Fic; Encounter (1A/?)

[JDMeans@xxxxxxx]

Hey, gang! This chapter's too long for a single post, so I'll send it in two 
parts. For those who wanted to see Buffy meet Goliath, the wait is almost 
over.

<<>>

Disclaimers; The Joss Posse at Mutant Enemy own Buffy and crew. Disney hasa 
lock on the Gargoyle characters. Yep, it's the third episode of "Defenders 
of the Night". Enjoy.

Rating; PG-13. About the same level of action you'd see in a typical episode 
of either Buffy or Gargoyles.

Archives; Go for it.

Feedback; I'm still here at JDMeans@xxxxxxx

Summary; Buffy meets a new ally and a powerful new enemy while investigating 
a werewolf-like attack.  


Defenders of the Night
Encounter
By Kirayoshi

(Alyson Hannigan voice-over) "Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer; 
Defenders of the Night."

"I will only say this once, fiend," the monster said in an almost 
conversational tone. "You will turn yourself in to the police, confessing to 
kidnapping charges. You will not argue with the local district attorney over 
sentencing, and you will remain in prison for the maximum time your human 
laws allow. If we meet again, under any circumstances…" He didn't say 
another word. Instead he bared his claws a centimeter away from Webb's face, 
making his intentions clear most eloquently.

<<>>

The figure spread his wings wide about him, taking flight in the night winds. 
Goliath smiled as he flew back to his resting-place. His first efforts in 
observing and aiding the Slayer were successful. But this was just the first 
salvo; he knew that much. Soon, he would have to shed his secrecy.

Soon, he would meet the Slayer. And hopefully she would not regard him as 
the enemy.

He looked forward to the meeting.

--Along Came a Spider

<<>>

"Dawn," she spoke in an unsettling monotone, "what the hell are you doing out 
here, alone, at night?"

The Slayer's sister gulped hard, knowing that whatever story she cooked up to 
explain her presence in the danger-zone wouldn't be acceptable to Buffy.  
"I-I was out.." she stammered, grasping for some quick, convenient lie to 
tell Buffy, but one look in her darkening eyes told her that whatever story 
she had prepared wouldn't work. Defeated, she lowered her eyes and 
whispered, "I was slaying."

<<>>

"You've lost your Sunnydale privileges, Spike. Tomorrow's Thursday. I'll 
give you 'til sunrise on Saturday morning, but I want you out of town. I 
see you here after Saturday night, ever, under any circumstances-" She let go 
of Spike's neck, causing the vampire to land on his back, hard on the cold 
concrete floor of his crypt. "You're the vampire. I'm the vampire slayer.  
You figure it out."

<<>>

"You mean, you want to teach me some moves?"

"Why not?" Buffy offered. "I do it for a living at the community center.  
Look, how about we start next Saturday? I show you some basic moves, nothing 
too flashy, just some straight defensive stuff. If that works, then we can 
get to some more serious stuff."

"Wow," Dawn breathed. "Maybe I can join the Scooby Gang."

"Hey, one step at a time, sis,"

<<>>

She awoke suddenly, her hair matted to her face, slick with sweat. Tara 
struggled to recite the proper meditations to help still her breathing and 
slow her heartbeat, as half-remembered shards of her dream made themselves 
known to her.  

She stood at the fall of a kingdom, that much she was certain of. She 
witnessed a priestess praying to the Goddess for the safety of the king's 
soul.

She needed to know why she dreamed of this ancient king's fall. Why was the 
dream so real to her? Why did she feel sorrow at the fall of men dead for 
longer than a millennium?

And why did the Priestess look so much like Miss Lafayette?

--Her Little Secret

<<>>

Chapter One;
Lone Wolf

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain.
He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's
Going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein."
--Warren Zevon
"Werewolves of London"

The two figures sat quietly in the cemetery, monitoring a nearby headstone.  
A young woman named Heather Wilkinson had been buried there that afternoon, 
after dying in a suspicious accident two days earlier. It was the Slayer's 
job to keep a vigil over Heather's grave, to insure that, should the recently 
departed suddenly arise as a vampire, she didn't last long. Giles stuck 
around as company.

For over five years they had become inseparable parts of each other's lives: 
Watcher and Slayer, mentor and student. Over that time, he had seen her 
evolve from a somewhat flighty young girl into the strong and capable woman 
she was today. Facing adversities both supernatural and all too human, she 
had truly become a formidable woman.  

He found himself musing on certain tribal customs, customs that stated thata 
child didn't truly reach adulthood until his or her parents died. Under 
those criteria, Buffy certainly qualified. "Buffy," he asked hesitantly, 
noticing her tenseness; she never liked cemeteries before, and knowing that 
her mother's body was under one of these stones hadn't made her a fan. "Are 
you well?" Buffy glanced at Giles, a quizzical look on her face. "I was 
just asking, because you seemed somewhat unsettled."

"Me, unsettled?" Buffy asked innocently. "I'm fine. Just another fun-filled 
night with the dead guys." Giles gave Buffy a raised eyebrow, which Buffy 
knew meant 'You Can't Fool Your Watcher', and Buffy sighed lightly. "Okay, 
maybe just a little bit down."

"Understandable," Giles mused. "A little melancholy is to be expected here."

"It's not that," Buffy defended herself. "Well, not entirely that. It's 
just that, well, Dawn and I were talking the other day. She said that while 
I was, uh, out," Nice euphemism, Summers, she berated herself mentally. "She 
said that you were considering leaving for England."

Giles pursed his lips softly, and considered her statement. "Yes, there was 
an offer from the Watcher's Council, for a position in London. I had 
considered it after being awarded custody of Dawn, but now I'm not so sure."

"Really," Buffy mused. "Kinda surprised. I thought you missed the fog and 
muggy weather, having to sacrifice that damp chill for the California sun for 
five years."

Giles gave Buffy a hard stare, but couldn't hide the amusement behind his 
eyes. "Yes, trading Earl Grey for Starbucks. Quite a sacrifice, yes."  
Buffy stifled a chuckle and glanced back at the grave. Still no sign of 
Heather. "I admit that I do miss England, but I've gained so much from my 
experiences here. I had considered making the move, partly for Dawn's 
benefit. When we thought we had lost you forever, Dawn wanted so terribly to 
be away from here."

"Can't say I blame her," Buffy admitted. Giles nodded solemnly. "I wasn't 
certain that uprooting her was the right thing to do. Now that you've 
returned, I guess that it's academic."

"You still thinking about returning to England?" Buffy asked slowly, and 
Giles could hear the tension in her voice.

"Not at this time, Buffy," Giles assured the anxious Slayer. "I feel that I 
still have some work to do here." Buffy smiled warmly, glad that she 
wouldn't lose her father figure just yet. She might be officially an adult, 
but it was good to know that her family was still there for her.

"This is nice," Buffy commented. "I mean, this is the first time since my 
'return' that we've had a chance to talk. Y'know, Slayer to Watcher. I like 
this."

Giles shook his head, chuckling. "We're more than merely that, Buffy. I'm 
not sure when it happened, but you and I have gone far beyond any mere 
'student-mentor' relationship. This past year, with all that you've gone 
through… Buffy, I feel sometimes as though I'm just meeting you forthe first 
time. Not as a child, but as a young woman. A very exceptional young woman 
at that."

Buffy scowled at the compliment. "I hope you're not thinking of asking me 
out, Giles. I mean, no offense, but EEWWW!"

Giles smirked briefly, then continued, "No, not in that manner, Buffy. I 
tend to prefer women closer to my age. And not ten times stronger than I 
am." Buffy laughed out loud at his observation. "It's that I simply can't 
look at you as that same young girl who lived for her next date or her next 
essay quiz. You have a home, a job, a young girl to look after. And after 
all that has happened to you, you've managed to hang on to who and what you 
are." He swallowed for a moment, maintaining his British façade of 'stiff 
upper lipped' cool over the emotions he felt at this moment.  

"Buffy," Giles started, "do you know the greatest reward of being a teacher?  
It is when he finds himself learning from his students. And I have learned 
from you, Buffy Summers. I learned that it is good to say 'no' when those in 
charge are patently wrong. I learned to stand up for what I know is right, 
and, when necessary, throw away the rule book." He closed his eyes for a 
moment. "I am very proud to know you, Buffy Summers."

Buffy looked at her surrogate father figure for the longest time before she 
was aware of her vision blurring with a faint sheen of tears. She never 
realized before it was nearly too late how important this stuffy, 
tweed-fancying, technophobe Englishman was to her. Especially after she 
learned that Giles had defended Dawn from their father, who evidently had 
wanted to loot the trust fund that her mother had established for Dawn before 
she died. He always looked out for her and Dawn. And she loved him like a 
father for that.

Giles absently handed Buffy a tissue to wipe her eyes, which Buffy accepted 
gratefully. As she dabbed at her eyes, she became aware of a familiar 
sensation at the edge of her consciousness. Her 'Slayer-sense' had been 
triggered.

Her head snapped up suddenly, gaining Giles' attention. "Is something the 
matter, Buffy? Is it Heather?"

Buffy stared at the grave for a second, and shook her head. "No, nothing 
like that, I don't think she'll be getting up anytime soon. No vamps 
involved in her death. But something's happening. Something's out there."  
No sooner had Buffy finished her sentence, than they heard a bellowing roar, 
followed by a loud "Zoinks!"

Buffy and Giles exchanged a quick glance as they recognized the voice.  
"Xander!" Buffy became a blur of motion as she ran toward the sound of the 
altercation, and Giles followed after her at a slower pace. Xander had 
agreed to hang back in one of the better-lit sections of the graveyard, on 
the off chance that Vamp-Heather had made it past either Buffy or Giles.  
They trusted him to take a newbie vamp easily. Apparently something tougher 
than a newbie had found him.

When Buffy made the clearing, she sized up the situation instantly. Xander, 
on the ground, his flannel shirt ripped slightly but no other noticeable 
damage, facing a tall figure in the shadows. Buffy could see two pale yellow 
eyes shining out at Xander, canine eyes filled with rage. "Whoa," Buffy 
quipped, "who let the dogs out?"

The monster snarled as he charged Buffy. His dark brown furry snout and 
muzzle was highlighted by longer hair and a beard of silver, looking like a 
strange hybrid of human and werewolf. "Slayer," the beast roared. "I knew 
you'd come to rescue your friend."

"Am I that predictable?" Buffy asked nonchalantly as the monster's arm came 
crashing down toward her. Fortunately the blow was slow enough for Buffy to 
dodge easily. "Not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you?"

The wolfen creature hissed and growled some more, charging toward Buffy in 
blind rage. This time his speed was sufficient to collide hard with Buffy, 
knocking her down hard. Although winded, she wasn't knocked out, or 
seriously injured. "Okay, penalty on the play, Gretsky," Buffy complained as 
she scrambled to her feet, "no body-checking the Slayer."

The creature bayed loudly, pointing a claw at Buffy. "You're friend's not 
doing so well," the lupine figure grunted. "Your choice, Slayer; chase me or 
tend to him!" With a powerful bound, he disappeared into the blackness of 
the cemetery.  

Buffy wasted a half-second in anger at the monster, then stooped beside her 
friend. "You okay, Xander?" she asked as she lifted him to his feet.

"Not too bad," Xander admitted, wincing slightly as he stood. "One small 
gash on the side. Don't worry, I think Anya likes to rub salve into my 
cuts."

"Please, Xander," Giles announced, slightly out of breath as he rushed to the 
site of altercation. "Spare us the details." Observing the cuts on Xander's 
face, he added, "What attacked you?"

"Looked like a werewolf," Xander answered, brushing twigs and dust off of his 
sweater. Buffy nodded in agreement.

"Werewolf?" Giles asked. "What was a werewolf doing here?"

Xander glared at Giles sardonically. "Drinking a pinã colada at Trader 
Vic's," he quipped, "and his hair was perfect. What the hell do you think he 
was doing? He was attacking me!"

"But this wolf was different," Buffy added hastily. "He talked. Werewolves 
don't talk, do they? I know Oz never talked as a wolf."

"He tended to be the quiet type as a human," Xander observed.

Giles looked at the night sky, then stated, "Whatever attacked you, Xander, 
it wasn't a werewolf." Xander and Buffy glanced quizzically at their mentor 
for a second. "Look up there," he added, pointing over their heads.

Buffy looked over her shoulder and saw a crescent moon hanging in the sky 
overhead. "It couldn't have been a true werewolf, not without a full moon."

The three friends stood quietly, considering what had happened. One thing 
was certain. They had a new mystery on their hands.

<<>>

She sat alone at a corner booth, her head stooped over an open book, her 
right hand randomly scribbling notes, recording specific passages for future 
reference. From the perspective of the other students at the Berkeley campus 
library, Tara McClay looked engrossed in her studies, cramming for her next 
essay test in her World Lit class.  

They would be partly right. She was studying intently, but not for any of 
her classes.

Last night, she awoke in a cold sweat, her heart hammering in her chest. For 
the third night in a row, she dreamt of a terrible battle, a slain king anda 
mourning priestess. With each dream, more pieces were added to the puzzle, 
but the complete solution was kept maddeningly out of reach.

If she were anyone else, she might dismiss her dreams, or equate them to some 
past trauma or event making itself known to her subconscious. But she wasn't 
just anyone else. She was a witch, and a former member of Buffy Summers' 
inner circle, the Scooby Gang.  

Over a year ago, Willow had told her about the bizarre dream she had, about 
the Primal Slayer, and how she knew that the dream was a portent to future 
events. While Tara had been amused by certain elements of the dream (going 
so far as to offer to reenact the 'back-painting' scene with her lover), she 
was also intrigued by the Primal Slayer elements.  

Willow had held Buffy's soul; that was what the Primal Slayer had shown her.  
Indeed, when Willow and the others had uncovered the Initiative's mad scheme 
to resurrect Buffy, Willow learned from a new dream that she still carried 
Buffy's soul. A soul that, once integrated with the rest of what was Buffy, 
somehow brought her fully to life.

Her dreams told her this. Dreams had power. That much Tara knew to be true.

She knew that the dream she experienced the last three nights running had 
power. It was always the same. She found herself fighting her way througha 
clash of medieval soldiers, to the body of a fallen king, and the priestess 
who tended to his body. The priestess, in every one of her dreams without 
exception, resembled the head of her Wiccan group, Miss Lafayette. 

Her dream last night was especially vivid. She could smell the stink of 
blood and dying men, hear the din of sword against armor, and taste the salt 
sweat from her brow as she struggled to make her way back to the priestess.  
She recalled most vividly the mantle and shield that the priestess placed 
over the fallen king, with a reverence that was both spiritual and sisterly.  
She had lost not only her Lord and Master, but one who was dear to her heart. 
Tara didn't know how she knew this, but she didn't question its truth.

After her classes that morning, she holed herself up in the library, pouring 
over every book she could find about medieval times and customs. The 
half-remembered details of her dream led her to investigate the British Isles 
during the Early Dark Ages. She recalled that the priestess spoke in stilted 
medieval English, but also recited prayers in Celtic and Gaelic tongues.  
Part of her suspected that was simply because Tara herself dreamed in 
English, but if that were so, why weren't her dreams in a modern dialect?  
One particular book, entitled 'The Isles of Britain, After The Empire', was 
lavishly illustrated, with images of knights and soldiers, and their armor 
was a close enough match to what she saw in her dream to convince her that 
she was on the right track. She concentrated her studies on this book, 
sensing that the key to unlock her dreams was in here.

She turned the page, coming across a beautiful full-color plate, a painting 
from a forgotten artist, depicting the fall of Camelot. She paused to look 
at the painting briefly, when she saw it.

She didn't know exactly what 'it' was, but she knew it was there. The 
landscape, the fallen trees and smoke from battlements and castles put to the 
torch. It was her dream. This portrait was her dream.

Toward the center of the painting was the fallen king, identified by the 
editor's notation as Arthur himself. The shield and mantle placed reverently 
over his body was of the same pattern and standard; a dragon carrying the 
cross of Christ. The Pendragon.

And wailing over his body was the priestess, Miss Lafayette's twin.  

Morgaine LeFay was "gloating over the fallen form of her brother, lover and 
enemy King Arthur", according to the notation. But Tara knew better. The 
priestess Morgaine was not celebrating, she was mourning. She chided the 
long-dead critic who saw the figure in this painting as appearing victorious 
over Arthur, when it was clear to even a casual observer that she was 
heartbroken. She did not call out with a battle cry, but a keening wail.  

Tara closed the book slowly, and returned it to the book cart. A thousand 
forms and images flashed in front of her mind's eye, each one more 
incredulous than the previous. Each one leading in circles that Tara 
couldn't navigate let alone credence.

As she left the library, she came to the inescapable conclusion that she had 
only one course of action. She had to see Miss Lafayette.

And find out who she really was.


"Once, years ago, I saved the life of a wise old priest. 
Grateful, he made a gift to me of these few precious words: 
If you find yourself on a cliffside, trapped, 
with a hungry tiger waiting above 
and a hungry tiger waiting below, 
and by chance you spy a single strawberry 
growing from the cliffside... 
pluck the strawberry... 
and bite into it... 
and taste it." 
--Frank Miller 
"Ronin"