you ten dollars.' so I say, 'Follow me.' End of story!  Now put that bloody thing away!"
     Giles saw no guile in Spike's eyes, which were as bloodshot as his own.  And he smelled
no alcohol on Spike's, uh, lack of breath.  He knew.  The vampire had been crying.  Big time. 
Giles backed away and pocketed the bottle.  "Fair enough."  His brain worked quickly.  If Spike
had no idea where Scott had come from, how was he going to find out?  There wasn't just the
problem of Scott to deal with here, he needed to find out who had created him, and why that
person wanted him dead.
     "Fair enough, indeed," Spike muttered.  "What's all the fuss for, anyway?"
     The Watcher took off his glasses and absent-mindedly put the end of one bow in his
mouth as he leaned one hip on the slab.  Suddenly tired, he sighed.  "The man you brought to me
last night isn't a man.  He's a demon, and he's trying to kill me."
     "How do you know that?" Spike gave him an outrageous laugh.  
     "Buffy."
     "Buffy?"
     As if speaking to himself, Giles explained, "I had a dream while I was ... at the bar.  Buffy told me that things were not as they seem.  I'm sure she meant him.  Scott."  He replaced his glasses, "Anyway, I also have pretty good instincts and he struck me as ... well, ..."
     "But he didn't strike you?"
     "Hmmm?  No, no he didn't."
     "That's funny, because usually if a demon is going to attack there's some hitting involved. 
And if he's trying to kill you, why didn't he kill you last night?  From what I could tell, you weren't in any condition to defend yourself.  You were blotto with a capital B, as I recall." 
     Ashamed, Giles nodded, "Yes, well ...."
     "Sounds like he was a perfect gentleman, and here you are assuming the worst and going
all bonkers.  I thought he must have beat seven shades of shit out of you the way you came after
me like that."  He feigned serious emotional hurt. 
     "I apologize, Spike.  I should have taken your word, I suppose."
     "You suppose."
     "All right.  I should have taken your word!"  Giles' patience was wearing thin.  And his
anxiety was increasing, Spike's observations notwithstanding.  Why hadn't Scott killed him at the bar?  Giles didn't have an answer to that.  "Spike, would you do something for me?"
     The vampire grinned smugly.  "You want to me to find out, don't you?  Find out and find
him."
     "Very astute."
     Slowly, Spike turned to face Giles and raised an eyebrow.  He said nothing.
     Giles sighed.  "All right, Spike.  Here's the way it works.  You find out who he is.  One
hundred.  Produce him. Two hundred."
     "I always wanted to be a producer."



     "So how do we tell what kind of demon he is?"  Willow asked, craning her neck to see the
book Anya searched.  "I mean, I've seen some of these spells.  The rules can get very complicated. You write them all down on a piece of paper, then burn the paper as part of the incantation.  The rules get incorporated into the demon, provided they don't contradict themselves."
     "And if they do contradict themselves?" asked Xander.
     "Bring the whipped cream.  You're conjuring Jell-O."
     "Ah."
     Anya, oblivious to Willow's curiosity, continued scanning pages.  "That initial ..."
     Feeling less than useful, Willow pulled a book at random toward her and also turned
pages.  "Look up 'Initial Demon'. What kills an Initial Demon?"
     Suddenly, Anya's eyes lifted from the page and stared into space for a moment.  She
looked at Xander, "The middle initial was used purposely.  The letter is needed to complete the
anagram."
     "Anagram?" Xander asked.
     "It's when you take a word or phrase, mix up the letters and make different words."
     "Duh, I know that.  I meant what's an Anagram Demon?"
     "It means that he can be killed by something that's an anagram of his name."
     Immediately, the Scoobys all pulled out pencil and paper and began scribbling.  "How did
you spell that last name again?" asked Dawn, and Xander repeated it for her. 
     All was silent as four of the five worked the anagram.
     "Got it!"  Xander said after a few moments.  "Clotan Bolts!  What's a clotan bolt?"
     Dawn sniffed.  "I believe it's cotton balls, Xander."  She smiled crookedly.  "You can kill
this guy with cotton balls?"
     Xander nodded.  "Right.  Cotton balls.  I knew that."
     Willow had left the anagramming to her friends and instead opened up the large volume
titled "Demon Dictionary".  As she paged her way through the "A"s, she let out an uncontrollable
"Ew!"
     "Willow?" Xander asked.
     "Nothing."
     "Will, if you, Queen of Newt Eyes and Toad Tongue, say 'ew', you'd better be prepared to
expand on that."
     Willow looked up, grinning at the royal title she'd been given.  "Sorry, just saw a listing
for an Asshole Demon.  Hope we never run into one of those.  Here it is.  Anagram Demon. 
She's right, but there's an incantation that has to be done to charge the object with deadly force.  I can do that.  Most of the stuff is right here.  Except for the cotton balls."
     "I saw some in the bathroom," Xander offered.  He pushed his chair back noisily and went
behind the counter to the back room.  He came back a minute later with a plastic bag of small
fluffy white balls, pulled out a handful and set them in front of Willow.  "What else do you need?"
     Between Xander, Anya, Tara and Dawn, Willow soon had all the ingredients, including a
candle and a mixing bowl.  She began adding the ingredients together, putting a pinch of this
powder and smidgen of that herb into the mixing bowl.  "Shouldn't we wait for Giles?" Dawn
asked.
     At that moment, the bell over the door sounded and they all turned to see Giles enter the
Magic Box.  Xander spoke up.  "We're pretty sure your friend is an Anagram Demon and he can
be killed with cotton balls.  That is, as soon as Willow does her spell."
     Giles absorbed the information quickly.  "Good job, everyone."  Then, under his breath, "I knew it."  But his vindication in finding that Scott was indeed a demon brought him no joy.
     Pausing in her work, Willow looked up.  "Did you find out anything?"
     As he spoke, Giles crossed to the counter and slipped the spray bottle of holy water back
to its hiding place.  "Unfortunately, no.  Spike didn't know where Scott came from, but I have
enlisted his help.  Please continue, Willow."
     The redhead turned back to the paraphernalia in front of her.  With a small wooden stick,
she stirred the dry mixture in the bowl.  Then she lit the candle from a match.  "Forces of Light and Strength and .... and Lint.  Take these objects, soft, benign, with other nature thus entwine."  With her fingertips, she picked up some of the mixture and slowly sprinkled it over the balls of white fluff.  "Tesli Kohm Naran Cosey Zu!"  She chanted.  The powder settled on the balls, spotting them with bits of black and brown.  "Giles, something's wrong."
     "Willow?"
     She shook her head.  "There was no energy flow.  Nothing happened."  She pulled the
book toward her and reread the page.  "I don't get it.  I did everything right."
     Dawn picked up the bag from the far side of the table and brought it over to Willow. 
"Here, try again.  Maybe you need to do the whole bag."
     The bag crinkled as Willow took it and one glance at it was all she needed.  "Xander,
these aren't cotton balls."
     "Sure they are.  You think I don't know cotton balls when I see them?"
     She pointed to the front of the bag.  "See?  Cosmetic Puffs.  They're synthetic.  Magick
won't work on synthetic fibers."  She stuffed the now dusty balls back into the bag and set it aside. "Does anyone know where there's REAL cotton balls?"
     "The drug store across the street," said Giles on his way out.  
     After he left, the girls all looked at Xander reproachfully.  "What?"  he said in his own
defense.  "How was I supposed to know they even made fake cotton balls?"

     
     Several minutes later, Giles exited the drug store, the shopping bag clutched in one hand,
and headed back to the Magic Box.  He hadn't put both feet into the street before someone barrelled into him and pushed him back.  He barely avoided falling as he backpedaled and soon found himself up against the exterior wall of the drug store, held in place by an arm which pushed against his chest right under his chin.  It was Scott, still in British Gentleman costume with an umbrella slung over his other arm and now sporting a bowler hat.  Scott growled and Giles noticed a stubble of beard on his chin.  It was hard to miss.  It was nearly scraping his own.  
     Trying to remain calm, Giles let the shopping bag fall by his feet, then brought his hand up quickly and rabbit punched Scott square in the nose.  Scott backed off, bowler hat rolling off his head and into the street, holding his hands over his nose.  Blood ran between his fingers.  "Are we doing this now?" Giles asked.  He certainly hoped not, since he wasn't prepared, but fear did not show on his face.
     For a moment, Giles wondered if Scott's power of speech had left him.  Scott dabbed at
the blood on his face, wincing.  "No," Scott replied.  "Master says no."
     "Master?"  Giles asked, honestly interested.  "Who is Master?"
     It seemed to Giles that Scott wanted to attack him.  Wanted to desperately, and was
somehow being held back.  "Can't tell you that."  Scott glanced around, finally spotted his hat in the gutter and bent to retrieve it.  He popped it back onto his head triumphantly.
     Intrigued, Giles stepped forward slowly.  Scott stood on the edge of the sidewalk and
waited.  Wouldn't it be nice, Giles mused, if a vehicle, preferable a very large one, should come careening down the street just now?  He could just push a little, and ...but it wouldn't be the end would it?  Somehow, Scott would survive such an accident.  His wounds would heal magickally, because it wasn't time yet.  Growing angry now, Giles grabbed Scott by his shirt collar and then it was Scott's turn to be against the wall as Giles threw him bodily then stepped close and put his hands around Scott's throat.  Once again, the bowler hat jumped off Scott's head and rolled in a circular path on the sidewalk.
     Passersby glanced in their direction nervously.  He worried that one of them might call
911.  He also worried that it might not be a bad idea.  Then he blocked that thought out and turned his attention back to Scott, whose own hands grasped Giles' wrists futilely.  "Who sent you?"  
     In an oxygen deprived, raspy voice, the demon repeated, "I can't tell you!"
     "Why didn't you just kill me last night?  What do you want?"  Giles loosened his grip a bit, to allow Scott to speak comfortably.
     "I don't want.  Master wants.  He's angry now.  I shouldn't have come.  It's not time yet. 
But I saw you," Scott growled again, then whipped his arms up from below, breaking Giles' hold.  He panted, "I'm going to kill you."  He broke into a run, scooping up the bowler hat but not putting it on, and shouted back over his shoulder, "When Master says, I'm going to kill you."  Scott disappeared across the street, narrowly escaping being hit by a city bus.
     Giles was shaking.  He'd won this round, it appeared easily, but he'd felt the musculature
under that arm that had held his chest.  He won this round because he'd been allowed to.  It was
going to take much more than a rabbit punch to beat the demon next time.  When that would be, he
really wanted to know.  Perhaps that was part of the goal here.  That Giles not know.  The
waiting, the anticipation, the ... dread? would slowly drive him crazy.  But Giles felt that whoever was behind this was waiting because he had to.  And that there wouldn't be long to wait.  
     Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he bent down and retrieved the shopping bag.


     
     This time, when Willow sprinkled the dust onto the cotton balls, each speck of dust burst
into a twinkle of light and disappeared into a cotton ball.   She did the whole bag, having
discarded the cosmetic puffs, then poured them loose into the shopping bag.  "There you go,
Giles.  One bag of deadly weapon. Of course, they'll only work against Scott.  Throw them at
anyone else and they're plain ordinary cotton balls."
     "Thank you, Willow."  
     As Giles reached for the bag, Xander suddenly grabbed it from Willow's hand.  "You mean
you're actually going to attack a man with these?  Isn't it risky?  I mean, you don't even know for sure he's a demon.  What if he's who he says he is?  You'll look really stupid throwing these at him."
     Giles reluctantly told them about his encounter outside the drug store, leaving little doubt that his life was in danger.  "It would appear that whoever wants me dead, needs it to happen at a certain time.  Perhaps it's nothing more than his desire to watch, to witness, as it were, my death."  As he spoke, more possibilities occurred to him.  
     "And even if he is a demon," Xander reasoned, "what if you don't hit the right spot and
you just make him angry?  He could kill you, Giles."
     Again, Giles reached for the bag, but Xander pulled it away.  "I appreciate your concern,
Xander.  I really do.  And yes, it is a risk.  We all know about risk --"
     Xander nodded knowingly.  "I once took a standardized test with a number three pencil."
     "I put Snuggle in my Downy ball!" offered Willow.
     From behind them at the cash register, Anya waved.  "Hello?  Bunnies!"
     There was a moment of quiet and Dawn stepped up next to Giles.  She placed her hand on
his arm.  "Buffy risked her life and lost.  There is such a thing as needless risk, Giles.  We all know that, too."
     Giles could see how worried Dawn was at the possibility of losing him as well.  He put his
free hand over hers gently.  "It's clearly him or me," he said to the group of worried faces.  "But I need to find out who is behind all this.  He's not showing himself until I deal with Scott."
     "Until WE deal with Scott," Xander corrected him.  "These will work no matter who
throws them, right?"  He asked Willow.
     "I think so."
     "Xander, no."  Giles didn't even raise his voice.  "I appreciate your concern, all of you. 
But Scott is after me.  And I won't put the rest of you in danger.  I'm going alone.  If you
interfere, he's quite capable of killing all of you to get to me.  Believe me, I have no intention of losing, but his master wants the Watcher and he'll get the Watcher.  I trained Buffy.  It's not like I can't hold my own.  And I know his weakness."  He pointed to the bag in Xander's hand.
     "Oh, spare me the 'risk is our business' speech," Xander said and handed the bag to Giles.  
     Giles took it.  "I don't know when or where I'll need these, so I'd best keep them with me."  He tucked them into his inside jacket pocket.  
     "What if you need help, Giles?"  Willow asked worriedly.  "What if --?"
     "I won't," he replied simply.  But Willow's fear had added to Dawn's and she crept to
Giles' side.  Giles wrapped an arm around Dawn's shoulders.  "I'll call here as soon as it's over.  And I'll come back here, to the Magic Box, no matter what time of the day or night.  And I'm reasonably sure it will be night.  These things always are."  His attempt to lighten the mood fell flat.



     At dusk, Spike, still keeping to the shadows, left his crypt, wishing he could feed like he
used to.  Walking through the streets, seeing people going about their evening business, was like Dagwood Bumstead walking right past a buffet table laden with sandwiches.  It just wasn't
natural.  Spike still felt the urge, the hunger, but he knew that even though the Sunnydale branch of the Initiative was gone, their computer chip buzzed on in his head independent of its creators.  Sometimes, when the intent was there, he couldn't even put on his vamp face without feeling jagged lightening bolts surge through his pain center.  Unless, of course, it came while he was in the presence of other demons.  Then the chip was quiet, completely unnoticeable.  
     So, in effect, he'd been involuntarily drafted into the Scoobys, even dusting those of his
own kind.  Spike shivered, although the night was warm.  He'd helped before out of love for
Buffy.  With Buffy gone, he told himself he didn't really care what happened to the rest of her
little brood.  He'd promised to look out for nibblet, but that didn't require really caring.  Now, here he was, helping them, helping Giles, of all people, the man who'd kept him tied up in a bathtub "just in case".
     Spike couldn't blame him really.  Giles' experience with vampires had been mostly with
Angel, the vampire with a soul, whom Giles had learned to trust, only to have that trust betrayed when Angelus returned, killing Giles' lady love.  Then Angelus had tortured him for hours, even using the image of Jenny Calendar to trick him.  Was it any wonder then that Giles had trouble trusting Spike?  After all, Spike thought, I'm completely untrustworthy, aren't I?  I'm doing this for money.
     It wasn't going to be easy finding out who was after Giles.  Spike looked forward to a
nice, long, dragged out, knuckle buster of a fight.  It was worth the trouble, if he came up empty and got nothing but a disappointed glare out of Giles.  But a hundred dollars would be better, and two hundred would be quite nice indeed.  Now, who to ask first?
     Willy's Place was buzzing as usual, and the weasel behind the bar was running from end to
end pouring drinks and babbling automatic apologies to growling, vamp-faced customers.  Spike
sauntered over to the far end of the bar, next to the flip-up section that Willy used to go in and out.  When Willy came his way, he said, "Willy, let me know when you've got a minute."  Then he leaned on one elbow rather than taking a seat and turned his head to look around the room. 
There was a chance the bloke was in here this very minute.  There were two vampires playing a
heated game of pool.  Spike hoped those weren't real wooden cues.  It could get out of hand. 
And a group of four variously horned demons were playing English darts.  All fun until someone
loses an eye, and only one of them had any to spare.  If Scott was here, he'd stick out like a
gentleman in a demon bar, so to speak.  
     "What do you want, Spike?  Bloody Mary?"  Willy's Bloody Marys didn't use any tomato
juice.  They were very good.  
     But that wasn't what Spike was here for.  "Information."
     Nervously, Willy turned his back and he and Spike faced the rear wall.  "Ask me the
question and I'll set the price."
     "There's a new demon in town.  Dressed like an Englishman.  Carries an umbrella.  What
do you know about him?"
     Willy thought a minute, but before he could respond someone was yelling for his services. 
"Don't go away," he said quickly as he turned and hurried to the other end, using a smile that was oilier than his hair.  Spike waited, watching the crowd again.  Willy had something, or he would have simply said he couldn't help Spike, with an apology.  Question was, how much of his potential profit would be eaten up in getting it out of him?  And would it be anything actually useful or something that Giles already knew?  Spike pulled his wallet of his back pocket and took out a twenty dollar bill.  Willy liked twenties.  He usually wanted more than one, but Spike was reluctant to go that far just yet.  He stretched out the bill on the end of the bar, keeping his hand over half of it.
     When Willy returned, he eyed the bill on the counter.  
     "Talk to me, Willy.  If it's useful, it's yours."
     "The Englishman was here yesterday, about this time.  He asked for Rupert Giles.  Told
him to try The Bronze."  Willy reached for the free end of the twenty.
     Spike slowly slid the bill toward himself.  "Tell me something I don't know.  What does he
want?  Where can I find him?  Who's he working for?"
     "Shoulda asked those questions in the first place.  For that bill, you only get one question." 
     Spike loved it when Willy tried to be coercive.  Keeping his intentions in check, he put on
his vamp face.  "Wrong Willy.  It's three for one today."
     Willy began to sweat and squirm.  He probably knew that Spike was harmless, at least
neck-biting-wise, but there was a certain inherent reaction of panic to seeing a vamp putting on
the face that Willy had trouble turning off.  He tried, but Spike could practically hear Willy's heart beat double time.  Spike watched as Willy weighed the benefits of getting the twenty over getting no money at all.  "Don't know what he wants.  Aside from Giles, that is.  He could be at the Bronze again if he thinks that's where Giles is.  I'm thinking if you stay with Giles, you'll find him, too."
     Spike slid the bill back toward Willy but didn't remove his hand.  "Who's he working for?" 
The question had a completely different tone now that he said it with the bumpy forehead.  Willy
actually jumped.  Spike heard customers calling for Willy, but realized Willy was not too
distracted to notice.  Much longer, and Willy would be risking serious physical injury.  He wanted the twenty, clearly.  He also wanted to keep his nose in the center of his face.  Before Willy could leave again, Spike used his left hand to grab Willy's shirt collar.  The demands of those other customers weren't Spike's concern.  And this was the most important question to Spike.  He couldn't afford to lose the bartender now.  "Who's he working for?" he repeated, growling at the dull ache in his head.  If Willy didn't answer him soon, he was going to have to take this a step farther.  One punch is all he'd have to do, though.  The other demons would take care of the rest.



	On the screen, several knights in chain mail crouched behind rocks, peering at the mouth of a cave littered with bones.  "Oooo, look!  I told you!" Anya said, as small rabbits began hopping about among the bones.  "Bunnies are evil!  They're vicious!  Look, they're attacking the soldiers!"  She watched with a mixture of dread and vindication as the rabbits jumped at one of the knights who ventured too close to the cave.  It gnawed at his neck, drawing copious amounts of blood.
	"Anya," Xander sighed, "It's a movie.  A comedy.  It's meant to be ridiculous."
	"It's not ridiculous.  Look at that slaughter!  They've eaten them down to the bones."
	Shaking his head in defeat, Xander said, "I'll have Giles explain it to you when he gets back.  He's British.  Personally, I don't get it, but it's supposed to be funny."
	At the mention of Giles, Anya asked, "Do you really think he's coming back?"  
	"Of course he is," Xander responded without thinking.  Then he expanded his thoughts aloud, "He just went out to kill a demon from Hell.  With a bag of cotton balls.  That were enchanted by Willow."
	The two looked at each other.  "C'mon."
	They got into Xander's car and buckled up.  As Xander went through his pre-drive checklist, Anya said, "I hope Willow's heard something.  Are we there yet?"
	He revved up the engine.  "Patience.  Not a Vengeance Demon kind of thing, yes?"
	"No," Anya replied.  "I guess not."
	Xander looked over his shoulder to back out of the driveway.  "Okay, we'll do what Willow and I used to do when we had to wait in line somewhere."  Smoothly, he pulled into traffic.  "We'll play a game."
	"A game?"  She was hesitant.  She wasn't very good at games.  It was very hard to keep all the rules straight.  And she didn't like rules in the first place.  She still didn't understand why people couldn't put two or three hotels on properties in Monopoly.  What was to stop them?  How hard was it to multiply the rental fee, anyway?
	"I know.  It's short, but it'll get us started," Xander said.  "Anywhere But Here."  He explained quickly, then added, "it's really short because I've been saying the same thing since fourth grade.  Amy Yipp in the waterslide park."
	"Amy Yipp?  Who's Amy Yipp?"  A spark of jealousy tinged her voice.
	"Just an actress.  Of course, the game doesn't apply anymore," he grinned at her, "because I don't want to be anywhere else or with anyone else."
	"Oh, Xander," Anya said.  "Neither do I."
	"Make one up anyway,"  he said, spinning the wheel in his hand to make a right turn, stealing a glance in the side rear-view mirror.  "Just to see if you get the rules, then we'll go on to something more complicated, like Rock Paper Scissors."
	Playfully, Anya punched him in the arm.  "Okay."  She stopped to think.  "Got it.  Under the Arc de Triumphe, with D'Artagnan."
	Xander resisted the urge to slam on the brakes.  "What?"
	"Under the Arc de Triumphe," she repeated.  "When you're under the Arc, and you lean back against a support, it's like the rest of the world goes away," she said dreamily.  She gave a long, slow sigh of contentment as she looked out the window. 
	Slowing down as a traffic light ahead went from yellow to red, Xander said, "Ahn, are you ready to go or are your ready to come?"
	"Huh?" His odd question brought her abruptly back to reality.  "What?  Xander!"  She said at his sexual innuendo.  "Does it bother you that I have fond memories of Paris?"
	"No," he said a little too quickly.  "Okay, a little.  Not Paris so much," he replied, "as that Darn Tootin guy."
	"D'Artagnan," she corrected him although she knew his mispronounciation had been intentional.  
	
	

     At the Magic Box, Xander and Anya found that Willow and Tara had sent a protesting Dawn home some time ago.  Anya stared out the front window into the street, then turned the sign in the window to CLOSED.  "He should have at least called us by now.  It's dark out."
     "Maybe nothing has happened yet,"  Willow suggested.  "I wish we knew where he was,
though.  The confrontation with Scott could take place anywhere."
     Tara, in her usual long skirt, stepped over to Willow.  "We could do a locator spell," she
suggested.  "But we'd only know where he is, not what he's doing."
     Willow plopped down into a chair, exhausted from worry.  "I wish crystal balls worked
like they do in the movies."
     "They don't?"  Xander asked.
     The three girls all looked at Xander like he was an idiot.  Anya explained, "the crystal just focuses psychic energy, allowing a seer to sense more subtle emotions, or to see further into the past or future.  But the crystal doesn't play little movies or anything.  It just glows a little.  All the other stuff happens inside the psychic's head."
     "So, we could see the future?  See if Giles wins?"  Xander tried again.
     Anya rolled her eyes, but Tara, massaging Willow's tired shoulders, responded, "Sure we
could.  If any of us was psychic.  Just because you're a witch doesn't make you psychic. It's a
different thing altogether."
     "But don't spread that around, Xander,"  Anya added.  "We sell a lot of those and,
confidentially, our mark up on crystal balls is really good.  If people find out that for anyone but true psychics it's nothing more than a giant marble, that could really hurt our profit margin."
     "My lips are sealed," he said.  Count on Anya to put it in terms blunt enough to make even
Xander understand.  
     Willow groaned in pleasure at Tara's expert shoulder manipulation, then shook herself and
brushed her friend's hands away.  "Let's do the locator spell, then.  I'd rather have some
information than none at all.  And we'd know where to go if we feel he needs help."  She frowned.  "We just won't be able to tell if he needs help.  I hate this.  I need to do something.  Tara?"
     The tall blonde was already on the move.  "I'll get the spiderweb and the bat feet.  You
find three bumblebees and clean out the mixing bowl."
     Anticipating, Willow was already dumping out the mixing bowl into a trash can.  She
grabbed a tissue and wiped the inside clean.  "Do they have to be alive?"
     From somewhere in the back room, Tara called back, "No.  Dried ones.  We have to grind
them up.  Where's the pestle?"
     Trying to be helpful, Xander went to the shelves of jars and tried to find the bumblebees
for Willow, but as he read the labels he made a sour face.  "How can you people do this?"  He
picked up a jar, and held it like a spokeperson on a commercial, "You won't believe the power of
hammerhead shark urine!  Get yours now!  Only $19.95!"
     "Actually, Xander," Anya corrected him, "that would be $73.50.  Put the jar down."  The
glass clinked against the shelf as Xander hurried to comply, nervous about handling such an
expensive item.  "You have no idea what someone has to go through to get that.  It's worth every
penny."
     Willow stood on tiptoe and reached as high as she could, but her fingertips only tapped
the edge of the top shelf.  "Xander, up there.  Jar of bumblebees, please."  Obligingly, Xander
followed her fingers, found the jar and brought it down, then watched as Willow screwed open
the lid, took out three, and screwed the lid back on.  Without being asked, he returned the jar to the high shelf.  "Thanks, Xander."
     Tara returned from the back room carrying two severed bat feet, a plastic bag marked
SPIDERWEB - SPIDER SOLD SEPARATELY,  and a stone pestle.  "Found the pestle.  Grind
up the bees first."
     With Tara directing, Willow began once again mixing and stirring.  After the bumblebees
became an unidentifiable gray powder, she carefully selected strands of web and placed them in
spirals around the bottom of the bowl.  Xander had to hand it to her.  He knew she hated handling spiderweb, but she didn't even make an ew face.  Probably the knowledge that the creator of the web was nowhere near helped.  The strands were sticky and difficult to drop just right, but Willow managed to make three nearly perfect spirals.  "Oh!"  Tara said suddenly, "we need an amulet or a locket."  She fished among the multitude of chains hanging around her neck and found a small round brass amulet with delicate filigree detail.  "We can use this one," she said, slipping it over her head.  With a fingernail, she flipped open the amulet and held it for Willow, who retrieved the strands of web, now laden with bits of crushed bumblebees, one by one and dropped them into the amulet.  Tara clicked it shut, then closed her fist around it for a moment.  When she opened it, the amulet sat in her palm.  "You try, Willow."
     Willow took the amulet into her own hand, and, as Tara had done, closed her fist around
it.  But when she opened her hand, the amulet still sat there.
     Confused about why the girls were squeezing the necklace, Xander asked, "Am I missing
something?  What is it supposed to do?"
     As Anya took her turn, she explained, "The amulet chooses who will be the locator.  It
finds the one most receptive to its energy by glowing when it's held."  She opened her hand and
frowned.  Willow's brow furrowed as she tried to understand.  "Did we forget an ingredient?" 
Anya asked.
     "No," Tara insisted.  "It's a simple spell.  No way did we get it wrong.  Give it to Xander."
     As he'd seen the girls do, Xander took the amulet, chain and all, into his hand and made a
fist.  The brass was cold against his palm.  He opened his hand with the same result.  "What we
have here is a failure to communicate," he said.
     "Dawn," Willow said immediately.
     There was a moment of silence, but only a moment, then Tara and Anya agreed.  "Dawn."



     It was windy on top of the tower.  The sky was dark and large clouds roiled all around.  A
dragon, an actual dragon, zoomed up from below, circled, then flew off to create havoc
elsewhere.  Dawn couldn't believe what was happening.  The barriers were dropping, and evil in
every form was escaping into Sunnydale.  And now Buffy told her she was going to jump off of
the tower.  Dawn didn't want her to, but she didn't know how to stop her.  The only other thing
was for Dawn herself to jump, jump before Buffy could, but Dawn couldn't make her feet do it. 
She stood there, bleeding, and watched her sister jog down the platform, apparently unafraid, her blond hair flying behind her.  Buffy flung herself off, arms wide, and disappeared.
     Shaking, Dawn crept forward along the platform, right to the edge where she had stood
minutes before, tied like Faye Wray, with the barrier awaiting her blood.  She looked down, her
stomach a cement block, and Buffy smiled up at her from far below.  Buffy was on the ground,
unhurt, had somehow survived her passage through the energy barrier, sealing it forever.  Even
though she didn't want to take her eyes off of her waving sister, Dawn turned and hurried into the tower and down, down, down, as fast as her bare feet could carry her on the cold steel grids and girders.  Her bleeding wounds were nothing now.  Had the strange little man cut her throat, it would be as only a scratch now.  Nothing could stop her from getting down to the ground.  To Buffy.
     Yes, Buffy was waiting for her at the bottom of the tower.  The sky was clearing now, the
clouds hurrying away like bully children after the fight.  Then she was pulled into Buffy's arms and she gladly gripped back, hugging her sister with all her strength.  "Buffy!  Buffy!  You didn't die!"  she cried, tears of joy streaming down her face.  
     "Of course, I didn't.  I'm the Slayer," Buffy told her.  She stroked Dawn's long brunette
hair, flipping it lovingly behind one ear.   
     Then they were home, sitting in the kitchen.  Their mother, Joyce, happily cooked pancakes and bacon.  The bacon sizzled and smoked in the pan.  Joyce rejoiced in a successful pancake flip, then served two pancakes with bacon to each of her daughters.  "Girls, I talked to
your father today," she said.  "He told me he's very sorry for leaving us, and he wants to come
back.  I told him yes, is that okay?"
     "YES!" Both girls responded at once.  Then they began to chatter with each other, "it'll be
great to be a family again!", and "oh, I can't wait.  When is he coming?"
     Joyce started to say something, but was interrupted by the doorbell.  Joyce and Buffy
froze in place, listening to the doorbell ring over and over again.  Dawn meant to go answer the
door -- maybe it was their father! -- but --
     -- the bedroom was dark and Dawn sat up, hugging her blanket.  It WAS the doorbell. 
Who would be coming ... she glanced at her clock radio ... at 4:18 in the morning?  "Buffy?" she
called reflexively, then bit her own lip and swore.  Swinging her legs over the bed, she landed in her slippers and grabbed her robe from the back of the door.  The bell continued to ring, again and again.  Whoever it was, it had to be important.  Her stomach clenched tighter than the belt of the robe, but she called out, "Who is it?" as she came down the stairs.
     "Scoobys!" A bunch of voices responded loudly.
     Feeling better, Dawn opened the door wide and the four of them tumbled in, Willow,
Tara, Anya and Xander.  "I'm sorry we woke you," Tara said as she closed the door.
     Remembering her dream, Dawn said wistfully, "Me, too.  I was having such a nice dream." 
She realized how that sounded, like the dream was more important than they were, and amended,
"I mean, I'm glad to see you guys.  I think.  It's just, at this hour?  And --".  She stopped herself, imagining that she sounded like Willow going off on one of her tangents. But she saw all their curious faces and changed her mind.  "Buffy was in it," she admitted.  "And Mom.  And I really sound pathetic, don't I?"
     "Oh, no" Tara said.  "Come here."  Dawn stepped close to Tara.  Tara placed the palm of
her right hand on Dawn's forehead like a televangelist about to heal someone.  "Duermo mismo,"
she said.  Then she explained, "when you go back to sleep, you'll go back to that dream.   We
can't afford to waste good dreams these days." She hugged the teenager fondly.  "But right now,
we need your help."  She explained quickly about the amulet and Dawn held out her hand while
Tara slowly dropped the amulet and chain into it.  
     Dawn closed her fist around it, and it felt warm.  When she opened her hand, the amulet
seemed to have a light bulb inside it.  They were watching her expectantly.  Dawn swallowed
thickly as something else took control of her mouth.  "He's in the cemetary."
     "Which one?" Xander asked.
     Her eyes stared at a spot on the floor ten feet away and she swayed slightly, causing
Xander to put a protective hand on her shoulder.  "Spike's," she said.
     "Oh," Willow said dismissively.  "He said he'd asked Spike to help.  He's probably
checking in with Spike, that's all.  Nothing's happening yet."
     Dawn's eyes left the spot on the floor and went to Willow.  "Do I have to go back to bed
now?"
     The Scoobys crowded onto the couch.  "Only if you want to, Dawnie," Tara said.  "Aren't
you sleepy?"
     "Naw," Dawn replied.  She sat in the big chair, letting her long legs dangle over one arm. 
"I think I want to save that dream awhile longer."
     "Let us know when he leaves Spike's," Willow said.  "I think I'll go looking for a dream of
my own, if you don't mind."
     "No problem," Dawn said.  "God, this is so cool!" she squealed.  
     
     
     It was nearly dawn when Giles walked self-consciously through the graveyard.  He had not seen Scott for hours, and the tension was beginning to wear on him.  He'd gone home, even tried to sleep, but was unsuccessful.  It took him awhile to figure out why.  He'd faced death with Buffy dozens of times, and had been able to continue with daily life.  But this time, there was no Buffy to fall back on.  He suddenly realized that he'd gotten so confident in her abilities that her presence alone gave him a sense of safety.   While he didn't doubt his own abilities, he was like a tightrope walker working without a net for the first time.   All this time he'd thought of himself as the safety net, never realizing that it worked both ways.  He may have been preventing her from standing on her own, but at the same time she'd been holding his hand as much as he'd held hers.   His hand went to the bag of cotton balls hidden where the spray bottle had been.  They were so light and comfortable there that it was easy to imagine that he'd forgotten them at home.  But until this was over, he couldn't afford to be caught without them.   He'd expected Scott to approach at every turn and wondered if perhaps this had been the plan all along.  To get him ready to fight.  To expect it.  And give him nothing.  It was insidious.  But the fight would come.  Of that he harbored no doubt.  Carefully, he scanned all around him but saw no one in any direction.  He came to the Alpert mausoleum and pushed open the door.  "Spike?"  He called.  "Spike, do you have information for me?"  His voice echoed in the empty crypt.  "Spike?"    
     After turning on Spike's lamp for light, he pushed the crypt door closed, feeling safe for
the first time since his encounter outside the drug store.  So it was completely startling when he was suddenly rammed from behind and thrown to the floor.  He managed to keep his head from
striking the cement floor, but his glasses flew off on impact.  His neck muscles strained as he whipped his head around looking for either his glasses or the intruder.  He saw the glasses under the end table and tried to roll that way, but Scott was coming right at him.  He rolled back the other way quickly, but Scott's vicious kick landed between his shoulder blades.  Getting on hands and knees, he was able to put some distance between them, giving him time and space to get back on his feet.  He turned and faced Scott.
     With the element of surprise now gone, the two combatants eyed each other warily.  Slowly, Giles edged around, coming back toward the end table.  He saw Scott was preparing to attack and counted down in his head.  At the last moment, he threw himself over the back of Spike's couch, landing on the soft cushions and slipping quickly to the floor.   The couch slid forward a bit when Scott slammed into it on the other side, but Giles was able to reach his glasses and put them back on.  It's not like he was hoping Scott wouldn't hit a person who wore glasses, but he felt better having them on.  He just wished he had time to wipe them clean, because now they were all smudged.  Instead, he looked up at Scott, who was by now climbing over the couch, and was astounded at the change.  While Scott still wore the tweed suit, the umbrella was gone ... no, not gone, Giles realized.  Thrown aside.  It was over there near the sarcophagus.  But there was more.  Scott's hair was disheveled, and there was a further growth of beard.  The beginnings of two horns popped up on his forehead.  And he'd begun to smell like a demon.  The odor of decay came off him like burning leaves.  And for the first time, Giles understood why the demon hadn't killed him in the bar.  He wouldn't have been able to.  At that time, the demon had been "civilized"; more or less impotent by demon standards.  Gradually, his demon strength returned, along with the changes in his appearance and odor.  Giles caught his breath.  "Does ... does Master say you should kill me now?"
     Scott's head tilted, as if he didn't understand the question.  Or like he was listening to
something.  "Yes.  Now.  Kill."
     Giles pushed himself back to his feet and again stepped backward away from Scott,
around the easy chair and back toward the sarcophagus.  "You've been taking speech lessons, haven't you?" He fumbled for the plastic bag, but rather than take out the whole bag he grasped a couple of cotton balls, leaving the bag open and accessible, but not in danger of being dropped.  He pulled back his arm and threw the cotton as hard as he could.  Sadly, they landed inches in front of his feet, still having the aerodynamics of plain, ordinary cotton balls.
     Throwing back his head, Scott laughed.  "Throw like girl!"
     With one eye on Scott, Giles crouched down and retrieved the cotton balls.  The spell hadn't said anything about limited range! This was no good.  He was going to have to get closer, well within Scott's own striking distance.  Fortunately, that was Scott's plan as well.  With a loud growl, Scott cleared a short cut by knocking over the end table.  The lamp crashed to the floor, but the shade broke the fall and the bulb didn't break.  The light now shown eerily up from the floor in a yellow arc, casting odd shadows and throwing the far side of the room into a dim netherworld.  Scott kicked the lamp out of his way and came toward Giles, who waited with the two cotton balls clutched unseen in one hand.  
     Scott moved in quickly, and threw a right cross at Giles.  Giles leaned back away from it,
but not far enough.  His jaw went one way and his head another, but he managed to keep his
footing.  Relentless, Scott came again with a left hook, which connected smartly with Giles' right cheekbone and drove him backward into Spike's stone slab.  But when Scott raised his hand
again, Giles was ready for it.  He grasped the incoming fist, pressing the two cotton balls into the back of Scott's hand.  Smoke curled out, and Giles could feel a gentle warmth, but it was Scott who pulled back, howling, a roughly circular burn already welting on the back of his hand.
     He licked it, like an injured dog, and winced.  Giles could have sworn he saw Scott's horns
grow another inch. His hair lengthened, and were those canines of his actually longer?  Nothing like an injured, insane demon to brighten your day, he thought.  Scott snarled at him and lunged at full speed.  He slammed into Giles, knocking them both to the floor, but this time, Giles wasn't so lucky.  The back of his head slammed against the cement and sparkles flittered in front of his eyes.  The wind was also knocked out of him, and he thought for a moment he was going to black out, but he gasped up air and forced his eyes to focus just in time to grab Scott's wrist as his fist was about to come down squarely on Giles' face.  He halted its progress, holding it above him for a moment, then realized it was Scott's injured hand and curled his fingers and pressed his fingernails down hard.  "I know," he mumbled while Scott let out an enraged yell and backed off again.  "Girl tactic.  But it does work, doesn't it?"
     It got Scott off of him long enough for him to grasp a couple more cotton balls from his
bag.



     Sitting with her feet under her in the easy chair, Dawn watched the glowing necklace in
her hand.  She thought of Giles, and again, like before, saw Spike's mausoleum in her mind.  This led her to think of Spike, and still she saw the mausoleum.  On the couch, her four friends slept.  Willow's head lay awkwardly on Tara's lap, but they both looked perfectly comfortable.  To Willow's right, Xander propped up his sleeping head on one hand and Dawn kept expecting it to fall, but his arm was steady as if his hand were glued to his cheek.  And on Tara's left, Anya had tried to do the same but instead one arm stuck out over the arm of the couch and her head lolled forward.  They hadn't been sleeping long, and Dawn was happy to let them rest.  She knew they'd been up, worried and working, while she had slept in her own bed.
     So she kept thinking of Giles and waiting for the picture in her mind to change, and
watching the glowing brass ball in the palm of her hand.  She closed her eyes and rested her head on the high back of the chair and hoped that this was helping the Scoobys.  
     She raised her head suddenly and opened her eyes.  When she'd thought about the
Scoobys, she had seen, quite clearly, the exterior of her own house.  
     The living room was dimly lit, and quiet.  She thought of Buffy, and though her face came
clearly to her mind, no location appeared.  The same with her mother, and Ben, but when she
thought again of Willow, Xander, Tara, or Anya she saw her house like she was looking at a
photograph.  Oh My God, she thought.  I can find anyone with this thing.  Anyone alive, anyway. 
Closing her hand around it again as if the action gave the amulet more power, she experimented,
picturing Giles, then one of the Scoobys, and a weird slideshow of house and mausoleum flashed
through her head.  As a test, she also thought of Andy Tergowitz, a classmate of hers from
school, and saw a house she knew was not her own.  
     Her heart pounded in her chest so she thought it would wake the others.  Finally, she
whispered, "Scott."  She was unable to picture him in her mind and purposely avoided forming
any image at all.  Her hands shook as the mausoleum returned.
     "Guys!" Dawn squeaked.
     Xander was up instantly, even standing and coming to her side.  "Dawn, what is it?"
     For a moment, she couldn't speak.  Her breath came in short bursts.  She let the amulet
slip from her hand and fall to the floor.
     On the couch, the other three stirred.  "Wha -- what?"  But on seeing the terror stricken
teenager, they also stood.  "Dawn?"
     Xander had crouched down to pick up the amulet.  He now stood, letting it dangle from
his fingers like a hypnotist.  "Is he moving?  Where did he go?"
     "Scott's there!  Scott's there with Giles!"
     She didn't have to explain further.  Dawn palmed the amulet from Xander as they all headed for the door.


	
	
     There were three cotton balls in Giles' hand now.  With the back of that hand, he touched his cheek where it was already tender from Scott's punch.  At least it wasn't bleeding, although it felt like his face had caved in.  The back of his head stung from when he'd struck it on the floor, and now his back ached from being bent over the cement slab covering Spike's sarcophagus.  But he'd been hurt much worse than this.  This was a walk in the park.  So far.
	Giles inched away from the tomb, not wanting to be pushed into it again.  At the foot of the tomb, Giles stumbled on something that rolled under him, but caught himself with one hand on the slab before he fell.  Glancing down, he saw it was the handle of the umbrella.  But glancing down had been the wrong thing to do.  In the split second that his eyes had been diverted, Scott's right leg came up and his black boot careened into Giles' side, throwing Giles off what remained of his balance.  Giles fell sideways, scraping his wrist and forearm along the edge of the slab, which he grabbed in an attempt to break his fall.  
	He was tempted to drop the cotton balls and grab the more formidable umbrella, but stopped himself.  Scott tried to kick him again, and if it had connected it would have smashed Giles on the left side of his head, but Giles instinctively grabbed the approaching foot.  As he rose to his feet, he kept hold of the foot, and with a push, threw the other man off balance.  Scott backpedaled wildly but didn't fall.  With both feet under him once again, he charged forward, slamming into Giles chest to chest.  
	Giles hit the floor, with Scott on top.  Scott reached for the umbrella.  Giles tried to get out from under him, but his struggles produced sharp pains in his now bruised ribs.  Scott was surprisingly heavy, sitting on his chest, and one large, hairy hand held both of Giles' hands together.  Giles bucked, but the man seemed to weigh four hundred pounds.  With his hands held together, he couldn't deploy the cotton balls as Scott pulled the umbrella closer and gripped it around the middle with its finely sharpened point hovering above Giles' throat.
	With strength born of panic, Giles planted both feet on the floor and bucked to one side.  He succeeded in capsizing Scott, at the cost of a gash in his left cheek from the umbrella.  He pushed into the roll, glad to find himself on top and knowing he had no time to spare.  Before Scott could drop the umbrella and free his hand, Giles put his left hand over Scott's throat and squeezed.  When the demon gasped for air, Giles stuffed the three cotton balls in his other hand into Scott's mouth, then smothered him with his hand just as he'd smothered Ben days before.  
	Scott bucked and struggled, hitting Giles broadside with the umbrella.  In one swift movement, Giles moved the hand from Scott's throat, grabbed the umbrella and tossed it away, then caught Scott's wrist with it and smashed it repeatedly to the floor.  He was rewarded with the sound of bones splintering.  By now, smoke was drifting out of Scott's mouth, between Giles' fingers, and again there was warmth, but no pain from Giles' point of view.  Blood dripped from the gash on Giles' cheek, landing in little red dollops on Scott's lapel.  Giles rode him like a cowboy on a bronco, easing himself this way and that to stay on top.  It seemed to take a long time, but the movements finally got weaker.  Then the body under him stopped moving altogether.  Giles waited a moment longer, feeling for a pulse with his free hand.  When he found none, he released his grip on Scott's face.
	The area where his hand had been was a mass of red blisters.  The flesh around the man's mouth had been burned away, leaving a hideous death grin that chilled Giles.  He looked at his own hand.  The cotton balls were gone.  And his hand was unmarked.



	 "Wait!  Wait!" called Dawn as she and her friends sprinted through the cemetary in the pink and orange light of sunrise.  They slowed, all of them breathing heavily from exhertion, then stopped and waited for her.  She came to a halt several feet away and bent over, leaning on her knees, trying to breathe.  
	"You okay, Dawn?"  Xander, sweating profusely, retreated a few steps and took a similar pose.  The others rested where they stood, waiting for the teenager to speak.  "We're almost there."  He pointed. They were approaching the mausoleum from the rear and were only about fifty yards away from it.
	"I'll be fine, but --" she said, stopping to take several breaths.  "I think it's over."
	"Over?"  Willow asked.  "What do you mean over?"
	Dawn fingered the amulet, taking it from around her neck.  "I'm not getting anything on Scott anymore."  The gentle glow from the brass ball could hardly be seen in the growing daylight.  "Giles is still there, though."
	It took several moments for them to translate that fact.  Then Tara smiled broadly.  "Scott's dead.  Giles won!"
	"Score one for the Ripper!" Xander said.  Then, "Uh oh," 
	Anya, recovering more quickly than the others from her early morning run, asked, "Why do you say that?  Didn't we want him to win?"
	"Sure we did.  But we have to get out of here now."
	"No, let's go congratulate him.  We'll be the firsts.  And probably the onlys."  Willow suggested happily.
	Xander shook his head.  "Will, if Giles sees us here, he's going to know we thought he couldn't handle it.  And as owner of a male ego, take my word for it, it's better if we slip quietly into the sunrise and wait for him at the Magic Box."
	After a longing look at Spike's mausoleum, even Willow had to agree, but she pouted.  "And I suppose we can't even tell him we tried."
	They started walking more slowly than before.  "That's right."
	As they walked past a large oak tree, a vampire jumped screeching out of its shadow directly in front of Dawn.  She screamed and jumped, but it dusted in the new sunlight, getting half way through "damn it!"  Although her heart was pounding, she quickly reassured the others that she was all right.  "Guys, you've been doing it wrong.  Apparently, THIS is the time of day to patrol!" 
	The others smiled at her and patted her back, proud of her fearlessness.  But as she lead them on, she was careful to give other trees a wide berth.
	Unknown to any of them, now nestled among the roots of the large oak lay the amulet, its glow now a distant memory, as Dawn and the others headed back to the Magic Box.



	"You're winded, Ripper.  Could it be you're getting a little ... soft?"
	Giles looked up to see his old friend Ethan Rayne emerging from Spike's lower level.  Fury engulfed him.  Ethan might technically be human, but he was still a monster to Giles.  Even more of a monster than Spike, or Angelus who had taken his sweet Jenny's life, and then tortured him for hours.  As usual in these instances, he hissed, "Ethan."  And it all came together.  Ethan was not only standing on Giles' last nerve, he was grinding his heel into it. "You went to a lot of trouble to make a bad pun.  How did you get away from the Initiative?"
	Ethan took four steps into the room, but stopped a safe distance from Giles, just close enough for a cursory look at Scott's corpse.  He ignored Giles' question, raising one hand as if in salute.  "Thy service is done.  Be gone."
	The body beneath Giles vanished in a cloud of dust.  Giles rose to his feet, anger chasing away his exhaustion, and used one hand to put pressure on the cut on his cheek.  With his other hand he boosted himself up onto the slab, clenching his teeth, feeling like his jaw was at least partially dislocated.  "What is the meaning of all this?"
	"I meant to kill you, as usual," Ethan said, still looking at the floor where Scott had died.
	"Why did you wait?" Giles asked.  "If he had attacked the first night I saw him, well, let's just say I was in no shape to defend myself.  I wasn't prepared."  He tensed, half expecting Ethan to attack and try to finish him off.  If he did, Giles felt that even battered as he was he could pummel the man to pulp.
	Ethan made no offensive moves, but did raise his head.  "You're used to fighting demons, Ripper.  How was I supposed to know you'd be vulnerable just then?  I needed someone who'd get your guard down first.  A gentleman.  But in that shape, if he had attacked you, you could have beaten him easily without even trying.  I had to make him wait until his demon strength came back.  But I couldn't ... he changed too quickly."  His eyes flashed into memory for a moment.  "I guess I'm a bit rusty."
	"But you had to try."
	"Don't tell me it never occurred to you, Ripper.  Now was my big chance," Ethan said, clearly disappointed.  "Buffy is gone.  If you were gone too --"
	"Chaos would reign," Giles finished for him.  "I'd like to think that.  Everyone likes to believe the world would fall apart without them, but you know what?   It doesn't."  Behind Ethan, Giles saw Spike's head pop up from the lower level.  Quietly, the vampire pulled himself out of the opening.  Giles could see that one of Spike's hands still had rope tied around it, the frayed end dangling half way to the floor.  And around his mouth was the faint red shadow of duct tape.  He met Giles' gaze and nodded when Giles obediently averted his eyes to avoid tipping Ethan off.  Instead, Giles kept talking, kept Ethan's attention on him.  "If you had succeeded in killing me, Xander would have risen to the challenge.  Or Willow.  Or Anya.  And even if you killed all of them, someone else would do it, because that's the way people are, Ethan.  Chaos will never reign.  You may as well stop fighting and --"
	"Believe it or not," Ethan interrupted, "I'm through with fighting, Ripper."
	As casually as he could, Giles slid down from the slab so that he could back up Spike's coming attack.  He stepped forward, keeping Ethan's attention.
	Ethan stepped backward.  "Rupert, please don't."
	Something in Ethan's tone made Giles stop.  He was pleading.  Not just in words, but with the look on his face, and the timbre of his voice.  That wasn't like Ethan at all.
	"You see, Ripper, I --"
	But Ethan didn't get to finish that sentence for Spike chose that moment to jump on Ethan's back, using the rope fragment to choke him.  Immediately, Spike's head snapped back and his hand went to his temple, the rope fragment flying wildly.  "Gaah!" Spike shouted.  But despite the pain Spike wrapped his legs around Ethan's waist to throw him off balance.  
	Ethan struggled to free himself.  Then, "Bloody hell!" he shouted and his hand also went instinctively to his temple.
	At this, Spike jumped off of him and backed away.  He pointed at Ethan, one arm outstretched while the other hand rubbed his aching head.  "They chipped you, too!" he declared.  "They bloody well chipped you!" 
	Ethan backed away from both of them.  "Get away from me!"
	Giles took several swift steps forward and grabbed Ethan by the arm, a smile spreading on his sore face.  Ethan pulled away and again shouted in pain.  Giles swung the man around and flung him bodily onto the cement slab.  Spike moved to the opposite side and stretched his arm across Ethan's chest, holding him down.  "I can't hit him, Mr. G., but I can hold him for you!"
	Screaming in agony, Ethan continued to struggle.  
	Giles took great delight in slugging the man.
	"Stop!  Stop it!"  Ethan shouted.  His struggles finally ceased as he realized the pain caused by his resistance far exceeded the pain being inflicted by his former friend.  He lay still, glaring up at them.
	"You can't fight either one of us," Giles said.  "Can you?"
	"No," Ethan admitted.  "They've upgraded their chips, apparently.  I can't hurt anyone, human or demon."
	"You tied up Spike."
	"No he didn't," Spike corrected Giles.  "He had your friend Scott do that.  I wondered why he never got close enough to spit on."  Even though Ethan was no longer struggling, Spike kept his arm across the man's chest.  
	"How long do you intend to hold me here?"
	Giles pretended to consider the question.  "I don't know.  What do you think, Spike?  Until he rots?"
	"Yeah," Spike nodded agreeably.  "Rotting is good."
	In that instant, the crypt's door swung wide open, sending in a shaft of bright sunlight.  "Knickers!" Spike shouted, releasing Ethan and diving to his lower level to avoid burning up.
	Ethan took the opportunity to sit up awkwardly.  He shaded his eyes and tried to see the intruders.  "Blimey!" he exclaimed, lying back down in utter defeat.
	Astonished, Giles watched as Riley Finn and four other commandos walked in, each holding a rather impressive rifle.  "Hello, Hostile Thirty-four," said Riley to Ethan.  "Hi, Giles!" 
	"What?"  Giles was confused, but as his eyes adjusted to the bright light, his brain also adjusted to the sight of Riley Finn.  "Riley, I thought you'd left the Initiative.  They're gone."
	Riley noticed that Giles was injured, and waved one of his men forward.  "Louie's a medic.  Let him look at you."  Giles lowered his now bloody hand, and the commando began pulling instruments and supplies out of his tool belt.  While Louie worked and his other two men held Ethan at gunpoint, Riley explained, "The Sunnydale branch of the Initiative was closed down.  I went west and joined up in Arizona.  Got a posting at the very facility we sent Ethan Rayne to three years ago."  He eyed the man in question coldly.  "Ethan escaped four days, six hours, and thirty seven minutes ago by killing two guards and stealing a humvee.  Neutralized or not, he's coming back with us to answer for that."
	"No," Ethan said quickly.  "Ripper, don't let them take me!"
	Suppressing a smile was making his cheek hurt.  Giles muttered, "I don't think I'm in any shape to stop them, Ethan."
	"You're not even trying!"
	"No, I'm not."
	"Rupert!"
	Riley gave Louie another moment and then Giles' face was properly bandaged.  "He should probably have X-rays," Louie suggested.  "Should we take him --?"
	"I'll have it taken care of," Giles said quietly.  "Thank you."
	The commandos started to usher Ethan out the door.  Riley helped Giles to his feet.  "Care to come watch us manhandle him again?"  
	"I thought you'd never ask."
	As Giles followed the group out into the sunlight, he heard Spike call loudly from below, "Mind closing the door on your way out?"



	Willow's finger traced the path of stitches on Giles' cheek.  There was sadness in her eyes.  "Maybe if we'd been there ..."
	His hand caught Willow's.  "No.  I'm glad you weren't there.  Any of you," he said to the others.  Giles sat on his couch at home, with Xander, Willow, Tara, Anya and Dawn hovering around him.  A bowl of soup, half-eaten, and a cup of tea sat on the coffee table.  A thin streamer of steam rose from the tea.  A blanket was crumpled on the couch next to him.  Pillows galore supported his back and side.  "I know it looks bad, but don't worry.  I'll be fine in a few days."  X-rays had shown a cracked rib and a hairline fracture on the left side of his jaw. The cut had taken several stitches, and his right eye had by now swollen nearly shut.  "Really."
	"No, Riley," Xander quipped.  Willow hit him in the shoulder.  
	On Willow's other side, Tara put a comforting hand on her friend's back.  "See, Willow.  Giles did just fine on his own.  We knew he could handle Scott."
	"Of course we did," Xander agreed.
	"No problem," Dawn confirmed.
	"You betcha!" Anya enthused.
	He had to lean his head back to see all their faces.  "So, Willow is the only one who was the least bit worried then? The rest of you had complete confidence in me?"
	"Of course we did," Xander repeated.
	Taking her cue, Dawn said, "No problem."
	"You betcha!" Anya said, punctuating the statement by swinging a fist through the air.
	And Willow felt the need to explain, "It's not that I didn't have confidence in you, Giles, but you know, Scott WAS a demon, and the cotton ball thing seemed just way too ... and we hadn't heard from you in hours and --"
	He patted her hand, which now rested lightly on his shoulder.  "It's all right, Willow."  He shifted in his seat and reached into a pants pocket.  "Oh, Tara, I believe this is yours. I found it in the cemetary after I left Spike's."  He pulled out a brass chain with the small circular amulet on it and held it out to her.
	She grinned guiltily and took it.


THE END