PART ONE

Staring into the dead eyes of her partner of three months, Buffy wondered why she'd ever chosen to enter the FBI.

Wasn't it bad enough, she wondered, unable to tear her eyes away from Pete Madison's blood splashed features, to be faced with death every night as the Slayer, without being faced with it in her every day life too? And what a life it must be in her so-called chosen profession, she thought, because Pete Madison had evidently committed suicide due to the strain.

Foolishly, she had imagined that life in the FBI would be exciting. Maybe even glamorous. And it had seemed a natural progression from college. After all, she had studied the criminal mind for three years, had delved into every deviation that Professor Walsh's course had taught her, found it infinitely fascinating. Had graduated with high honours in her chosen major, Criminology.

Human evil, she had found, was so much more enthralling in many ways than the supernatural evil she fought, because most supernatural evil entities acted on instinct, didn't have that much of a mind. But a human mind turned bad. That was different. That was a challenge that couldn't always be met with physical fighting or a quick stake through the heart. Understanding was the key, and in college she thought she had understood the abnormal human psyche. Casting another glance at Pete Madison's body, stretched out on the bloody floor, the self-inflicted bullet wound in his head staring at her like a third eye, Buffy realised that the truth was she knew very little. Very little indeed.

Buffy wondered briefly if no-one had heard the gun-shot, was surprised they hadn't. Or maybe they had and had decided to keep out of it. Whatever, she supposed she ought to call the emergency services; Pete might well be dead, but she still had to arrange for an ambulance to take him away. Reaching out with a shaking hand, she picked up the receiver, began punching out 911. Spoke automatically to the operator who picked up.

"Yeah. Hi. Wanna report a suicide."

Suicide, Buffy thought as she gave details to the person on the other end of the line. Again, speaking automatically as her on-going training was teaching her. No emotion. No feeling. Keep yourself aloof. Difficult to keep aloof from a person she had become close to, had spoken with, had eaten with, had even spent nights with. A person she thought she'd known well, but obviously hadn't.

Suicide.

The word reverberated through her as she then called the local cops. Had to get them involved too, she knew. Had to follow procedure. Even a suicide had to be investigated, no matter how clear-cut it may seem.

Suicide.

With all her heart, she wished Willow were here with her. Willow would comfort her, make her feel better, Willow the other half of her soul. But Willow wasn't here; she was safely at her own job, and Buffy envied her the relatively stress-free environment of the large software company she was employed by. At least Willow would never arrive at a work colleague's apartment to find they'd blown their brains out. At least, Buffy fervently hoped that would never be the case.

And the morning had begun with such promise too. A new case to get her teeth into, metaphorically speaking of course. True, the case - investigating a white slaving and prostitution ring - wasn't very pleasant, but she couldn't expect pleasant in her line of work. Well, in either of her lines of work, in fact. Buffy was used to unpleasant, and in some ways, relished it. Because it made the nice things in her life even nicer. Made her appreciate more what she had.

Anyway, Pete had told her to stop by, pick him up and they'd begin the preliminary research. Only last evening, he'd told her that, and he had seemed fine then. Perfectly happy. Excited, in fact, because he had a date with a new lady friend, as he'd so chivalrously put it. No hint that he was unhappy enough to kill himself. Quite the opposite in fact. Besides, Pete hadn't been the suicidal type. Or at least, not the type she'd learned about. Maybe there was no such thing as a typical type after all.

So when Buffy had arrived at his apartment - oh, only twenty minutes ago - she had been looking forward to the new case - her first real investigation - and the new gossip from Pete, who was worse than any woman when it came to talking about his private life. Or rather, the lack of it.

She was surprised when she banged on the door, found it ajar. Surprised because what right minded person left their door ajar in the Big Bad Big Apple? Maybe, Buffy had thought with a wry grin, he and his new lady friend had been so taken with each other that he'd forgotten to lock the door after she'd left. If she'd left. Maybe Buffy would catch them in bed if they'd gotten on exceptionally well. Now there was a disturbing thought.

But as soon as she'd set foot through the door she'd sensed something wrong. Smelled something familiar, yet so alien to this environment, that she hadn't instantly recognised it. But she recognised the feeling inside herself because she'd felt it too many times before. A sense of impending doom. Disaster in the air.

"Pete?" she'd called too brightly. "Hey, Pete, rise and shine, time to get your glad rags on and get on the road..."

No answer. The silence seemed to stretch on and on, reverberated inside her with a resonance all its own. And the smell - finally she identified it. Should have identified it at once. Blood.

"Pete?" Yeah, blood, and why did she feel it was Pete the blood-stench was coming from?

It was of course. Going into his bedroom, FBI standard issue gun poised and at the ready should any intruders be lurking, she saw him lying there, his own gun still in hand. Averted her eyes at first, because not only was he dead, he was naked too, and it didn't seem right for her to see him that way, so undignified, so. humiliated by his dead nudity. Without looking again, she'd pulled a sheet off the bed, covered over his body, but she could still see his face. Still see that third bloody eye. Still see brain fragments and pieces of bone decorating the wall behind him.

Jesus.

A bang on the door. A voice called.

"Paramedics."

"In here," she called, frozen in thought, in time. And then, on the heels of the paramedics, the local police.

After that, all was a hustle of activity. Assisting the cops - who weren't too happy having a federal agent involved, even less happy when they discovered the suicide victim was a fed too. Watching them take photos of poor dead Pete. Photos, blood samples, samples of matter from under his fingernails. Anything and everything that might be used in evidence should this prove not to be suicide after all. Buffy just wished they'd leave the poor man in peace.

And then accompanying the paramedics to the local hospital. Giving details yet again of Pete's name, his address, his age. His next of kin, an elderly mother and a younger sister who both lived in Manhattan. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And finally, telephoning the department to deliver the tragic news that a good agent had died by his own hand.

Of course she had to go into the department to give a blow-by-blow account of everything she'd seen, heard and done that morning. Sitting before Assistant Director Marshall, a grey-haired, steel eyed individual, Buffy almost felt that she was the one who'd pulled the trigger.

"What was Agent Madison's state of mind when you last saw him?" Marshall asked, his voice cold and impersonal, as though Buffy hadn't just lost a friend and partner. Buffy swallowed. No good jumping on Marshall, giving him lip because she didn't like his tone. Her training so far had taught her better than that, to show respect to senior agents, at least until she was more experienced. At work, she wasn't the Slayer, guardian of the world. At work, she was just a very junior, very inexperienced agent-in-training, and she was learning to behave that way. Hard, but necessary if she were to establish herself as someone who commanded respect herself.

"He was fine, sir," she told Marshall, who pin-pointed her with a flat gaze. A disbelieving gaze? Buffy wondered.

"Fine is hardly a good description, Agent Summers. Fine is a generalisation and with your qualifications, you know better than that. Was Agent Madison under any undue stress that you knew of? Any change since he took his last psychological profile last month?"

"No, sir. As I said just before, he was fine." She used the word deliberately, but this time, Marshall didn't pick her up on it, just nodded. Almost disappointed, Buffy continued. "He was happy, looking forward to the challenge of the new investigation. I had no reason whatever to believe that Agent Madison would. do this to himself. In fact, I would say that he was the very last person I'd have thought of with regard to suicide."

Marshall stared at her for a second, then nodded, satisfied, at least, with her perspective on Pete Madison's mental state.

"Very well. You say you went into his apartment early this morning - around eight a.m., and you discovered him there, apparently having committed suicide?" Buffy nodded. Apparently? she thought, but said nothing. "There were no signs of trouble? Of a struggle?"

"No sir, everything was normal."

"No indication that anyone else had been there with him?"

Buffy frowned. Tried to remember. In truth, she had been so shocked by what she had seen, she hadn't consciously looked around for clues that this was anything but a suicide. Unprofessional, she realised. Didn't matter that she was close to Pete, she shouldn't have allowed herself to become overwhelmed. She didn't let herself become overwhelmed by her Slayer activities. That was different though, she told herself. She was used to that. Funny how a person became used to evil.

"Agent Summers, could you please answer my question?" Marshall repeated; he sounded impatient and Buffy tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of order.

"No, sir. There was no indication that anyone else had been visiting with Agent Madison. I do know that he had a. an appointment last night but."

"An appointment?" Marshall enquired.

"With a lady-friend."

"And this lady-friend was who?"

"He never told me her name. He'd only just met her. Sir," Buffy added somewhat belatedly. "Sir, I feel that this is a clear case of suicide. I saw nothing to indicate that this was suspicious."

"An agent committing suicide out of the blue after a perfectly normal psychological profile less than a month ago is always suspicious, Agent Summers. He was your partner, you knew him quite well. I want you to investigate this thoroughly. Just to be certain."

"Sir, I. What about the prostitution and white slaving?"

"I shall re-assign that to someone else, Agent Summers. I can't assign you a new partner at a moment's notice anyway, so you'd only be doing paperwork to while away the time. I've already notified the senior police officers who were to investigate Agent Madison's death that as a federal agent was involved, it's up to us to investigate it. I've arranged for all relevant evidence to be transferred to our labs." A faint smile. "We look after our own, Agent Summers, as you'll discover. And I want you to look after this case. If indeed there is a case."

Marshall made it sound as though he was bestowing a huge favour on Buffy by letting her investigate the clear-cut suicide of a friend. Personally, Buffy would sooner do paperwork. Then she remembered: the door to Pete's apartment had been open, hadn't it? She remembered thinking that unusual, remembered thinking that he must have had a brainstorm, leaving his door open like that. She frowned.

"Something wrong, Agent Summers?" Marshall picked up on her expression instantly. No hiding anything from this man, Buffy thought. She told him about the door. Saw Marshall nod.

"All the more reason to investigate. You know by now that even the simplest of things sometimes have a less simple explanation." Buffy nodded. Oh yeah. She knew that all right. Better than almost anyone else on earth. "Very well, Agent Summers. I shall leave it to you."

This was her cue for dismissal, Buffy realised, so she stood, made to turn for the door.

"Agent Summers," Marshall called before she left the room.

"Yes, sir?"

"You've had a nasty shock this morning. Take the rest of the day off."

Brief kindness in his eyes then.

"Thank you sir."

"But I'll expect a report on my table as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

Marshall nodded abruptly, the kindness gone from his eyes.

Buffy fled.

Outside, the late morning sun was warm, but it didn't do much to warm Buffy's heart. What was she supposed to do with herself today anyway? She almost wished that Marshall had told her to begin her investigation right away, instead of taking pity on her. On her what, anyway? Why had he given her the day off? Just because he thought she was a weak emotional female, despite her high qualifications and proven physical prowess?

Buffy shook her head. Really, she knew better than that. Marshall treated all his agents with the same cool professionalism. But still, she wondered, if she'd been a man, would Marshall have sent her off on a half-day's compassionate leave? God knew, she never had compassionate leave in her Slaying duties. Not even in her darkest, most depressed moments had she taken time off because she felt too delicate to deal.

But that was in Sunnydale, and she was kind of the Queen Bee there. She was respected, because although it had been unspoken, most people knew she was something special, even if they didn't come right out and say so. In Sunnydale, she and Willow had saved the world with the destruction of the Hellmouth. But that was Sunnydale, and that was oh - three years ago now. Times changed. Buffy had only been in New York four months, and she certainly wasn't regarded as special here. Except by her friends. And her sweet Willow. And her mom of course. It was hard to adjust sometimes.

She wished she could go see them now, at least, go see someone who cared. But they were all working. In all conscience, Buffy knew that she really shouldn't be interrupting anyone. But wasn't this different? Someone she'd cared for had killed himself. Wasn't that an exception?

But Buffy couldn't go to the person who cared most about her. Willow's employer, a multi-million dollar software company, were adamant about that kind of thing. Didn't like unauthorised people visiting. Didn't even like their employees taking calls of a personal nature, unless there was a huge emergency. They paid Willow a huge salary for what she did because someone of Willow's capabilities only came along once in a very long while. And they expected total dedication in return for that money.

Buffy supposed she could have used her telepathic contact with Willow, actually considered it for a moment. But no. That wouldn't be fair either. She could wait till later. Maybe it would be better to wait till later. Get her own perspective on the morning's events. But still, Buffy needed to talk with someone.

So what about Xander? Or Cordelia?

Well, Xander could be anywhere in the city, because his job took him all over. Smiling, she wondered just who Xander was suckering now. A born salesman, he could sell anything to anyone. Was currently selling top of the range imported cars. Had been voted Sales Person of the Year two years running because of his exceptional figures. Buffy smiled as she walked. Talking and cars, Xander's greatest passions. Apart from Cordelia that was. Three years they'd been in New York, that unlikely pair. And they'd made a real success out of their lives, which had hit rock bottom in Sunnydale.

And as for Cordelia - she had truly made a great life for herself selling what she loved best. Upmarket clothes and fashion accessories for the very rich. In her own shop, Rags, now acknowledged as one of the coolest places from which to purchase designer wear.

No, Cordelia, in some ways more superficial than she had ever been before, wouldn't appreciate a visit from a depressed friend.

But, Buffy decided, her mom would be okay. Her mom, who had been in New York for the past year, along with Rupert Giles, whom she'd married in a wonderful ceremony in Sunnydale just before she'd left. That had been a shock, her mom becoming Mrs Giles, because Buffy hadn't really thought of either of them as. Well, as sexual beings, for a start. As people who could be in love. But she had been happy for them too. And they made each other happy, which was way more important. And after all, if they could accept her and Willow being together, then Buffy had to give her mom and Giles the same respect.

Anyway, her mom's gallery had become popular, very fashionable, and an agent in New York had suggested she take it there, a big opportunity which Joyce had jumped at after discussions with all concerned. Giles had got a job teaching, perfect for his academic inclinations.

The rest, Buffy and Willow's jobs, had fallen neatly into place. Like fate, Buffy thought as she walked toward the gallery. Yeah, like Fate. They were all destined to be together, for as long as they needed each other.

Joyce's gallery was set in a tree-lined avenue just off Park Avenue, close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Expensive and tasteful. As Buffy approached - after a long, reflective walk - she smiled. Really, they had all fallen on their feet. Were all set-up very nicely, thank you very much. Almost as though they were being rewarded for their efforts and past ordeals. From a Slaying, save-the-world point of view, life was quiet. True, there were vampires in New York City, and she duly did her duty, got rid of as many as she could. But New York was no Sunnydale. New York had its own monsters, but Buffy was beginning to discover that most of those monsters were human.

Joyce was sitting quietly in her office, looking at invoices and orders. When Buffy arrived, she dropped her pen and stood, held out her arms.

"Buffy! What a wonderful surprise!"

Buffy went into her mother's arms at once, snuggled up, letting herself be a child for a few moments.

"Not so wonderful, mom," she muttered, and just when she thought she had her emotions under control, she found herself crying as a vision of self-murdered Pete Madison shot into her head.

"Hey, Buffy, what's wrong?" Joyce asked, and it all came pouring out.

Later, when Buffy had told the whole sorry story over a cup of strong black coffee, she felt a lot better. Still upset of course, but better.

"So what do you intend to do?" Joyce asked.

"I don't know, mom." Buffy thought for a moment. "I guess I need to go through Pete's stuff." She shrugged. "Seems wrong, somehow, poking through his private things, but who knows, he may have left us some clues as to why he did this. And maybe I can find out who this mystery woman is, see if she did actually meet him, what his state of mind was when they met and all that stuff." Another shrug. "Who knows, maybe I'll never discover the cause. Maybe it was just a weird moment of madness." She smiled. Quoted from one of her favourite films, Hitchcock's Psycho. "We all go a little mad sometimes. Right, mom?"

"Yes, Buffy. I suppose we do."

She left her mom after that, trawled down Fifth Avenue, looking at clothes and pretty things. A little retail therapy made her feel better still. Not much, but it staved off her remaining sense of being out of kilter and unsettled. Really, she didn't want to go home to an empty apartment, was only passing the time, waiting for five o'clock when Willow finished work. Buffy would go and meet her, maybe they could go to dinner. Or maybe get take-out and a bottle of wine. Whatever. Didn't matter, as long as she could see Willow. Hold her. Make the bad go away.

Five o'clock came eventually. Buffy waited outside the huge building, watching. Her heart lifted when she felt Willow coming out. Felt her before she saw her. Moved forward, her eyes trained in the direction the "feeling" was coming from.

Then she saw her, bright red hair glinting in the sunlight, pretty, pale features searching, because Willow had "felt" her too. Felt her with the soul connection that they never took for granted.

Buffy smiled, waved, any lingering sense of doom inside her leaving her almost at once. Then they were in each other's arms, uncaring, unaware of the people around them.

"Jesus, am I glad to see you," Buffy said. Willow's green eyes stared into hers; Buffy saw love there, as ever, and compassion. Willow nodded.

"Let's go home," she said. "You can tell me all about it."

Buffy thought she'd never heard anything so good in her entire life.

PART TWO

This is the life, Xander thought, sitting back against the leather seat of the car he was driving. The freeway was empty, stretching out before him like a long, grey ribbon, and he gunned the car into a higher gear. Pushed his foot down on the accelerator, felt the vehicle shoot forward. A tug of excitement pulled at his insides. Above him the night sky, indigo blue and full of stars, smiled down upon him benevolently.

Yeah, this is the life, he thought again. Great car, high speed, beautiful clear night. What more could a guy want?

A few hundred metres up the road, he saw exactly what else a guy could want, and screeched the car to a halt in a cloud of road dust.

She stood there, tall, black and beautiful, dressed in a long white gown that reminded Xander of the statues he'd seen in some fusty old museum or other he'd attended in one of a hundred futile efforts to become cultured. The gown draped over her body, clung to her curves, which were generous, but not too generous. In all the right places too…

Jesus, Xander thought, open-mouthed, watching the woman approach the car. That's some hot babe…

"You wanna ride?" he asked, praying that this embodiment of beauty wasn't just standing by a night-time road for the sake of her health. Grinned when he saw her nod. "Hop in," he said, throwing open the passenger door. Watched as she did exactly that, as she slid into the seat beside him, the split in her long white gown exposing a lot of long black leg.

Black satin skin… Xander mused, tearing his eyes away. But, oh, he wanted to look. More, he wanted to touch… Cordy'd kill me, came the next thought, but he didn't much care. Found himself vaguely astounded at his lack of concern; normally Cordelia only had to click her fingers and he was there, nice little obedient lap-dog that he was.

"Where you headed?" he asked the woman, who turned to face him. Her face, he thought, was perfect, like an ebony carving. She had little scars on her cheekbones - tribal scars, he decided, wondering how he knew. Not caring about that either. Just knowing…

"Wherever you want to take me," she responded in a soft African accented voice. Vaguely Xander wondered how he knew her accent was African, but it was only a indeterminate wondering, because most of him was trying to understand if he'd really heard her say what he'd thought he'd heard.

Wherever you want to take me…

Never mind about wherever…

"You have a name?" Xander asked, starting the car again, thinking that he wasn't really in a fit state to drive, not with this woman sitting beside him, smelling of heady exotic flowers, exuding sensuality from the pores of her sweet-scented skin.

"Zuleka." Exotic name too. He caught her glance in the rear-view mirror; her eyes were black opals, with hidden black fire burning in their liquid depths. He thought he saw the hint of a hidden, secret smile. A secret smile for him. A secret smile that held promise. For him.

"Beautiful name," he murmured, thinking that sounded like just another line, but he meant it. Oh, how he meant it. Xander thought he'd never heard anything so beautiful in his entire life.

Zuleka tossed her long braided hair into which many beads of semi-precious stones had been carefully threaded and Xander heard them rattle together, like tinkling music. Concentrating on driving was becoming more difficult; her presence was disturbing him, turning him on, if he were to be scrupulously honest. Oh yeah, turning him on…

Caught her gaze in the mirror again, not aware of the road anymore, soaring off into a world that was just her, consumed in the deep dark flames of her eyes. Saw her smile, her teeth white and even in the shadow of her face. Felt her hand on his leg suddenly, stroking, upward, trailing along his inner thigh… Upward. More…

"Jesus…" he muttered, unable to believe that this beautiful stranger was touching him. Closed his eyes. Touching him…

"Look, Xander," he heard Zuleka say. Wondered amongst the ecstasy how she knew his name, because he knew he hadn't told her. "Look ahead…"

Opened his eyes…

Screamed…

And drove straight into the high stone wall that had suddenly erupted from the tarmac…

* * *

He was still screaming when he woke, hot and sweating, tangled in the sheets. Sitting bolt upright, he looked at the familiar contours of his bedroom in the high-class apartment he and Cordelia rented together. Uttered a little laugh because he realised he'd been dreaming. Just his luck of course, that some wondrous beauty should pick on him in a dream. Never happen in real-life, although he supposed Cordelia could be called beautiful. Had been so described by many people - most of them men, of course. But she didn't look very beautiful now, as his cries woke her and she emerged, angry as a swarm of wasps, from sleep.

"God, Xander," she said, removing her sleep-mask, which she wore every night, claming it protected her skin. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"Bad dream," he mumbled. "Sorry…"

"Well, and so you damn well should be sorry," Cordelia fumed. "I have a very important meeting tomorrow morning, you know that. I don't appreciate being woken up by you sounding as though you had all the hounds of hell after you." Her expression softened then a little; she gave a tiny smile. "You don't, do you?" she asked.

"No, Cordy. No hounds of hell. Just a bad dream." Not all bad though, he remembered, thinking about his dream-woman, Zuleka, feeling her hand on him again, feeling arousal come back, completely overpowering the memory of the nightmare. "But since we're both awake…" he said, reaching for her. Cordelia slapped his hands away.

"Oh please, I wouldn't be awake if it weren't for you yelling out," she said, putting her sleep-mask back over her eyes and flopping back down on her pillows. "And I'm going back to sleep now. Maybe if I get home early…"

Disgusted, Xander got out of bed. He would, he decided, take the obligatory cold shower. Wash away both the dream and the desire. As he left the room, he cast a resentful glance in the direction of Cordelia's form, huddled under the covers.

Maybe if I get home early…

Ha! Pencilled in to make love to his own girlfriend. What a fine state of affairs his life was reduced to, being fitted into Cordelia's busy schedule like he was a client or something, instead of someone she professed to love.

And come to think of it, Xander thought, stepping into the shower stall, turning the water full-on cold, shuddering as the needle points of water hit him, when was the last time she'd said those magic words? When was the last time either of them had told the other how they really felt?

I love you…

Words that all lovers should say. He heard those words often, but not out of Cordelia's mouth. Nor out of his own. Out of Buffy's mouth, when she spoke to Willow, out of Willow's when she spoke to Buffy. Even out of - God forbid - Giles' mouth when he spoke to Joyce, his new wife. But not out of Cordelia's. Or his own. What, Xander wondered, scrubbing furiously at his chilled body, did that mean? Did it mean that he and Cordelia were finished? Or that maybe they should be?

C'mon, Xander. It's not that bad. Neither you or Cordelia are touchy-feely people. You don't voice your emotions easily. Yeah, Xander, the other voice in his head interrupted. But do you love her? And does she love you?

"Oh screw it," he said aloud. "Two o'clock in the morning and you're analysing your relationship."

Yeah, and maybe it needs analysing…

"No, it doesn't," he contradicted himself. "Everything's just peachy."

Clean and cold, he got back into bed. Was tempted to try and seduce Cordelia again. Decided against it. Cordelia could be… Well, she could be a bitch when she was angry. Xander didn't fancy spending the rest of the night in the other room.

Closing his eyes, he drifted back to sleep amazingly easy.

He wasn't altogether surprised to see Zuleka waiting on the road for him again. But this time there was no car. There was no wall. There was only her…

And him…

The alarm clock went off at seven, dragging him from a deep sleep that had been filled with another woman. Xander felt vaguely guilty that he'd been unfaithful to Cordelia, even if it was only in his sleep, but reflected again that maybe they needed to sit down and talk about things. That maybe the dream he'd had was just an indication of exactly how frustrated he was becoming. Not just with their almost non-existent sex life either. With the whole deal. But part of him was afraid to confront it; if he didn't have Cordelia, could he make it alone? Not something he wanted to discover. Not yet…

Cordelia was coming out of the bathroom, rubbing her wet hair with a fluffy towel. Contrary to last night's sourness - and Xander guessed he couldn't blame her for that - she now appeared full of sunny good humour.

"If I get this deal," she said, grabbing a glass of orange juice, gulping it down in a most un-Cordelia like fashion, "it'll mean a lot of money. We might be able to move somewhere better."

Xander sighed; it was always something "better" with Cordelia. She'd never got over her hang-ups with money. Xander doubted that she ever would. Now she had it again, she was even more terrified of being without it.

"Cordy, this place is great," he pointed out. "Short of a penthouse apartment, what more do you want?"

"I want to buy my own place, not just rent it. Owning your own property's an investment, Xander. Don't you care about that?" Xander shrugged. It wasn't top of his priorities, no. Cordelia saw the expression on his face, sighed, her good humour disappearing. "Well, that's just you all over, isn't it? Why go for the best when you can settle for okay? Well, I want the best." She cast him an appraising glance. "In everything, Xander."

Like a queen, she swept from the room to get dressed, and Xander had the strongest impression that she didn't include him in the "best" category. Felt, as he had felt a hundred times before, that she was only with him out of habit. Determined that tonight they would discuss their problems. Decided where they wanted to be. With or without each other. Xander was finding that he didn't much care anymore.

He arrived at work - a plush car salesroom - early. Decided to catch up on some outstanding paperwork. Cordelia always put his work down, he thought, switching on his computer. Oh, so subtly of course. Sure, she was happy that he'd been voted best salesman for the past two years, certainly didn't complain about his salary. But she was constantly on at him to go solo, to build up his own business, as she had done. Xander had given up arguing that he didn't want his own business. He didn't have the aptitude for it, and he didn't want the responsibility. Selling cars was great, but let someone else take the flak of ownership. Xander had no ambition to be some hot-shot tycoon.

He brought up his latest sale onscreen. A Porsche that had gone for a cool fifty thousand dollars. Smiled, thinking that someone could have bought a small apartment for that. Not a great apartment, true, but still… That Porsche would give him a fair whack of commission. Keep Cordelia happy with the dollars coming in. Grimacing he could almost see the dollar signs rolling in her eyes.

Once he'd finished that off, he looked to see his appointments that morning. Hmm… Top of the range BMW to a woman client, a Ms Lafayette. Another sixty thousand in the company coffers if he could pull that off.

Xander felt a buzz that was akin to a sexual thrill. The high of selling fast, expensive cars stayed with him for a couple of days at least. And more than that, the thought of being voted top salesman again appealed. Not totally without ambition, Xander.

Grinning, he got up from his desk, decided to go down to the showroom to make sure this baby was up to scratch. Maybe give it a clean-up. Not that it needed it - the car was in pristine condition - but he cared for all his cars like a father would care for a baby. Not that he'd ever have the pleasure of that experience. Not with Cordelia, anyway. She'd made it more than clear that she didn't want children. Ever.

The car sat on its alloy wheels, gleaming. For a few seconds Xander was reminded of Zuleka's gleaming black opal eyes, and he ran his hands over the car's bonnet, remembering the touch of her satin skin. So real. And so stupid, he reprimanded himself, allowing a dream to get a hold of him like that.

"Get a grip, Xander," he muttered, seeing his reflection in the car windows, which were blacked out. Smirking, he wondered if maybe the woman who was buying the car was involved in shady activities, or even if she was famous. But he didn't recognise the name at all. Yeah, but sometimes famous stars went under false names. Cordelia had told him that; she'd had celebrities in her boutique.

"Hey, Harris, your client's here."

Xander stood away from the car at his colleague's voice.

"Yeah, thanks, Frank," Xander responded, and with a final appraising glance, went in the direction of his office.

"She's a real babe," Frank remarked as they walked, and Xander smiled.

"Yeah, gorgeous car," he said, but Frank shook his head.

"Nah, I mean the babe who wants to buy the car." A smirk. "Wouldn't mind riding her, if you get my drift."

Xander didn't dignify that comment with a response. Frank was well known for his lewd talk. Still, he was a good salesman and…

Xander stopped outside his office door. Stopped dead. He recognised the scent that wafted out at him. The scent of night-blooming flowers. Jesus, a co-incidence. But he saw her from the back, tall, holding herself like a princess, bead braided hair hanging down her back. Co-incidence, he told himself again. Left Frank abruptly, went into his office. Closed the door. Smelled her scent more powerfully than ever. A fragrance that conjured up visions of heady equatorial nights, and he thought he heard the sound of drumming in his mind. Shook his head. And when the woman turned to face him, he wasn't surprised to see that her face was that of the woman he'd dreamed of last night. Flushed red because of the things he'd dreamed they'd done together…

But she smiled, obviously unaware of his deep confusion, extended a long, slim hand.

"Mr Harris?" Her voice was lightly accented; in her dark eyes there was no hint of recognition. But why would there be? Xander wondered, taking her hand with his own, which shook slightly. It had been his dream, not hers. Briefly he wondered if he was having prophetic flashes, like the ones Buffy was prone to. But he wasn't a Slayer. Wasn't anything but an all-too-normal car salesman…

"Ms Lafayette?" he croaked, saw her smile.

"That's me. Is my car ready to view?" She continued to hold onto his hand; her touch was warm and vibrant, like a constant flow of electricity.

"Oh, absolutely. Perhaps you'd like to come down and view it." Xander broke the contact, picked up the sheaf of glossy brochures and paperwork that held all the technical information on the car.

"That's why I'm here, Mr Harris." Smooth, smooth voice, like melted chocolate.

He took her down to the salesroom, let her view the car. Ms Lafayette - she hadn't yet told him her first name, but Xander guessed he knew - made suitably impressed noises. As he warmed to his subject - the wonders of the BMW and its leather interior, it high-horsepower engine, its speed, its sumptuous luxury - Xander felt his nervousness evaporate. He loved to talk about cars, and he knew everything there was to know about the models he was assigned to sell.

"I'm very impressed, Mr Harris," Ms Lafayette said. "You're very knowledgeable." A lift of full, glossy lips. "I like that in a man."

"Yeah, well, I believe in the quality of the merchandise," Xander said, thinking that sounded like so much company hype. But this woman - this glorious ebony statue of a woman - was unnerving him, and he found himself barely able to string together an original thought.

"I take it a test drive is possible?" she said.

"I… uh… yeah, sure. I'll get one of the junior personnel to take you out while I…"

"I don't want one of the juniors, Mr Harris. I'm paying a lot of money for this car, should I decide to buy it, and I want you to take me."

I want you to take me… Jesus…

"No problem," Xander said aloud, aware that she was studying him, wondering where all this was leading to. Nowhere, of course. A minor psychic flash of an unknown woman combined with him and Cordelia going through a difficult time in their real life relationship, didn't mean anything was going to happen. "I'll just go sign the car out."

In the office, Frank gave him a sideways glance.

"Told you she was hot," he said. "You certainly look all fired up, Harris. Taking her out for a test drive, huh? Gonna test the suspension?"

Xander felt himself flare red again.

"Watch your dirty mouth," he muttered, but Frank just laughed and Xander fled.

Back in the showroom, Xander got a couple of the juniors to open the huge glass doors so he could drive the BMW out onto the street, then opened the passenger door for Ms Lafayette.

"Hop in…" Remembered they were the words he'd used in his dream last night. Hop in…

He got behind the wheel, feeling as though he'd been returned to his dream world.

"Where do you want to go?" Not the exact words, but near enough… And her answer was near enough too.

"Oh, wherever," she murmured, and he thought he saw a hint of a come-on there. Decided that a woman like this one wouldn't be interested in the likes of him. Not in reality. "How about a tour of the city?" she continued. "If you've got the time, of course?"

Xander gave up fighting, decided to go with the flow. If he was having precognitive dreams about a beautiful woman, then who was he to fight it? Fighting had never been his strong point, after all.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I've got the time. All the time in the world."

And she smiled her exotic smile, and this time he knew he wasn't imagining the promise he saw in her eyes.

PART THREE

Like Xander, Buffy also experienced disturbing dreams that night. Tossing and turning in bed, she was plunged into a netherworld of demons. In her dream, Buffy couldn't see the demons - they were shrouded in shadow - but she knew what they were well enough. She sensed them, scented them, and readied herself for a fight. But instead of attacking her, the demons seemed to welcome her presence.

"Welcome Slayer," came a voice from the shadows. A female voice, honey-sweet yet with a bitter undertone.

Buffy looked around her, trying to discern the speaker, but although she could see a vague feminine shape, she could see nothing else. Tensed herself more, thinking this welcome was false. That as soon as she dropped her guard, they'd attack.

"We wish you no harm, Slayer," the voice continued sincerely. "We have nothing against you and your kind."

"You're demons," Buffy snarled, whirling around, trying to stay aware of any activity around her. "It's my Sacred Duty to wipe you all off the face of the earth and send you back to Hell."

"Not all demons," the voice cajoled. "We will bring humans into a glorious new age where violence, war, and heartbreak will be consigned to history. Will you fight against that?"

This was a new concept for Buffy. Sure, she knew it was a dream, and quite often dreams meant other than they appeared, but she'd never heard of demons promising a new age for man. Not a good age, anyway. Usually it was all fire and brimstone and painful death. Confused, she didn't answer.

"You can be glorious too, Buffy. You and your Sorceress. Power and love combined. Forever and ever."

Ah, the voice of temptation. When they weren't attacking, demons loved to tempt. Buffy understood now. Everything that had been said was a lie. But the voice was seductive, wasn't it? Although Buffy knew it was evil, a part of her couldn't help being intrigued. Couldn't help but be attracted.

"Who are you?" she asked. But she heard laughter whispering around her which became increasingly distant, until finally it ceased.

"You'll find out." The voice, disembodied now, promised.

And then Buffy woke.

Daylight streamed in through the windows of the apartment she and Willow shared. Early morning sunshine on Willow's hair, spread out across the pillows beside Buffy, made it appear fiery. Perhaps waking because Buffy had awoken, Willow opened her eyes, smiled.

"Hey," she murmured.

"Hey," Buffy responded. Leaned over, planted a small kiss on Willow's mouth. "I hope I didn't disturb you."

"No big deal. You can disturb me whenever you like." Willow turned to look at the clock. "Besides, it's almost time to get up anyway." As though on cue, the alarm beeped, and they both laughed, although Buffy knew her laugh was kind of false and strained. "Something happened, Buffy?"

Well, of course Willow knew something had happened. No secrets between Buffy and Willow. Secrets were pretty much impossible with the soul-bond they shared. So Buffy shrugged, smiled, feeling both concerned and foolish at the same time.

"Had a dream about demons," she mumbled.

"Oooh. Nasty demons." Willow sympathised, but Buffy shook her head.

"Nasty demons I can deal with. These demons. I don't know, Will. They seemed almost. Actually, I was kinda drawn to them." She went on to tell Willow the details, such as they were, of the dream.

Willow frowned.

"That doesn't sound too good. Doesn't sound too accurate either. You've never felt that way before." Then Willow flushed as she remembered. "Oh, well, unless you count Angel of course."

"I can't discount him, can I, Will? He was a big part of my life. Apart from you, the biggest. Till he went bad - even then, I guess, because of the things he did before we killed him, because I was still obsessed. This is gonna sound paranoid, but. D'you think a part of me is attracted to the dark side?"

Willow laughed.

"You're right, it does sound paranoid. One relationship with a souled vampire and a weird uncharacteristic dream doesn't mean you're attracted to the dark side, Buffy. You've spent all your Slayer life fighting it. I think you just had a bad shock yesterday, what with Pete's death and all, and your mind's gone haywire and started to produce odd stuff."

"Maybe, but the dream felt prophetic, Will."

"If you're worried, you could get Giles to check it out," Willow suggested. Buffy shrugged, then frowned.

"Not much for him to go on, is it? I didn't even see what they looked like."

"You said the voice was female," Willow pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. But you know what demons are like. They can disguise themselves, can't they?" Buffy sighed. "I'll mention it to Giles though, next time we see him."

"Which is tonight," Willow said. Buffy gave her a blank look. "Remember - he and your mom have invited us to dinner?"

"Oh yeah. I forgot. Okay, then." Buffy looked at the time, which had edged forward twenty minutes. "We gotta get up, Will, or we'll both be out of a job." She wrinkled her nose. "Gotta start going through Pete's stuff today. Don't much fancy that. Kinda wish I'd never joined the FBI."

Willow kissed Buffy, drew back and smiled.

"You didn't like being a Slayer at first, but now you know you were born for it. You'll be fine. I have faith."

Buffy jumped out of bed.

"And I have faith I'm gonna get my ass chewed off if I don't get moving," she replied with a wry smile, and went to get ready to face the coming day.

An hour later, Buffy was once more in the Assistant Director's office.

"How do you want me to approach this, sir?" she asked, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for a job she didn't relish. Marshall eyed her critically.

"You remember your training at Quantico?" he asked. Buffy nodded. She remembered those four months all too well. Intensive training in law enforcement, intensive instruction in the handling of firearms, intensive physical exercise. Learning to think like an investigator.

Of course, the firearms and the physical training bit hadn't been too difficult; easy, in fact. As Slayer, Buffy was well used to strenuous activity, excelled at it, showed up most of her male colleagues, much to their disgust at being bested by a small, slim female. But the logical thinking bit, the law enforcement bit, had taxed her brain, even though she'd obtained a good grade from college. Probably she found it difficult because it was so intensive. Worst thing was, she hadn't even had Willow for company. Training was in-house, as it were, and the new recruits had been allowed no contact with the outside world.

But now Buffy had to apply her new-found knowledge to the outside world, without the partner who had nursed her along this far. Worse, she had to apply all her knowledge to that partner. Not for the first time, she wished Marshall had assigned someone else to investigate Pete's death. But Buffy had known him well, could apply her psychology to his.

"I want you to think carefully, Agent Summers. What would be the first step in an investigation of this kind, do you think?" At least Marshall was helping her along. Kind of. Taking time to ensure she didn't go in the wrong direction.

"Find out the results of the post-mortem?" she said hopefully. "If the post-mortem's been performed, that is."

"Very good. And if that suggests suicide, what then?"

"Well." Buffy hedged. What she wanted to say was that they should leave poor dead Pete Madison and his relatives in peace, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. "I guess we should investigate why," she finished.

"Quite right. We take this kind of thing very seriously, Agent Summers. If an agent is stressed, depressed, whatever, we need to know, and obviously, we would have take a certain responsibility. Perhaps we failed with Agent Madison. Not that it makes it better for anyone who feels his loss, but it gives us better insight into agents' psychology. Psychological profiles are all very well, but if Agent Madison did commit suicide, there may be something our evaluations missed. So, once you have seen the results of the post-mortem - better yet, observe it if possible - I want you to talk to relatives, friends. And the woman you said he was supposed to meet, if you can find her. Any questions?"

Buffy thought, but the only questions she had weren't pertinent here. Slowly she shook her head.

"No sir," she said. Marshall nodded.

"Very well. I want a properly presented report when you're convinced that you've concluded your investigation satisfactorily."

"Yes sir." Buffy stood, guessed that the briefing was at an end.

"Good luck, Agent Summers," Marshall said, his eyes kind again. "I know this is difficult for you, and I know you may think me. unkind to put this case on you. But I think you're capable." A faint smile. "You seem to be a very capable young woman. I think you could go far with us. Very far. Now, you may go."

"Thank you, sir."

Buffy left the office, truly surprised at Marshall's last words. Truth was, she'd believed she wasn't doing so well, and the praise, such as it was, boosted her. Made her vow to do a proper investigation into Pete's death. Not that she would ever have skimped on the job, but the fact that Marshall obviously believed her proficient made it better. More worthwhile.

Fifteen minutes later she was down in the morgue, enquiring if Agent Madison had been post-mortemed yet. Was disappointed and a little distressed to find he hadn't been.

"I. uh. AD Marshall instructed that I should attend the post-mortem if possible," she said. Mike Roberts, the coroner, a man in his forties with a supercilious expression, looked her over coolly.

"Then I suppose you'd better come through," he said. "We were just about to start."

"Oh," Buffy said; she hadn't expected to have to attend right now. Had hoped for a little time to get used to the idea. Apparently not.

"You're not about to faint on us, are you, Agent Summers?" Roberts enquired, leading the way into the autopsy room. "I know some of you rookies got weak stomachs."

Buffy bit back a retort that she'd seen things that would turn the strongest of stomachs. No good antagonising this man. Instead she just smiled sweetly and shook her head. Once thing about her choice of career; she was having to learn tact, tact and more tact.

"No, sir. It's just that Agent Madison was a friend of mine, as well as my partner."

Roberts gave her another appraising glance, then nodded.

"Okay, I understand it might be hard on you. It's just that having inexperienced personnel around can be a liability at times. If you should feel unwell, or unable to cope with it, just go quietly, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

The autopsy room was white tiled, with a large table in the centre that reminded Buffy of an operating theatre table. Except the table had gullies down the sides to drain off body fluid and blood. Above the table, an overhead light facilitated clear observation. By the side of the table, a covered tray of dissecting instruments.

Of course, Buffy had observed an post-mortem before; part of her training in Quantico had been to attend an autopsy. Buffy hadn't much enjoyed it - somehow the clinical dissection of a human being seemed somehow worse than some of the things she had seen as a Slayer. Probably because in the heat of action, she was so hyped up, she didn't have time to get upset. Only after, when the fighting was over, did she dwell on things. But an autopsy was so cold, so inhuman, and somehow an intrusion. A necessary intrusion, Buffy knew, but a big part of her believed that the dead should be left alone.

Two assistants were rolling a covered trolley into the autopsy room. Buffy knew this was Pete Madison's body, and as she had in the apartment yesterday morning, Buffy felt she shouldn't be here to see him butchered. But she told herself she couldn't be affected, had to remain as detached as possible. Determined to see this through, for Pete's sake as much as her own, Buffy watched as the body was put on the table. Roberts handed her a face mask, which she put on. Not for Pete's benefit, of course, as it would have been in surgery, but for her own. To protect against the stench and contagion of death.

Roberts uncovered the body. Buffy stared into Pete's dead eyes again, and the third eye made by the bullet hole. For a second, looking at the pallid face with its blue lips, Buffy did feel a little faint. She took a huge breath through her face mask, which did little to protect against the dead smell, saw Roberts look at her enquiringly.

" 'S okay," she muttered. "I'm fine."

Roberts began an examination of Pete Madison's body, speaking into a mouthpiece so his observations could be recorded. General details, such as height, body weight, general appearance of subject, were given. When he had finished his overall evaluation, which was of a Caucasian male in prime physical condition prior to death, Roberts began on the more specific details.

"Bullet wound in head is consistent with very close range," he said, running his gloved finger around the entry wound, which was abraded and slightly sooty round the edges. "If this had been from longer range, there would be little abrasion, no soot, and the fact that it's close range indicates one of two things - suicide or execution."

"Execution?" Buffy whispered.

"You know among certain criminal agencies execution by single shot to the head is the preferred method of death."

"Yeah," Buffy said. "But I don't think this was execution, sir, because his hand was gripped round the gun and."

"I know about that, and forensics have ascertained that Agent Madison's skin was in fact impregnated with the appropriate chemicals, which indicates that he did pull the trigger. However, we can't rule out execution entirely."

"Why not?"

"Some of these said criminals like to force the victim to pull the trigger and kill themselves. It's considered fitting punishment for their perceived crimes. You found his body, Agent Summers?"

"Yeah. There was no sign of a struggle or anything to indicate there'd been any fight or resistance on Agent Madison's part."

"But you found him naked?"

"Yeah."

Roger nodded thoughtfully.

"People very rarely commit suicide while naked, Agent Summers. Usually they want to get it over with, or are in such a distressed state that they wouldn't think to strip themselves beforehand. Getting naked is not a priority. Plus, I read from your initial report that the door was ajar upon your arrival at the scene. These two things, while apparently minor, do indicate that someone else was involved, despite how the surroundings appeared."

"Oh." Buffy wasn't quite sure what to say. What she had assumed was clear cut seemed, on reflection, not so clear cut after all. Assistant Director Marshall, she decided, had been right to insist on a thorough investigation.

"I shall now proceed to dissect the body, Agent Summers. Just to ascertain that there are no internal injuries. Sometimes, very clever assailants can cause injury internally without leaving a mark on the exterior of the body. And then I shall take samples of stomach contents, liver biopsy and so forth to send off for toxicology. To see if any drugs had been ingested or injected."

Silently Buffy watched as Roberts went about his grim task. There were no other indications to suggest that Pete Madison had suffered physical injury prior to his death, and they'd have to wait a day or so before the toxicology results were sent back.

"As far you knew, did Agent Madison have a drug habit?"

"No way," Buffy said, on certain ground here. "He loathed drugs. Had a brother who O.D'd on heroin. If you find anything in those samples, he wouldn't have taken it willingly."

"Well, there are no needle tracks, no obvious tell-tale marks."

Roberts finished off the autopsy, then called for his assistant to come and clean up the body.

Back in his office, Buffy accepted a cup of coffee, which did nothing to take away the taste of chemicals and dead bodies.

"So what's your verdict?" she enquired, resisting the urge to gag.

"Well, like I said, I can't give a conclusive verdict either way. I would say it's certainly a self-inflicted death, but that's not always the same as suicide, as I explained before. We'll await the result of the drug tests. In the meantime, I suggest you go ahead and treat this as an open verdict."

Buffy stood; she couldn't wait to get out of this place.

"Thank you for your help," she said.

"No problem, Agent Summers. I'll get back to you."

Buffy left. As she went out the door, she saw Roberts reach for his sandwich box and open it. How could he eat, Buffy wondered, doing the job he did? But Buffy knew from personal experience that a person could get used to anything, given enough time.

She wandered back up to the office she'd shared with Pete Madison. Spent the afternoon going through all his stuff, but found nothing of any help. Wrote a report on the day's activities and gave it to AD Marshall's secretary to pass on. Two things left to do, she decided, but there wasn't time to do any more today. Tomorrow, she decided, she would go to Pete's apartment. Start going through his private stuff. And then, if there were still no clues, she would have to talk to his grieving relatives. Something she didn't relish, not at all.

Trailing home, Buffy felt a vague depression settle over her. She wasn't sure she could face her mom and Giles later, certainly didn't fancy eating dinner with them, because she still held the vision of Pete's poor dissected body in her haunted mind. She guessed they'd say there, at least until this was cleared up. Still, she decided she couldn't let it upset her whole life. And besides, she wanted to talk to Giles about her dream. Although its influence had more or less disappeared over the day.

Willow was already home.

"Hey, Buffy. You look beat."

"Oh thanks, Will. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

Willow's face took on a sympathetic aspect.

"Bad day?" she asked, going to Buffy, holding her. Sitting with Willow on the couch, accepting a much needed large glass of red wine, Buffy told Willow everything.

"Looks like it could've been murder," she said, sipping her wine. "And if it is, then finding the killer will be so hard. I mean, in our line of work, could be anyone, right? I don't know what's worse - being killed because of your work, or killing yourself because of it."

Buffy didn't need to add that as Slayer, she had seen both sides of that particular coin. Willow knew all too well what Buffy went through; had been through it herself too many times, almost lost her own life on a few very memorable occasions. And as for suicide - hadn't Buffy been suicidal at times, when her life as the Slayer became almost intolerable? Yeah, Willow understood. Willow understood Buffy better than anyone on earth. Somehow, that was comforting, and Buffy felt some of her tension drain away.

"Guess I'll take a shower before we go to my mom's," Buffy said, forcing herself out of Willow's arms. Lurched a little because the strong red wine, drunk on an empty stomach, had gone straight to her head. Willow giggled, and Buffy felt the last of her stress fade away.

"What would I do without you?" she said. Willow giggled again.

"Become a lush?" she suggested.

Buffy smirked and went to get ready.

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