Lost 8

From the End to the Beginning

I run blindly through the cemetery, the crunch of leather pumps on gravel paths changing swiftly to the soft thud of my feet pounding mercilessly into the lush, dew-covered grass. I can hear the footsteps echoing behind me, following my every twist and turn, seemingly anticipating my movements in order to keep but a few feet away from me. I risk a glance over my shoulder – he is still there, his hunter’s eyes tracking me like a wolf’s, his concentration utterly focused upon me, his prey.

               I am beginning to tire now, my Slayer strengths more suited to producing short bursts of unadulterated power than sustaining long periods of exertion. My aching legs stumble a little, slowing my pace, giving my pursuer the momentary advantage. Ever vigilant, he takes it, tackling me roughly to the damp ground, his hungry mouth heading straight to my neck, smothering it with butterfly kisses.

               I suck in a huge lungful of air, getting my breath back before collapsing into a hysterical fit of giggles. Our game is over for tonight and Angel has won – only because I let him, of course. I could have easily outrun him, but what would be the fun in that?

               “You caught me,” I tell him huskily, before catching his lips in some pretty serious kissing of my own.

               He breaks off, smiling down at me. “Well, couple of hundred years of practice and it’s a cinch.”

               We begin to ravage each other once more, my hands sneaking underneath his woollen sweater to trace the smooth contours of his chest there, whilst my tongue thrusts into his cool mouth. He tangles his fingers in my hair and we roll over together, leaving me on top. I detach from his lips, sliding slowly and tantalisingly down his long body, then drawing myself up into a sitting position, straddling him. I squeeze his pelvis tightly with my hips, flashing him a suggestive grin.

               Angel shakes his head. “Home.”

               I raise one eyebrow. “Why? The cemetery suddenly not good enough for you anymore? ‘Cause, I remember you were fine with it last week…”

               He lifts and spins his body hard and fast, so that before I even understand what is happening, I am back underneath him once more, his considerable weight pressing me down into the grass. “I have no problem with the cemetery,” he maintains, the hardness of his erection poking insistently into the juncture of my thighs adding an extra dimension to his argument. “Just not tonight. Tonight I have other plans.”

               “Mmm,” I moan appreciatively in reply, as his tongue laves a lazy trail along my jaw line. “Sounds interesting. Home it is.”

               He climbs swiftly off me, leaving my body feeling bereft at his absence, and holds out a hand to help me to my feet. I jump up, adrenaline beginning to pump through my blood once more. “Race ya there?”

               We catch hands as we run, Angel shortening his stride so that it almost matches mine. The mad dash is more exhilarating even than our previous chase through the graveyard. It feels so good just to let go completely and sprint into the wind – it’s like we’re suddenly free of all the many, many worries that perpetually weigh us down. We reach the front door of mansion all too soon and Angel slams me up against the heavy oak, swallowing my lips with his own.

               “Buffy,” he gasps as he breaks away. “I love you so much.”

               My face splits in a broad grin and I smother him with kisses. “Love you too, Angel.”

               He stops abruptly, gazing reverently into my eyes and smoothing a stray hair gently away from my forehead. “You make me feel so young inside.”

               “Same here,” I murmur back.

               He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound. “You are young, Buffy.”

               I shake my head. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way, sometimes I think I’ve seen and done far too much in only eighteen years. But not when I’m with you, though.”

               He kisses me, long, slow and deep, our tongues tangling together. Then he buries his head into my hair, holding me close to his chest.

               “Hey,” I whisper, my mouth close to his ear. “I don’t know whether your reason for dashing home was to hug me on the doorstep, but mine certainly wasn’t.”

               He drags his head back up again, the wicked smile back in place. “After you,” he extends his arm in a chivalrous gesture.

               I glance over at him suspiciously, half expecting a posse of my friends to jump out and yell ‘surprise!’ at me as I let myself in the door. But my birthday is months away and the sight that awaits me is much more welcome. The entrance hall is lit with hundreds of candles and a trail of rose petals leads its way towards the bedroom. I gasp in very pleasant shock. “Angel!”

               “Willow helped a little with the preparation,” he admits.

               “It’s beautiful,” I twist around to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

               “You haven’t seen everything yet,” he pushes me gently further into the house. Reaching the bedroom, I find it decorated in a similar style, all creamy church candles and blood red roses. A bottle of champagne lies cooling in an ice bucket, accompanied by two glasses, and on the bed is a long, flat box, tied shut with a crimson ribbon.

               “Is this for me?” I ask, rushing enthusiastically over to the gift.

               He smiles cryptically. “It’s pretty much for both of us.”

               I refuse to be puzzled by his secretive hints any longer, so move straight on to pulling the ribbon away and lifting the lid from the box. Underneath a layer of tissue paper is an exquisite slip of delicate handmade lace and creamy satin. Nestling next to it is a pair of sheer silk stockings and suspenders to match the sexy nightgown. “Ah,” I smirk at Angel. “I see.”

               He tucks a finger under my chin, tilting it upwards and meeting my eyes. “But do you, really?” He asks in a soft, speculative voice.

               I lift his hand up to my mouth, pressing a brief kiss to the knuckle. “They’re beautiful – thank you so much.” I smile teasingly. “I’d put them on, but then I’d only end up taking them off again.”

               He tilts his head to one side thoughtfully. “I don’t see why that should be so bad.”

               I push him down on the bed, laughing lightly. “Let’s save it for another day, okay.” I pull my top off over my head, sinking down onto the comforter next to him. I want to keep the atmosphere between us light and playful, a dramatic change from the usual doom and gloom we forever find ourselves facing. It’s these times, when Angel and I are together and the rest of the world melts away, that I actually start seeing my life as something good, not an endless tidal wave of sacred duty, monsters, darkness and death. And I know he has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this evening and make it something special to me.

               Strangely enough, despite all his years and years of experience (a subject I do not like to dwell upon), out of the two of us, Angel seems the more apprehensive concerning sex. He worries that he’s rushing me, or forcing me into doing things I don’t want to, or simply that I’m not enjoying it. I think the first time we slept together – and some of the comments Angelus made afterwards – is still sharp in his memory. He wants everything to be perfect for me, in order to make up for past events. I keep telling him it’s not necessary, though. Once I got over my initial nervousness about sleeping with him and all the minor embarrassments it seemed to entail (like stripping naked in front of him and laying all my insecurities about my body on the line), I discovered making love to Angel to be something I very much enjoy. Basically, it’s like kissing him, only a thousand times better and more intimate. I trust him totally, and have no objections whatsoever to putting myself (literally) into his hands each time we go to bed together.

               But still Angel is the perfect gentleman, asking before we try anything new and always taking his cue from me on whether or not to progress with a seduction. If I don’t seem in the mood then he stops and refuses to press the issue any further. Tonight, though, there’s no way I want him to stop, so I’m going to have to prove it to him.

               I shuffle over so that my body is pushed up against his, moving my legs to wrap them around his waist and gripping his face between the palms of my hands in order to hold him still while I kiss him. My heart (and another area of my body, which I couldn’t possibly mention without blushing) throbs just to have him this near. I love how close I feel to him right now, the almost certainty that sings in my veins that we will always be like this, together forever. I love the way his touch makes my skin tingle and sends shivers down my spine, my physical self rejoicing in his presence as much as my soul does. In fact, I just plain love him, in a way I never dreamed would be possible.

               He slides nimble fingers around my back, undoing my bra clasp and letting the garment hang loosely around my breasts, before detaching my hands from his face in order to remove it completely. My bare nipples graze against the material of his sweater, as he caresses the smooth contours of my back and shoulders, massaging them lightly. I sigh loudly and lean into him.

               “You feel so good,” I tell him as he works his way upwards from the hollow of my back, tenderly unravelling the knots in each of my muscles, until I am so relaxed I am relying entirely upon leaning against his chest to hold me up. “You’re making me sleepy though,” I complain.

               “We can’t have that,” he kisses me full on the lips, nipping my tongue lightly as I try to demand access to his mouth. Then he slides me backwards, so I’m lying down, and begins working my pants and underwear off over my hips. “I’m just going to have to come up with a way to keep you awake,” he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of each of my thighs.

               I kick my feet slightly, shoving away completely the rest of my clothes. “I could make a few suggestions,” I reach over and grab the front of his sweater, pulling his face up towards mine. “But they all involve you wearing a lot less than you are now.”

               He grins. “I really don’t see a problem with that.”

               I help him undress, peppering each inch of flesh with feathery light kisses as it is gradually exposed. He returns the favour by laving at my breasts, bringing the nipples up into hard points, before dragging his lips lower, down over the curve of my belly in between the apex of my legs. I gasp as his tongue hits me, my heart involuntarily speeding its beating, my hands grasping at the sheets below me. Immediately, all other thoughts fly out of my head. There is only Angel, and his touch. His hands burn me where he holds my pelvis steady and the graze of his teeth over my clitoris makes me quiver helplessly.

               Tears stream down my face, totally ruining my plan for happy, fun sex. But I can’t help it, every time I’m with him like this, every time he lays his hands or lips on my body or whispers to me in that low, velvety voice that is uniquely his, I remember what it’s like to live without him. And the thought makes me cry, in part through sadness for the time we spent apart, ripped away from one another, and part through sheer joy of the moment, of having back where he belongs – in my life, in my heart, in my bed.

               Well, technically, it’s his bed, because I still live at home and Mom would freak if she caught us doing anything like this there. But as always, it doesn’t matter where we are, just that we’re together and that my whole body is on fire from his attentions. He plunges his fingers into me and it is just enough to push me over the edge. The orgasm explodes through me, bucking my body up off the bed tensing every single one of my already preternaturally strong muscles. The high seems to last for eternity as Angel’s lips and tongue and hands fail to cease their assault.

               “Ahhhhhhhhhh, Angel….” I gasp, my entire vocabulary seeming to desert me. Except for his name that is. That is one word that will always remain with me – I could chant it over and over for hours, the meaning so much deeper than just an arbitrary title. Normally people get their names when they’re born – tiny babies they have no choice in the matter. Like Buffy for instance – there is no way I would use that name for any other reason than I got stuck with it at birth. But Angel, he earned his name, it fits him. He is my angel, my guardian, my protector. The simple utterance of his name conveys so much more to me, it’s our entire history wrapped up in one single word and when I say it it’s with love, with hope for the future, with bittersweet sorrow for the past. So, I don’t need any long prose or obscure expressions no one but Giles and Wesley have ever heard of, if I forgot all the words in the world but his name, then I would still be able to say everything I’d ever want to.

               He pulls his fingers out of me with a flourish, letting my body recover and flop back on to the bed, every single cell working on overdrive. A light sheen of sweat flushes my skin and my heart feels like it will pound out of my chest any minute. Angel lies down beside me, resting a possessive hand over my abdomen.

               “You okay?” He asks softly.

               “Mmm,” I sigh in utter contentment. “Definitely okay. What about you, though?”

               “Me?” He sounds surprised.

               “Yeah,” I tilt my body towards his, pressing lightly against him. “I want you make you happy too.”

               He smiles at me, one of the few, rare, radiant smiles I have ever seen from him. “You do, Buffy. Believe me, you do.”

               I kiss him hard on the lips, arching my breasts into his chest and reaching my fingers downwards to clasp his hardness. His eyes squeeze tightly shut and I whisper wickedly in his ear. “I will do tonight, anyway.” 

* * * * *

               I awake in exactly the same position as I fell asleep, with my head pillowed against Angel’s broad chest, his arms wrapped around my waist. My whole body feels heavy with tiredness, following our previous evening spent slaying and, uh, indulging in other somewhat exerting activities. My insides are numb and tingly and I don’t think my legs would support me if I tried to walk on them, but that doesn’t really bother me, because for now at least, I don’t intend going anywhere. Even if my bladder is threatening to burst and my stomach’s begging me for some breakfast. Having bodily functions is so unfair – Angel never has to creep off in the middle of the night (or day, or whenever he does most of his sleeping) to go to the bathroom.

               I roll slightly away from Angel, his arms tightening around me automatically at first, before he wakes up fully and loosens his grip. “You have to go?” He asks groggily, failing to hide the note of disappointment in his voice.

               I lean over and kiss him, fresh lust shooting through me, taking the edge off my fatigue. “Just to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.” Reluctantly I pull away, grabbing Angel’s discarded jumper off the floor to cover myself before I leave the room.

               When I return, I discover, much to my dismay, that Angel has already got out of bed and is busy getting dressed. His attention absorbed with his search for a shirt to wear (though considering practically every single one he owns is plain black silk, anyway, I don’t see what the huge dilemma is) I creep up behind him and throw my arms around his waist.

               “Buffy,” he greets me and I can tell he’s smiling from his tone. 

               “Angel,” I murmur in reply, leaning my cheek against his cool, muscular back. “You getting up already?”

               He finds the shirt he was looking for and twists his body around in the circle of my arms, so that he is facing me. “It’s late,” he informs me softly. “Nearly noon.”

               “Oh,” my face falls. “That’d explain why I’m so hungry then.”

               “There’s some juice in the refrigerator if you want it.”

               I wrinkle my nose up in distaste. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass in favour of something that hasn’t spent its entire lifetime in the proximity of animal blood products. I should be getting home soon, anyway,” I sigh. “Mom’ll be starting to worry I got eaten by a vampire.”

               Angel flashes me a good-natured leer, one eyebrow raised, his mouth twisted up in a smirk. “She wouldn’t be far wrong then.”

               I hit him lightly on the arm, rolling my eyes and trying not to gratify his comment by giggling. Then I turn away to scavenge the floor for the clothing I hurriedly abandoned last night. “So,” I ask casually as I snag my bra out from underneath the bed. “You got any big plans for today?”

               Angel looks up from buttoning his shirt. “I thought I’d just stay home and avoid busting into flames.”

               “See you at the library later?”

               “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He passes me my pants and I pull them quickly on, giving him a cursory peck on the lips before turning to leave.

               “I hope you’re going to bring that sweater back,” he jokes just as I am heading out the door.

               I grin and blow him a kiss. “Not a chance – you’re going to have to come and fetch it yourself.”

               I duck out of the mansion, the smile Angel almost unfailingly puts on my face fading the further apart we get.

* * * * *

               The first thing on my to do list when I return home is ‘shower’ closely followed by ‘eat’, but Mom ambushes me before I can do either.

               “Buffy,” she stops me in the hall and looks me over quizzically.

               “Hey, Mom,” I try to push past her, hiding the bundle containing my top and bra (which I couldn’t be bothered to change Angel’s pullover for back at the mansion) behind my back.

               “Did you stay at Angel’s last night?” She asks and I nod, waiting for the explosion that miraculously doesn’t come. “Do you think he’d like to come round here one evening?” She says instead.

               “Um, well, I suppose I could ask him…” I stutter in amazed reply. “Any particular reason?”

               “He just hasn’t visited in a long time.”

               “Okay,” I interrupt her. “Can we rewind here, because somehow I’m getting the idea you want to see Angel and I together, and I know that can’t be right.”

               “Buffy,” Mom sighs. “I’m not the big bad ogre you think I am, you know. Maybe I would prefer it if you were dating someone slightly more…uh, normal than Angel, or if you two hadn’t jumped into such a serious relationship quite so quickly, but I know you love each other and that he makes you happy. And as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy too.”

               “Thanks Mom,” I smile gratefully. “That means a lot, really.”

               “And besides,” she continues. “Angel is a responsible adult and I have the feeling he’ll agree with me on several concerns about your future.”

               Uh-oh, I think. Here it comes: the real reason for inviting Angel over and Mom’s obligatory ulterior motive. I have to respect her tactics this time though – soften me up first by being all understanding and nice about my unconventional choice of life partner, then slap her demands on me when I expect them the least.

               “What concerns?” I ask suspiciously.

               “Well, what you’re going to do next year for a start,” Mom launches off into her ‘let’s lecture Buffy’ tone. “All your friends will be going to college and what do you intend doing?”

               I shrug. “Pretty much the same as I am now, I guess.”

               “Buffy!” She completes the predicted explosion just a few minutes later than anticipated. “I know you had your reasons for your behaviour last year, but now you’re going to have to face the consequences. You haven’t even graduated high school – what kind of prospects for the future do you think that’s going to give you?”

               My expression falls into a frown, worry lines crossing my forehead. “I’m the Slayer, Mom. I don’t have a future. I don’t get to have a career or a job or a normal life, so what’s the point in bothering with school or college or any of those things?”

               “Don’t talk like that Buffy Anne Summers,” she admonishes me. “One of these days you’re going to grow out of this vampire slaying habit of yours and then you’ll regret throwing all these other opportunities away.”

               “Being the Chosen One is not a phase,” I inform her angrily. “It’s my life and there’s nothing I can do to change that. The only way out is when I die, okay!” I turn around and rush up the stairs, surprised to find tears stinging my eyes. Generally I try not to think about how short my life could possibly be. When I go out patrolling at night, I deliberately push all ideas of dying out of my head. Part of me knows that every day could be my last. Just one mistake, one slip up and it could all be over. Each of the demons I meet wants to kill me and would do if I let them.

               I don’t let them, but that doesn’t mean that one day that mistake won’t come and Buffy Summers will be no more. The thought petrifies me. I don’t want to die – I still have so much to live for, so many people in my life I don’t want to lose. But…it’s not my choice. It never was and now I’m stuck with the reality of living a doomed existence. Nobody else understands – except maybe Angel, but even he, with his gift of eternal life, doesn’t really get it – and Mom flat out denies the possibility. Not that I can blame her, I suppose. No parent wants to face the premature death of their child.

               Most of the time, I’m all right with it. Resigned, I guess you could say. But sometimes the inevitability of my fate rears up and hits me straight between the eyes, like today. What’s the point of taking a college course if you know you won’t even be alive to graduate from it?              

               I storm into my bedroom and collapse on the bed, furious and upset, my good mood from this morning completely evaporated. Why me? I can’t help but think. What did I do to deserve this?

* * * * *

               Our nightly meetings in the old high school library have evolved into an almost business-like format, so much so that if one of our number is missing it sparks an almost full-scale investigation into the fact. Thus, at seven o’clock sharp we are all there, gathered around the table set out in the middle of the room, waiting patiently for the first order of business to be raised. The formality of it all irritates me somewhat. Slaying is a serious enough occupation without making all the circumstances that surround it ultra-boring.

               I stare off into the stacks, loosely gripping Angel’s hand, not really paying attention to Wesley’s latest diatribe. What I am really trying to do is not think about my argument with Mom earlier today. She still treats me like a little girl – she’s forgotten how I spent the last twelve months living on my own, taking care of myself. I can make decisions on my own, even if they are not necessarily the right ones.

               “Buffy,” I hear my name being called. “Buffy.”

               Angel squeezes my hand and I turn around to look at him in surprise. “Giles was talking to you,” he tells me softly.

               “Oh,” I reply turning towards my Watcher. “So, what’s the word?”

               “We were just discussing the problem of the Initiative,” Giles informs me stiffly. “And I thought that perhaps you’d have a few comments to make.”

               “You’re damn right I do,” I launch into my latest favourite subject of complaint. “After what they did to Angel, that place should be burnt to the ground!”

               “Uh, Buff,” Xander reminds me. “They’re kind of already below ground level.”

               “Then we’ll burn them straight into Hell,” I continue to vent some of my anger. I cannot even think of the place without breaking into a cold sweat. Apart from the fact they kidnapped my boyfriend to do experiments on him, then tried to do the same to me, they also caused untold problems between Angel and I. Maggie Walsh’s little speech about vampirism and the difficulties of a vampire and a human ever having a meaningful relationship, really hit him hard. It resurfaced all his old guilt about Angelus and his past crimes. It was an entire week before I could fully persuade him how much I loved him and totally didn’t care about any of that other stuff. For a while I was afraid he might even break-up with me and for that Walsh would really have had to pay.

               “Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Xander jokes and I scowl.

               “You didn’t have to go through that. It was horrible. They’re out of control.”

               “Angel?” Giles questions.

               He nods slowly. “Something isn’t right there.”

               “Considering the fact they tried to kill both of us, I think that’s about the understatement of the century,” I fold my arms crossly over my chest.

               “But I thought they were on our side,” Willow interjects.

               “Yes,” Wesley agrees. “They are demon hunters, so it isn’t all that inconceivable that they would target Angel.”

               I open my mouth to shoot back a reply then realise exactly what he has just said. “Did you just call my boyfriend a demon?”

               Wesley looks taken aback. “Well considering he is a vampire – um, albeit a rather unique one – I would say the term demon is somewhat appropriate…”

               “Well, I don’t want you using it!”

               “Buffy,” Angel lays a calming hand on my arm. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

               “Besides,” Giles tries to keep the peace. “We are getting slightly off topic. I think Buffy’s opposition lies in the way Angel and she were treated during their dealings with the organisation. Although, I would say that, ah, burning them into Hell would be a rather extreme response.”

               “What would you suggest we do then?” I ask.

               “Maybe we could call the police?” Willow pipes up.

               “And tell them what?” Xander enquires. “That this secret military organisation we accidentally discovered underneath the college campus is torturing innocent demons? Can you say ‘certifiably insane’?”

               “Well, perhaps not…” Willow mumbles and Oz offers her a supportive smile.

               “We can’t just leave things as they are, though,” I object. “It’s not just the issue of experimenting on demons that bothers me – as long as they’re taking them off the streets then that’s okay with me – but I think there’s definitely something more suspicious going on there. It’s that Professor in charge that bothers me. She seems so cruel and callous and all the soldiers seem to worship her – they just follow her orders blindly, like they’re brainwashed or something.”

               “I agree with B,” Faith interrupts, causing the whole table to glance around in surprise. Her contributions to these meetings usually stretch to questions of ‘what are we fighting?’ and ‘how do I kill it?’. “These commando dudes are all really out of it – like they’re high on drugs or something. And the bit where they capture the demons and then cut them up in the name of science really freaks me out. It ain’t natural.”

               “What exactly do they do to the creatures they capture?” Giles directs the question at Angel who shakes his head.

               “I’m not entirely sure – they didn’t exactly make their intentions clear to me.” He hesitates for a second. “But I think the generally theme was towards a behaviour modification programme. Something to do with computer chips. I spoke to one vampire who told of his Sire having an electronic implant put in his head which made him go insane – he walked out into the sun a day later.”

               There is a short pause following Angel’s dramatic announcement, which Oz ends by speaking softly. “So, whatever they’re trying to do, they haven’t got it exactly right yet.”

               “Unless they’re trying to create an army of crazy, suicidal vampires,” Cordelia suggests from her position in the corner of the room. Lately Xander has been dragging her forcefully to these meetings, which she has always sat through in resentful silence. Until now. I take her sarcastic comment as a good sign – an indicator some of her previously depressed attitude is dwindling away and shades of the old Cordelia Chase are returning. Just as long as it is only shades that return, rather than the full-blown bitch portion of her personality.

               I replay her remark in my head – something about and army of vampires…

               “Oh my God,” I exclaim. “Cordelia’s right.”

               Xander looks amazed. “Now those are two words I never thought I’d hear together in a sentence.”

               “I was right?” Cordy says doubtfully. “They’re trying to make the vampires commit suicide.”

               “No,” I shake my head. “They’re trying to make an army.”

               “Uh, since they’re the military, don’t they kinda already have one?” Oz asks.

               I shake my head. “They have an army of humans sure, but not one of vampires or demons.”

               Giles looks up sharply. “Actually, I think Buffy has a point. What better soldiers could you possibly find other than demons? They have superhuman strength, they already know how to kill people, they’re easily obtained and dispensable…”

               “The only problem is controlling them,” Angel interjects. “There’s no way they would take orders from a human, unless some kind of behaviour modification system were employed.”

               “Like the one the Initiative is trying to develop at the moment,” I finish for him.

               “But wouldn’t that be a good thing,” Xander remarks. “We’d never have to send American soldiers into battle to be killed ever again.”

               “Yeah, we could just order a whole load of demons to massacre the innocent people instead,” I reply sarcastically.

               “And we can’t necessarily assume that the US government intends to use these demons for entirely benevolent reasons,” Giles points out.

               Xander raises his eyebrows. “And it had to be the foreign guy casting the insinuations about our beloved democracy.”

               “Giles is right,” Oz chips in. “The military can’t exactly put its new demon fighting force on display to the general public. So, we have to assume they’re trying to assemble it for more covert reasons.”

               “But what could they possibly be planning?” Willow asks innocently.

               Giles removes his glasses thoughtfully. “Well, it could be anything really. From manipulating the leadership of other countries in order to shift the political climate in America’s favour, to quashing anti-government protest groups, to entire world domination. Just think of the power one could obtain with an entire army of mindless killing machines.”

               There is a long silence as everyone contemplates the horrifying possibilities.

               “So,” Giles finally says. “The question is: what do we do now?”

               “All of this is still conjecture, correct?” Wesley reminds us.

               “Yes,” I grudgingly admit. “But I think it’s pretty solid. What other possible explanation could there be?”

               “Maybe that this Initiative is what it pertains to be,” Wes continues sanctimoniously. “That they’re just demon hunters who happened to be a little overzealous during your last encounter.”

               “No way,” I shake my head. “Sure I’m mad about them trying to hurt Angel, but there’s more to this than meets the eye. That place – and all it’s commandoes – gives me the wiggins.”

               Faith nods. “Like I said, I’m with B on this one – call it Slayers’ intuition or something, but I can feel the evil coming from that place.”

               “But if you’re wrong…” Wesley voices yet more objections.

               “We’re not wrong,” I insist, cutting him off before we can be subjected to another of his long speeches. “And to prove it we’ll get evidence – files or photographs or something. Then we can…” an idea suddenly occurs to me. “We can take it to some high up military people or something and threaten to expose them to the media if they don’t stop their operation.”

               Xander raises an eyebrow. “You been watching The X Files a lot lately, Buff?”

               I glare at him. “Well, what would you suggest we do, oh great one?”

               Fortunately, Xander never gets to impart his wisdom, as Angel interrupts us all. “There’s one thing we haven’t considered here.”

               I tilt my head questioningly – it all seems pretty cut and dried to me. “What’s that?”

               “Maggie Walsh,” he answers. “She’s the centre of everything. She’s the one in charge conducting all the research…so what if this is not the huge conspiracy we all think it is. What if the Initiative started out as a genuine demon hunting task force and one evil person just corrupted the system?”

               Giles nods. “That would certainly seem a more plausible explanation. And one that can be more easily proven. Willow…”

               “Get on the Net and research?” She anticipates his request. “Just call me computer nerd of the year.”

               “Yes, excellent,” Giles mutters distractedly. “We’ll need an entire background on this Margaret Walsh, in order to discover anything remotely out of the ordinary. In the meantime, Buffy, Angel, Faith, keep up your patrol as usual and keep your ears to the ground.”

               “Is that it?” Xander asks as all those seated around the table begin to move away. “Meeting adjourned due to lack of significant knowledge.”

               “You should be used to that by now,” I slap Xander on the back as I walk past, closing my ears to the undoubtedly witty comeback he hurls after me as I leave the room.

* * * * *

               Angel finds me sitting quietly on a gravestone, having finished my allocated patrol route. My inbuilt Angel-detectors sensed him coming a mile off, so when he approaches from behind me I don’t bother looking up, just hit him with our habitual enquiry.

               “How many?”

               “Three,” he replies coming to perch next to me. “It was a slow night. You?”

               “Just two.”

               “You okay,” he says softly, reaching over to touch my arm.

               I nod unconvincingly. “Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?”

               Angel glances at me in concern. “I thought maybe you were upset over this whole Initiative business.”

               I shrug. “I was a little at first. I mean, I went through the whole ‘you hurt my boyfriend’ stage. You know, the one where I want to pound the offending culprits into little tiny pieces.”

               He grins. “I have that, only it involves ripping the heads off anyone who ever touches you.”

               I pat him on the knee, returning the smile. “Gee thanks, honey, that’s real romantic.”

               “Just wait to see what I get you for Valentine’s Day,” he says with a smirk.

               I abruptly twist my head up to look at him. “Do you…do you think we’ll still be together by next Valentine’s?”

               His eyes fill with concern. “Is this why you’ve been so quiet this evening? You’re worried about us?” He cups my cheek with his hand. “I thought we sorted all this out. You don’t have to worry Buffy, believe me – I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

               “I know you do,” I lean into his palm. “That’s not what’s bothering me. I mean, what if…what if something horrible happens before then.”

               “Something like Angelus, you mean?”

               I frown. “No…yeah, maybe. I mean something unexpected and Hellmouthy, like one of us dying…”

               He immediately drops the hand from my face and pulls me close to his body. “You’re not going to die Buffy.”

               I shake my head. “You don’t know that. I’m the Slayer, it could happen any day. Maybe I’ve just been lucky so far.”

               “No,” he looks me straight in the eye. “It’s not luck. It’s strength and determination. It’s friends who support you, family who love you and above all a belief in yourself. Nothing’s going to harm you, Buffy – as long as you don’t let it.”

               Tears spring to my eyes as fear of death wells anew in me. “But what if I can’t help it – ”

               “Then I’ll be here to protect you,” he says steadfastly. “We don’t know what the future holds. But I do know yours is going to be long and very, very beautiful.”

               I smile weakly. “Promise?”

               “I promise.”

               Angel loosens his hold on me, slightly and I relax into his arms, feeling more settled already. It really doesn’t matter how many days I have left on this earth as long as I can spend them all with Angel.

               “What brought all this on, anyway?” He eventually asks.

               “Mom,” I reply quietly. “She got to talking about my plans for next year.”

               Angel nods. “And what are they?”

               “Just to carry on doing what I’m doing now – y’know saving the world and all that…”

               “You’re not going back to school?” He gets that disapproving tone to his voice that I hate so much.

               “Mom said you’d agree with her,” I complain. “How did she know?”

               He raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps because we both have your best interests at heart.”

               “Then perhaps you’ll both let me make my own decisions,” I retort.

               “As long as they’re the right ones,” he sends me a pointed look.

               I sigh. “You can’t make me go back to high school. The place is still a wreck for a start – unless Giles is going to take every single class in the library.”

               Angel smiles wearily. “I understand how you don’t want to go back and repeat the year, away from all your friends. But, you should look into other options. Like taking an equivalency test, or picking up some college courses.”

               I glare at him. “You’ve been talking to Mom about this behind my back – haven’t you!”

               He puts on his ‘don’t shout at me I’m all innocent face’, the one with the puppy dog eyes that always make me melt. But this time I’m not fooled. I know straight away that the two most important people in my life have just conspired against me in order to make me conform to their standards. I am most decidedly angry with Angel and I’m furious at Mom for dragging him into this discussion at all, especially on her side… But, damn, those eyes of his. Deep chocolately brown and brimming over with love and concern. There’s really nothing I can do but fall straight into them.

               I drop my head onto Angel’s chest in defeat. “Okay, but this still means I’m independent, right?” I mumble through his sweater. “It was totally my decision.”

               “Totally your decision,” he echoes kissing the top if my head lightly. “That’s fine with me.”

* * * * *

               Willow screws her eyes up, squinting at the screen in puzzlement. Her fingers dance over the keyboard and I find myself wondering how she has the patience for this sort of thing. I hate the research part of slaying, I would much rather be out there taking action against the problem instead of sitting around waiting, trawling through endless dusty tomes or surfing the utterly incomprehensible Internet. In fact, I am beginning to regret even heading back to the library this evening. I should have stayed out on patrol like Faith, or found some other way to occupy the time. I glance slyly at Angel – there are so many things I would prefer to be doing at this moment.

               “I don’t understand,” Willow says with a deep sigh.

               Giles snaps immediately to attention. “What is it?”

               “I can’t find any details on Professor Walsh’s early life,” Willow complains. “I hacked into the military personnel file on her – ”

               “You did what?” Wesley explodes.

               “I – ”

               “No. Stop right there,” Giles interrupts. “I don’t want to know where you went or what national security laws you broke. Just tell us what you found.”

               “Okay,” Willow begins again. “I accessed an outline of her personal life – date and place of birth, education, career history, that sort of thing, but when I went to verify the details I couldn’t find anything.”

               “How do you mean?” I ask, suddenly more interested. Obviously there was something suspicious about Professor Walsh after all.

               “Well, it says here,” she points at the screen. “That she got her PhD from Harvard, so I checked the former student database and her name was there, but nothing else. There was no record of her attendance or grades or anything else.”

               “But does that actually mean anything?” Giles asks.

               Willow shrugs. “On it’s own, probably not. The files could have been lost or just not put on the computer, but I checked the other schools and universities she’s claiming to have attended or taught in, and it’s the same for all of them. Everything looks okay on the surface, but when you dig deeper, there’s just no trace of her.”

               “Almost as if the records were falsified,” Angel suggests from beside me.

               Willow nods. “Exactly.”

               “But can we be sure?” Giles presses.

               Wesley walks over to the computer screen and studies the display. “Actually, I think we can. According to her records she spent some months guest lecturing in psychology at Yale and I happen to know one of the psychology faculty there – we went to Cambridge together,” Wesley preens self-importantly and I catch Xander rolling his eyes.

               Trying to remain serious I turn to Wesley. “So, just call him and see if he remembers Maggie Walsh at all. And of he doesn’t, we know we’ve got an impostor.”

               While Wesley goes off to act all buddy-buddy with one of his old college cronies, I turn my attention back to Willow. “Could you keep looking, Will?” I ask. “This time into her early life – right back to her childhood.”

               “What are you thinking?” Giles appears at my elbow.

               I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling there’s something there.”

               “Okay,” Willow said. “Margaret Walsh, born on the 17^th April 1954 in Freedom, Arkansas. Mother: Anne Frances Walsh, father: Unknown.” She frowned. “That had to be something pretty scandalous back in the fifties, especially in a small town.”

               “What else is there?” I ask eagerly.

               “Hang on a second,” Willow holds up one hand. “I’m just going to access the database of the local paper and do a search through its archives.” She taps a few keys, then hits the mouse button. A few seconds elapse during which all the room’s attention is focused on the computer screen. Then the computer beeps and a message flashes up.

               2 matches found.

               Willow opens the first one to find an innocuous article about the local elementary school’s summer science fair. There is a grainy photograph dating back to 1962 with the caption ‘Eight year old Maggie Walsh and friend Trevor James put their projects on display’. I examine the picture closely, but it is too old and too out of focus to ever be able to tell if the little girl there is really the Professor Walsh I had met in the Initiative headquarters. I wave my hand dismissively. “There’s nothing there. Let’s look at the next one.”

               A click of the mouse and the second article is opened. It’s dated two years later, from 1964 and the headline makes me gasp. ‘Tragic Murder Shocks Town’. I skim down the page, quickly reading the words there, with very little comprehension.

               The town is in mourning today for one of its youngest citizens, as yesterday the brutalised body of a ten-year old child was found in the middle of the local park. The child was later identified to be ten-year-old Margaret Walsh, who was first reported missing by her mother the previous evening. Despite coming from a difficult family background, Maggie was wildly regarded to be a wonderful child and an excellent student, her natural intelligence showing through in her performance at the local school. The county sheriff in charge of the case issued a statement today, saying ‘they as yet have no motive for this brutal attack’. He went on to describe the event as a ‘tragedy’, extending his ‘deepest sympathies’ to the victim’s mother, an already troubled individual…

               As the article degenerates into town gossip, I begin to lose interest, looking up to glance around the room. “She died,” I manage to murmur.

               “I hate to state the obvious here,” Xander interjects. “But if the real Maggie Walsh is dead, then who is it in charge of the Initiative?”

               “That,” Giles remarks, “seems to be the sixty-four thousand dollar question.” 

* * * * *

                I stand in the bushes outside Professor Walsh’s home, or at least the home of who or what ever is pretending to be Maggie Walsh. Willow finally managed to hack into the town’s electoral register in order to come up with an address. It’s incredible what she can do with computers when I have problems just switching them on and Giles won’t even go near one. Really, I don’t know what we’d do slaying-wise if Willow weren’t on the team.  

               I sense rather than hear a slight movement behind me and turn in the dark to face Angel in full stealth-mode. Dressed all in black he blends seamlessly into the night, only the whites of his eyes and teeth glinting in the moonlight to give him away. I am suddenly struck by how feral and dangerous he looks as he assumes the predatory stance of a vampire. A shiver runs down my spine and I give mental thanks that he’s fighting on my side and not the enemy’s.

                His hands find my shoulders, sliding down over them to my bare arms then grasping me lightly by the wrists. “Anything?” He whispers into my ear, the sound so soft it’s barely audible.

                I shake my head in a silent no, I’ve been on surveillance detail since dusk fell this evening and haven’t noticed a single movement from the Walsh household. Tonight must be the Initiative’s night off or something, because as far as I can tell, our suspect has spent the entire time sitting watching TV. So, in other words I have just occupied the better part of six hours staring intently at a silhouette in a lighted window. To say the experience has been a boring one would be like saying the destruction of the earth would be a minor inconvenience. I am now tired, stiff, and desperate for some real action. Oh and a bathroom break wouldn’t exactly go amiss either.

                “Maybe we should go inside,” I suggest quietly to Angel.

                “It’s not like she’s going to invite me,” he points out. “And I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

                I scowl at him and his overprotective attitude. I realise he’s only like this because he loves me, but really he should start to learn to let go a little. I mean it’s not like I can’t look after myself. After all, I am the Slayer, for God’s sake, which actually means I’m stronger than him in the first place. “I’ll be fine,” I brush his concerns away dismissively. “But I have to do something – all this waiting around is driving me crazy.”

                I’m almost positive Angel flashes me a disapproving look, but I miss it since I have already turned around and am making my way through the bushes back towards the house. Sprinting across the length of open lawn, hyperaware of Angel following close behind, I end up at the foot of a large tree. The plan is to climb up its branches and get into the house through one of the upstairs windows. Then I’ll explore the upstairs and, if I’m lucky, find some incriminating evidence about the woman posing as Professor Walsh that I can take back to Giles. And if I’m not lucky, I’ll just head downstairs and beat the information out of her. Either way works for me.

                I glance nervously upwards towards my target window, the actual act of getting into the house bothering me more than the necessary tree-climbing bit. I’m not exactly an expert at breaking and entering, so I’m not entirely sure of what to do. And what if one of the neighbours sees me and calls the police? Now that would be embarrassing. What am I supposed to say? Sorry officer, but I was trying to rid the world of an evil demon hunter at time?

                I put aside these thoughts and concentrate on getting my first few footholds up the tree, but before I can get very far, Angel lightly grabs on to the back of my legs. “I’m going to call Faith and the others,” he informs me. “If you’re not out in ten minutes, then I’ll send them in after you.”

                I nod in understanding. “Love you,” I whisper down to him then can’t help but break into a smile as he rewards my words with a brief kiss to one of my butt cheeks, the both of which are currently just above his face.

                “Idiot,” I mutter good-naturedly under my breath, my heart touched by the simple gesture.

                “Ditto,” he returns, slightly more seriously and I know he is referring to my determination to risk entering Maggie Walsh’s house alone when we both know how dangerous she can be. “Be careful,” Angel elaborates, real worry tingeing his voice.

                “Always,” I reassure him, continuing my climb.

                Reaching the window, I grip tightly to the tree branch with my legs and push hard against the window frame until the wood splits and I can easily swing the glass panel open, allowing me access into the house. I wave down to Angel, indicating everything is okay, before scrambling through my makeshift entryway and dropping silently down to the floor in the other side.

                Floorboards creak ominously under my feet and I freeze, listening carefully for any telltale sign I have been discovered. There is none, just the faint chattering of the TV from downstairs. Weird, I think, creasing my features into a frown. I’d never pictured Maggie Walsh as the TV-addict type, and yet that’s what she’s spent the entire evening doing. I guess even evil people have hidden depths, or shallows, as seems to be the case.

                Turning slowly around, I survey my surroundings. The room is large and completely empty, no furniture, or wall coverings or even boxes off stuff yet to be unpacked. With the state Sunnydale’s in at the moment this isn’t all that unusual – most people are just beginning to put their lives back together after the destruction visited by the Hellmouth. But, this is one of the few original houses left standing, and Professor Walsh must have been living here for a while, so what’s with the minimalist look?

                Heading out of the room, I explore the rest of the upstairs, finding each room as bare and barren as the first. There’s no bedroom and even the bathroom looks unused, bare plaster hang off the walls and the basin is cracked right down the middle. Alarm bells starting to ring loudly in my head, I creep down the stairs, trying to keep my footsteps as silent as possible over the bare boards. Arriving in the hall, I sneak quick peaks into the darkened downstairs rooms, finding exactly the same story in each of those. The kitchen is especially desolate, all the units and appliances have been ripped out – presumably by looters during the disaster – and every single surface is covered with a thick layer of dust and dirt.

                A glint of something metallic hiding in one corner of the room catches my eye, and I step forward to take a look. Unfortunately, I trip as I do so, stumbling into a pile of broken planks and wrecked furniture. The debris falls noisily to the floor, echoing loudly throughout the otherwise empty room. My heart leaps into my mouth as I realise I’ve given my presence away. Automatically I scan the area for escape routes – only the door I came through and the kitchen window. I’ll leave through the window if there’s a problem, but for now I want to confront Walsh and I’m determined to do it with or without the element of surprise.

                I slip into a defensive stance and stand, tensed, in the doorway, waiting for her to head out into the hall in order to explore the source of the noise. Nobody comes. I wait a few beats more, and still nothing but the sound of the TV playing infomercials at full volume. Something is seriously wrong here.

                Cautiously, I make my way out of the kitchen and then putting on a burst of sudden speed, storm through the living room door. Everything inside seems quiet. On the screen some has-been, ex-soap opera actor is promoting the values of the all new and improved Chop-o-MaticÔ - it slices, it dices, it juliennes, all for just $29.99 plus postage and packing.

                An armchair faces away from the doorway, the very top of its occupant’s head visible over the cushions. A hand hangs limply over the side, fingers long and splayed out. The hair rises on the back of my neck and I take a few tentative steps forward.

                “Hello?” I call out, throwing all caution to the wind. If whoever’s there hasn’t heard me yet then they’re never going to.

                No reply comes, so I edge further towards the chair, getting close enough to register that the figure it contains can’t possibly be the person we know as Maggie Walsh. The arm is far too young looking…and male. Taking the last few strides, I finally get a full glimpse of the silhouette I’ve been watching all evening and my stomach lurches.

                It’s Riley. Riley Finn, his eyes wide open and staring, his throat slit clean across and dried blood drenching the front of his khaki uniform. He’s obviously been dead a while.

                I turn swiftly away, unable to look any longer. I never liked the guy, but there was no way I ever wished him dead. The man on the TV drones brightly on and I feel like crying, or vomiting, or both. Glancing around the rest of the room, I notice a trapdoor open in the floor, that I assume leads down to some sort of cellar.

                My curiosity beginning to rise again, I go over to explore the opening, peering down into the inky black depths of the basement. The sweet stale smell of decay rises up to meet me and I screw my nose up in distaste, muttering under my breath.

                “Way gross. Has this woman never even heard of cleaning?”

                Cautiously, I lower myself down the ladder into the dark, cavernous space. There is a total absence of light down here, so much so that even my night adapted vision can’t make out a single shape in the blackness. I try to rely on my other senses, but with little success – the silence is eerie in its completeness, without even the usual sounds of rats or clanging pipe to reassure me, and the further into the room I go the stronger and more rancid the smell becomes until it begins to make me nauseous. I stand completely still, attempting to reach out around me with my heightened Slayer awareness in order to get some idea of my surroundings. But the only details I glean is that the place is dark, dank and giving me a severe case of the wiggins.

                Unwilling to progress much further without back-up or at least a strong flashlight, I turn back towards the entrance ladder, but even as I do so, a shiver runs down my spine and my heart flies straight into my mouth. I am only briefly aware that the danger is coming before it hits.

                A creature lands on my back, claws ripping into my skin, the attack terrifying in its sudden intensity. I shake the demon off, lashing out wildly, unable to see or hear its position. Eventually, my foot impacts against solid flesh and a telltale thud informs me my assailant has been knocked to the floor. Grabbing the opportunity to escape while I still have it I turn around and run, desperately searching for the lower rungs of the ladder that will take me back up to safety. But I must have gotten disorientated during the fight and when I reach for the metallic structure I feel nothing but solid brick wall.

                Please, I offer a silent plea to whatever powers up there are watching over me right now. I don’t want to die here in the dark, in this pit, fighting an enemy I never got the chance to even see. Suddenly I realise how stupid I was coming in here alone. I have no weapons, no backup and no idea what’s going to happen to me.

                I continue to search frantically around for my escape route, running my hands long the wall, searching for the telltale break in it that indicates the presence of the recessed ladder. Eventually I find it, grasping the cool iron struts like my life depends on it, which I’m guessing it probably does. But before I can even get my foot up on the first rung, the creature has a hold of me once more, its talons piercing my flesh like hypodermic needles, blood running hot and sticky out of the wounds. I struggle violently, kicking my legs backwards trying to get in a damaging blow. My efforts seem to loosen the demons grip somewhat and quickly spin around and punch it in what I presume to be its face. It reels back slightly and I scramble up the ladder, screaming as I go.

                “ANGEL! HELP! ANGELLLL!”

                I just about manage to make the climb out of the basement, my attacker hot on my heels, and as I reach the open trapdoor relief floods through me. Angel is there waiting, one hand outstretched to help pull me up and away from danger. Once I am clear of the opening, Angel reaches down and drags out the demon, a wiry, green and slimy creature that (and I may be anthropomorphising here) looks extremely pissed off. But Angel is angry too, his eyes flashing a dangerous gold, and he punches the creature straight in the stomach, before flinging it easily across the room sending it crashing into the opposite wall.

                It recovers almost instantly, manically heading back towards me, on the attack once more. I pummel it with a few severe blows, feeling much more confident now that I can actually see my opponent what with the pale moonlight streaming in through the window and the blue glow of the TV to illuminate the room. A burst of pain shoots through my injured side and I falter, allowing Angel to take over the fight. He does so easily, manoeuvring the demon into a corner before ending it all with a sharp twist to the creature’s neck. The green, scaly body collapses to the floor and Angel rushes over to me.

                “Are you okay?” he asks anxiously, slipping an arm around my waist to support me.

                I nod painfully, managing a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Thanks to you. How did you get in here, anyway?”

                He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just came. There wasn’t a barrier to my entry at all. If I didn’t know better then I’d think that nobody lives here.”

                “Maybe nobody does,” I answer. “All the rooms are empty – not a single sign of habitation…and look! Eww…” I catch a sudden glimpse of the demon in the corner, and watch in morbid fascination as the green colouration seeps out of its skin, the facial and bodily features gradually changing. As we stare in shock the ‘demon’ changes into human form, its appearance identical to that of the woman we knew as Maggie Walsh.

                “Oh my God,” I breathe, just as the front door to the house swings open and the rest of my friends, led by Faith, pour in. They seem ready to battle at first, but stop short when they register the scene.

                Two dead bodies – both of people we knew – a wrecked room, and Angel and I standing in the middle of it all, both blood stained and battle weary, looking precisely as though we have no idea what just happened.

* * * * *

                I head out of Giles’ bathroom, down the stairs into the main room, trying to ignore the twinges of pain that hit me every time I take a step. My Slayer healing is kicking in already and even Angel when he was bandaging my wounds had to admit they weren’t as serious as he first thought. By tomorrow morning I should be fine, but for now I just have to knuckle down and deal with one of the more unpleasant aspects of being the Chosen One.

                Angel greets me in the living room, drawing me down to sit on his lap and pressing a brief kiss to my temple before we turn our attention to Giles.

                “Demonic possession,” he explains, flipping over the pages of a huge book that rests in his lap. “From your description I’m guessing a Rhykla demon, but since there’s only a human corpse left there’s no way of being sure.”

                “But how did it get in there in the first place?” I ask confused. “I mean, whose body is that?”

                “It’s entirely possible that the human form the demon took is in fact that of the original Maggie Walsh.”

                “But she died nearly forty years ago,” Xander points out. “Wouldn’t she be all dust and bones by now.”

                “Not necessarily,” Giles replies. “If the demon killed her then possessed her body, then its life force would be able to sustain it – kind of like the demon within vampires keeps their bodies alive per se,” he glances in the direction of Angel whose arms tighten slightly around my waist.

                “But Maggie was only a little girl when she died,” Willow starts to speak. “And the person you killed tonight…uh, I mean the demon you killed,” she amends hurriedly. “Was, well, really old looking…” she stops once more, turning bright red and looking guiltily over at Giles’ offended expression. “No, I don’t mean really old, just older as in a more mature and wiser person…uh…demon…um…”

                “Will,” Oz interrupts her softly, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “You should stop talking now.”

                She smiles briefly back at him. “Good idea. Thank you.”

                “Unlike vampires, demons are mortal,” Angel joins in the discussion. “They’re alive just like any human is alive. They age, reproduce and eventually die of natural causes, so it would make sense that the body the demon took would over the years age too.”

                “Okay so that’s the ‘how’,” Faith interjects. “But what I’m not getting is the ‘why’. What the Hell is this demon doing jumping into human bodies and recruiting dumb soldiers to kill its own kind?”

                “They weren’t killing the demons, remember? Just trying to control them,” I begin to put the pieces of the puzzle together in my head.

                “Indeed,” Giles agrees. “Rhykla Demons can’t remain in their true form for any length of time, they’re literally trapped the body of their human host. Which means their powers are very limited. So, this one obviously wanted to build a stronger army of demons for purposes unknown.”

                “Wow,” Willow speaks again. “This means the Initiative really is evil doesn’t it.”

                “Not the Initiative itself – but the individual in charge of it certainly,” Giles says solemnly. “All those bodies we found in Professor Walsh’s basement must have been her – or rather the demon’s – victims.”

                I shudder in recollection of the scene down in the cellar. Further exploration once the others had arrived had located a light switch, which once depressed illuminated the subterranean room in all its horrifying glory. Body parts were stacked floor to ceiling – a mixture of human and demon dismembered corpses. One look at the scene and Xander had to run out and vomit on the front lawn and even Faith had turned a little green.

                “They must have been the first of her experiments,” I conclude aloud, vivid pictures of human faces sewn onto demon bodies pushing their way into my conscious. Out of all the things I’ve seen during my time as the slayer this has to count as one of the worst.

                “But what about Riley,” Oz asks. “He was supposed to be on her side, but she killed him too.”

                I shrug, not wanting to think about it any longer. “I really don’t know why she did that. It’s senseless.”

                A sombre hush falls over the room, almost a spontaneous minute’s silence in respect for Riley and all the other people whose lives were unfairly cut short. I lean back against Angel’s chest, images of the commando’s cut throat and bloodstained clothes tugging at my memory. He was misguided and a little foolish, but I don’t think he was a bad person; he shouldn’t have had to die.

                Our brief period of reflection is ended by a sharp rap on the door. Giles casts a puzzled glance around the room – the only visitors he regularly gets are all here already – before stepping up to answer the knock. Twisting around to see who it is, I recognise the young black man as Riley’s friend from the Initiative. At first I am suspicious he has come here to cause more trouble, but then I notice the distraught look on his face and my hostility fades a little.

                “Forrest, isn’t it?” I rise to greet him.

                “Yeah,” he nods. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

                Angel moves to hover protectively behind me, placing one hand on my shoulder and Forrest shifts nervously. “I meant, like, all of you.”

                Giles stands aside to let him into the house, and he glances uncomfortably behind him before crossing the threshold and scanning the room with anxious eyes.

                “You were the one who found him, weren’t you?” He addresses me.

                “Yes,” I nod cautiously. “I’m sorry, I know you two were friends.”

                He ignores my condolences, skipping straight on to his next question. “And you killed her. You killed Professor Walsh?”

                Angel steps forward, challenging Forrest’s accusation. “Actually, I did.”

                “Whatever,” Forrest dismisses the confession. “Whoever did it, I’m glad. She was twisted – I mean she killed Riley, man. She murdered my best friend – ” he breaks off, his voice cracking a little and the rest of the room stays silent, waiting for him to recover.

                “Anyway,” he finally continues. “I just wanted to say, that I’m sorry.”

                “For what?” I ask gently.

                “For behaving like I did, for everything that happened to you at the Initiative. We really believed that what we were doing was right…” he shakes his head. “God, I feel such an idiot. Riley was sorry too,” Forrest pauses again, taking a deep breath. “That’s why he went over to the Professor’s this afternoon. He began to have doubts about the programme, to suspect that something was wrong, so he went to confront Walsh about it…”

                “And she killed him because of it,” Giles finishes bluntly.

                “Yeah,” Forrest accedes in a voice barely above a whisper.

                “So, what happens now?” I wonder aloud. “To the Initiative, I mean. Do you even know?”

                Forrest nods grimly. “The army’s going to deny all knowledge. They’re burning down the facility tonight to destroy the evidence. And the unit’s being disbanded.”

                “And what about you?”

                He shrugs. “I’ve no idea. I just know I can’t stay here any longer. I have to leave before the military decides it isn’t enough just to get rid of the physical proof of their screw ups.”

                “Well, I guess we won’t see you around then,” Xander jokes, trying to lighten the mood a little.

                “Thanks for coming,” I add. “We really appreciate it.”

                Forrest dips his head briefly in acknowledgment then disappears out the door again. I feel sorry for him, I realise, even despite everything he helped put Angel and me through. After all, he has just had his whole world collapse from underneath him and if anyone can sympathise with that feeling it’s me.

* * * * *

               “Buffy!”

               I twist around from my position standing at the stove, waiting for the griddle to heat up so I can start cooking the pancakes I’ve decided we should all have for breakfast. “Hey, Mom.”

               “I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she comments, coming closer to inspect my activities.

               “I was out late last night – there was this big slaying deal,” I decline to mention how frightening the whole experience had been. “I didn’t want to wake you or Cordy so I crashed at Angel’s. That’s okay, right?”

               She gives me this typical Mom-look, the one that signals complete denial of whatever activity I have been up to lately, something I actually take offence at since all Angel and I did last night was sleep. I was simply too exhausted to contemplate anything else. Tonight though…well, that could be a completely different story.

               “Sure, honey,” Mom answers vaguely, watching in concern as I liberally tip pancake batter into the pan, covering the countertop with stray splashes as I go. “When did you learn to make pancakes?”

               I grin sheepishly. “Uh, never…I’m just kinda following the directions on the packet.” I hold up the empty cardboard box to show Mom and she raises her eyebrows sceptically.

               “Maybe I should take over?”

               “I think that might be a good idea,” I hand her the spatula. “I don’t feel comfortable with wooden instruments unless I have a vampire’s heart to shove them through.”

               Mom shakes her head, laughing to herself. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to what you do.”

               I smile softly. “You will. If I managed to, then you can too.”

               “I know,” she nods. “It’s just going to take a while that’s all. And if in the meantime I accidentally say completely the wrong thing then I’m sorry.”

               “It’s okay, Mom,” I reassure her, knowing that she is referring to our recent argument. “I understand. And I’m sorry if sometimes when you do that I overreact completely.”

               “That’s okay too,” she smiles and we hug, relations between us possibly the best they have been in several years. Finally I can tell her all those secrets I hated having to keep. I can talk to her about slaying and Angel and how it all just gets too much sometimes. We’re like a proper mother and daughter should be and it is only now that I realise how much I used to miss that.

               She breaks off the embrace to flip a pancake, which, even if I do say so myself, looks very impressive for my first attempt at cooking them. And I decide that this Mom-bonding moment is the perfect opportunity to inform her of the decision I made last night.

               “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

               She turns pale. “There’s nothing else about your life I don’t know, is there Buffy? Because I think I’ve had plenty enough shocks in that department already.”

               “No, it’s nothing like that,” I interrupt quickly. “This is good news. I was thinking about what you said yesterday about me not finishing school and I decided I’m going to do something about it.”

               “Oh Buffy,” she sighs heavily in relief. “I’m so glad. You know this really is the right decision for your future – ”

               “I know,” I cut her off. “Just don’t rub in the ‘I told you so’ or I may just change my mind.”

               “Okay, okay,” she holds her hands up in supplication. “I won’t say another word on the subject, except for: I’m proud of you, Buffy…of everything you do.”

               “Thanks Mom,” I smile briefly. “That means a lot.”

               “Now go get Cordelia up,” she changes the subject. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

               “Oh joy,” I roll my eyes sarcastically. “The beginning of another day in the Summers/Chase household. Y’know, I’m actually looking forward to starting school again just so I can get out of here.”

               “I’ll quote you on that in three months time,” Mom calls over her shoulder and I only laugh in response.

                Finally I have a life again – it may not be very easy or even very long, but it’s mine and I’ve proved to myself that I can cope with everything it throws at me. I can be a good Slayer, a loyal friend and a loving daughter all in one. I can make my own decisions about my future. I can face pain and uncertainty. And I can come through it all whole and feeling good about myself.

                Watch out world, Buffy Summers is back.

THE END

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