Chapter Nine

Giles' house was where the Scooby gang always did their planning and mapped out strategy--he had both the necessary research materials and the money to afford the best snacks--and Buffy certainly wasn't going to leave her mother alone at their house. Which was how the former librarian wound up with the three teenagers and one semi-teenager and ex-vengeance demon spaced around his livingroom, Joyce Summers stretched out on the couch under a knitted afghan, and a Baroque era painting taking up its own chair as an impromptu display easel. The only one missing was Spike, and Giles was comfortably certain he was nowhere near lucky enough to have the vampire either disappear into the night, or even better, get himself dusted somewhere along the way. His life just didn't go that smoothly.

"It's..." the ex-librarian began as he stared at the painting only to fall silent for a beat.

"Very hot," Xander proclaimed as he moved to stand beside Giles. "I mean, am I the one thinking major girl on girl sex here?"

Sitting off to the side and just in front of Willow, Buffy did a doubletake--did he somehow know how she'd spent the night with Willow--then realized he was just referring to the painting. She could feel Willow's eyes on her back, but she resisted all temptation and didn't look back.

"It's a biblical story of selfless love and devotion, not Debbie Does Judea," Anya pointed out, sounding faintly put out. "You just get excited by thinking that all women are about to have sex with each other."

"No," Xander corrected cheerfully, "I'm excited by the idea all women are about to have sex with each other while I watch and then invite me to join in."

"Xander," Buffy yelped, "my mother's here." Not to mention my best friend whom I spent last night making love to and we'd just as soon not go there, she added mentally. Says you, her little Willow-crazed nag disagreed.

Willow just hunched deeper into her chair.

"Sorry," Xander stammered an apology as he glanced back at the Slayer's mother, then slunk over to join Anya, who put a proprietary arm around his shoulders.

"'Sokay," Joyce assured him with a bleary wave of her good arm. She wasn't really tracking the conversation very well anyhow. Her entire attention was reserved for the artwork leaned only a few feet away. It was exquisite and the would-be artist in her couldn't help but be fascinated by the workmanship. Even in the unflattering light of Giles' livingroom, it glowed.

During the exchange, Giles had gone into his default ignore-mode, his usual method for dealing with the often inane chatter that tended to bounce back and forth between the teens. Finally, he lifted his chin and looked back at the small group assembled around the room, putting on his best I'm-in-charge-here face and voice as he informed them, "If you're finished.... We have to inform the Watcher's Council and let them handle this."

Buffy was the first to respond. "Excuse me?" the Slayer demanded. She pushed to her feet, ready to go toe to toe with her former Watcher. "Some vampire comes to town, nearly kills my mother and Xander, and you want to call the Watcher's Council. The last time I checked, I don't work for them anymore."

Giles' gaze slid back to the painting, though his expression held none of Joyce Summers almost reverent awe. "This is different," he insisted distantly, and without explanation.

She absorbed his non-answer answer, then shook her head. "Different?" the Slayer repeated. "What's different. See vamp, fight vamp, kill vamp. Same game, new channel is all I see."

Giles turned to look at his protege, his expression sad. "You don't understand," he said softly. "Delaine DuCourvallier isn't like any other vampire you've ever fought--"

"None of them ever are," Buffy pointed out. "But you've never suggested I walk away before."

"Because you've never faced a vampire who was a Slayer before."

Buffy froze for a beat, then slowly exhaled, "A Slayer?"

Giles nodded, then turned back to the painting. "Delaine Annalise Marguerite DuCourvallier, born 1595, the only daughter of the Countess DuCourvallier. Wealthy, educated--

"And died of the plague in...what...sixteen-ten or eleven?" Joyce interrupted from her personal peanut gallery on the couch. "How could she have been a Slayer? When her mother arranged for her to study with Orazio Gentillesci, she went to Rome and then painted almost up until the hour of her death, according to both Orazio's and his daughter, Artemesia's, accounts."

"She didn't die of the plague," Giles said quietly. "She was drugged to simulate the disease and then removed to England for training. Apparently, when her Watcher first contacted her, she refused to have anything to do with being the Slayer--"

"So they had to force her, and then make sure there was no one she could turn to for help," Willow filled in, not sounding at all surprised. Giles had no way of knowing about her research into the history of the Watcher's Council.

Giles frowned as he looked at the girl, startled by her accurate reading of the situation. "Something like that," he allowed, then felt the need to defend the long-dead Watcher's who'd made the decision. "But it was a necessity. There is only one Slayer--"

"And duty above all else," Buffy murmured with a distant sort of bitterness. "Right, Giles?"

The Watcher's and Slayer's gazes locked and held. "It was another time," he said simply. "And in any event, it scarcely matters. She betrayed them, plotted to escape her fate by handing the entire Council over to a cadre of vampires. She failed, though she did succeed in getting her Watcher's wife killed." He'd been told the tale in Watcher training over and over, learning every detail of the betrayal, and like all Watchers, he'd learned to hate and fear the long dead Slayer.

Buffy looked away from his hard gaze, not wanting to admit how thoroughly she'd momentarily identified with the young woman from another time forced to accept a duty she had no desire for, and made to let go of whatever dreams and talents she might have had that had nothing to do with destiny and killing. "So, if you're feeling too much kinship, you might remember that she was a killer before she became a vampire." Giles' voice throbbed with the long-held hatred the Council had for their legendary enemy. "Before all was said and done, all but two members of the Watcher's Council were dead and Delaine DuCourvallier was a vampire--and as much stronger than a normal vampire as you are stronger than a normal human. In the four-hundred years since she's killed at least six Slayers, perhaps more. That's why there's a standing order for the Council to deal with it if she's seen. They have teams of professionals searching for her at all times--"

Buffy shook her head. "But they're not here, and this bitch has threatened my family--"

"Well, actually," Joyce broke in, still more than a little buzzed, but oddly fascinated by the conversation. She couldn't help but wonder if this sort of thing was a huge part of the whole vampire fighting experience for her daughter. Actually, this wasn't so bad. Kind of interesting even, in an odd way. "She didn't exactly attack me...I mean, she just kept demanding her painting...who knows, she might have gone away if I'd just given it to her..."

"If you had given her the painting, she probably would have just killed you," Buffy explained patiently, but Joyce was already staring at the canvas in question once again, her mind a million miles away. Handed a mystery that related to her own field of interest, she couldn't help but be fascinated.

"Why does she want it so badly?" the older woman questioned out of the blue. "The painting, I mean. From what you've told me about vampires, they don't really seem like the artistic types."

"I'm certain she just used it as an excuse to get close to you," Giles dismissed. "Killing a Slayer's mother would probably appeal to her." His lip curled with distaste.

"I don't think so," Joyce disagreed. "If she was just trying to kill me, she had plenty of chances. No, she wanted the painting, and when I threatened to burn it, she froze...I mean she did not move a muscle." Her head canted to one side as she continued studying the play of paint on canvas. "So why is it so important to her?"

"I really don't think that's important--" Giles began, but Joyce waved him silent, throwing the blanket aside as she climbed unsteadily to her feet.

Giles and Buffy both automatically reached out to steady the woman when she weaved back and forth during the short journey to stand in front of the painting.

"I think maybe it is important," Joyce disagreed, still staring intently. Her mind was racing, or at least trying to race as several things occurred to her at once.

Giles glared at Buffy as if the interruption was her fault.

"Mom, I really think--"

"Maybe there's something coded into the picture," Joyce murmured thoughtfully as she held up a hand to silence her daughter, the fogginess leaving her incapable of noticing the hints to shut up.

"I really doubt--" Giles began, but Buffy cut him off.

"What do you mean?"

Joyce turned toward her daughter. "Elizabethan and Renaissance artists often included little in-jokes, like curse words, names, or Latin inscriptions in their paintings. To sort of put one over on their patrons I guess...there's a even a painting that some historians think is a clue in the possible murder of a couple of princes--I wish I could remember the story--but the point is, they hid things--"

"You mean like those old Seek and Find games in Highlights magazine?" Xander seized on the concept.

"I really don't think--" Giles tried to take control of the discussion again, but Joyce interrupted without ever noticing he'd started to speak.

"Actually, that's a pretty good analogy," she admitted, and Xander preened under the attention. "So, what if she hid something in there...some piece of knowledge she needs?"

"Like a map or spell?" Willow whispered as she moved to join them.

Joyce shrugged. "I don't know. You guys are the experts on that front."

Giles sighed softly, finally accepting that he'd lost all control over the situation. Ought to be used to it by now, he silently chastised himself for feeling put out. Actually, he had to admit that Joyce had a pretty good idea. "It's possible," he murmured aloud. "But--"

"Mom, do you think you're up to lending a hand?" Buffy asked her mother before Giles could put a stop to things. "None of us know enough to know what to look for."

Joyce turned to meet her daughter's gaze, blinking in surprise as she processed the request. "I...uh...of course. Any way I can help. I'm not really at my best, but I'll do what I can."

"I've got some experience in the arts," Anya volunteered, then shrugged when everyone looked her way. "Artists tend to be an unfaithful lot." A wicked smile curved her lips. "What, you thought it was Van Gogh's idea to cut off his own ear?"

"Honey," Xander said nervously, "remember that little conversation we had about sharing too many details about your past?"

Anya frowned, then noted her boyfriend's nervous look. "Don't worry, Xander. I like your ears far too much to ever do that." She reached out to play with his hair. "Besides it's so much fun nibbling on them when we're having sex--"

"More things we probably shouldn't share," Xander groaned, wondering why it was that demonic attacks, doorways into alternate universes, and reopening Hellmouths never appeared when he could most use them.

Buffy took pity on her friend. "Um, Anya, if you could help my mom, that would be great," she said, pointedly diverting the topic away from any and all sexual escapades. All things considered that was the last topic she wanted to discuss.

In fairly short order, things settled in a bit, with Anya and Xander helping Joyce, who took a seat, while the two teens found a couple of Giles' magnifying glasses, then began checking for signs of anything unusual.

While they did that, Giles caught Buffy's arm and tugged her into the kitchen with a soft hissed, "We need to talk."

"All right," the Slayer responded once they were alone. "Talk."

"I know you've had a couple of very bad nights--"

"Which is not that unusual for me," Buffy dismissed instantly. She was in no mood for his arguments to try and sway her from hunting DuCourvallier down and destroying her.

Giles studied his young protege, taking in the circles under her eyes and the unusual jitteriness to her movements. Contrary to whatever she was saying, the stress was getting to her. He felt an all too familiar wave of guilt. No one should have to bear the things she did, but particularly not a teenager on the brink of starting her life. "A woman died in your arms and your mother was attacked by a creature that very probably intended to kill her for sport. I think that qualifies as unusual, even for you."

"All right," Buffy admitted stiffly. "I'll allow you have a point--"

"Which is why we need to turn this over to the Watcher's Council."

"No." Buffy said flatly, her tone brooking no argument. "My mother, my town, my problem."

"It's not that simple," Giles reiterated his point. "The Council..." He shook his head, trying to find a way to express the paranoia he knew existed when it came to the subject of the former Slayer. "They are terrified of her...and of any possible influence she might have over a current Slayer. They don't just want to make certain she's dead. They want everything she's ever done and every thought she's ever had eliminated. They've forbidden any Slayer from having contact with her...even if it's only the kind required to kill her."

"But I don't work for them anymore...and you said she's been around for four hundred years while they were hunting her. That's she's killed six Slayers--and who only knows how many of their family members. I'm sure the Watcher's don't keep stats on that, since we've both seen how much they value the lives of my friends and family. Sorry, Giles, but I'm not risking my family on that kind of success rate."

"If the Council finds out you've defied their orders--"

"I don't give a damn about the Council. I care about stopping her!"

The two stood glaring at each other for a long moment, each judging the other's sincerity. "Twenty-four hours," Giles bit out at last. "I'll give you twenty-four hours, and if she's still alive after that, I'm calling the Council." And denying he'd delayed even a minute.

The Slayer tensed, but didn't argue, sensing that she'd already pushed her Watcher farther than he'd intended to go. "Well, then I guess I'd better make sure she's a pile of dust by then." Buffy straightened her shoulders. "So I need to know everything you know about her...everything...."

"That could be difficult," Giles admitted. "Since there isn't much. She's been remarkably successful at destroying...or killing any information sources. The last fairly reliably proven sighting was in the 1840's in China, but it was during the Opium Wars and she managed to disappear in the confusion. Since then reports have been sporadic...uncertain..." His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched with every word as he had to admit that there was nothing to know. "There's evidence to indicate she was involved in various attempts to resurrect a Wraith Demon in the Arizona territories in the 1880's, a try at opening a HellMouth near St. Petersburg in the 1920's, and a late 1930's summoning of the demon Azrael in Germany...but due to the circumstances, confirmation was never possible."

Buffy couldn't help it. She laughed. This was just too funny. "So they're vaunted hit teams can't even tell you where she's been for over a century and a half, but they're gonna kill her." She shook her head disgustedly. "Pardon me for being unimpressed."

"You don't understand how smart...and how very evil she is."

"Well, I guess I've got twenty-four hours to find out," the Slayer said. She turned as if to leave and suddenly stiffened as she realized that Willow was standing just inside the entrance to the kitchen, silently listening--though Buffy had no way of knowing how much of the discussion she'd heard--something haunted gleaming in her pale gaze. As Buffy watched, her friend's eyes slid over to Giles, an odd expression flickering there momentarily, before she looked back to Buffy. "Can I count on you to help, Will?" she questioned, her tone leaving Giles confused. He'd never heard Buffy sound so uncertain when asking Willow to do something before.

Willow nodded. "Whatever you need."

"Thanks." Buffy turned to look at Giles, silently willing him to leave her alone with her friend. "Do you mind?" she whispered at last when he still hadn't moved a long beat later. "I'd like to talk to Willow alone."

Giles seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and slipped out, leaving the two girls alone.

Willow didn't even try to broach what had happened between them earlier, thinking it wasn't the time. "It's bad this time, isn't it?"

Buffy shrugged, waving Willow closer as she responded. "No worse than the mayor, or the master, the Hellmouth...or a dozen other probable ends of the world we've faced. Maybe not even as bad." Maybe they were lucky and it was only the Slayer this evil was in town to destroy, rather than the entire world.

"But it's personal this time," Willow reminded Buffy as her eyes slid over the Slayer's features, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the tired slump of her shoulders.

"Personal...yeah...." Buffy sighed softly. She looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm her suddenly racing pulse. Bad things were coming and coming fast. And with them, possibly her own death. She looked back, reaching out to catch Willow's hand in her own. She hadn't really had time to think about what she was going to say or how she felt, she just knew that she couldn't leave things with Willow where they were. "Will, I just want you to know..." she trailed off, not know what to say or how. Finally, she just whispered, "I love you, Will...nothing changes that."

Willow let out the breath she hadn't even been aware of holding as she felt some of the constriction wrapped painfully tightly around her chest let go and her heart started beating again. "I know," she whispered past the tightness in her throat. "I just...." She couldn't quite finish.

"I know." Buffy's free hand lifted and she tucked a few stray strands of red hair behind Willow's ear. She swallowed hard, dropping the hand at Willow's cheek because she didn't know what to do with it. "We'll figure it out...I promise...." She almost reached out to trace cupid's bow lips. Almost leaned forward to taste them and see if they were as sweet as they'd seemed in the darkness of their dorm room.

"I trust you," Willow breathed. "Of course you do. Too bloody stupid not to," Spike derided as he entered the kitchen. He'd cleaned up most of the mess the Vampire-Slayer had left on his face and his vampire physiology had taken care of sealing the worst of the cuts, though he still looked like hell. "Y'know, Red, if you were as smart as they all say, you'd have taken one of those scholarships and gotten the bloody hell out of this town. It's cursed in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh...joy...you're back," Buffy observed as the blond vampire stepped past them and headed straight for the refrigerator. She quickly released Willow's hand and pivoted to face him, turning only a little green as he retrieved a bottle of pig's blood and took a long draft.

"God, this stuff reeks," Spike observed as he tipped the bottle down.

"Hey, if you want to go find your own, you're welcome to try," Buffy taunted. "Oh, wait, I forgot, you can't." She never missed an opportunity to remind him of his little condition. It was the one revenge fair play still allowed her.

Spike growled softly. "Sod off, Slayer," he sneered. "You should be nicer to me since I come bearing messages that just might keep your...." He turned an assessing gaze Willow's way, making the Slayer wonder just how much he'd heard during his untimely entrance. "...loved ones alive."

Buffy frowned, mentally debating whether to hear him out or just go ahead and stake him and make all of their lives easier. "Spill it," she snarled at last.

"DuCourvallier put in a little appearance after your Watcher and the others left. She wants a meeting with you--and just you...tell your Watcher and the deal's apparently off--tomorrow night at midnight in your mother's gallery. You're to come alone and unarmed."

"That'd be suicide," Willow gasped.

Spike shrugged. "I think murder's probably a better term for it," he observed cheerfully and took another long swallow of the pig's blood, curling his lip in distaste as he noted, "Doesn't get any better the second time around."

"And why would I want to do that? Meet with her, I mean," Buffy clarified. "Unarmed and alone."

Spike offered a feral smile. "Because if you don't, she starts going after your friends ... and ... family." Again his eyes touched on Willow, sensing the same vulnerability on that front that his sire had wielded against the Slayer only two years before. "Starting with Red here." He offered a toothy smile. "I've always heard that DuCourvallier was quite a connoisseur of the ladies." His voice dropped low, becoming suggestive as he added, "Particularly the young and succulent type. She liked them very pink by all accounts." Willow stiffened, determined not to show any fear and not succeeding to any great effect.

Buffy, on the other hand, took one pace forward, slamming a hand into Spike's throat, fingers clenching tight as she used her hold to slam him into the refrigerator hard enough to send it skidding back into the wall. "And I should trust your word because?" she growled, eyes flashing with fury.

Spike glared at her with thick anger. "Because I've got no reason to lie," he choked past the punishing hold.

"Other than the fact that you'd like to see all of us dead, that is," Buffy jeered. "Now tell me another one. I repeat, why should I trust you?"

"Because your precious Scooby gang aren't the only ones with their heads on the chopping block," he gagged. "That lunatic threatened to dust me as well." He tried to pry her fingers off without success. "She half destroyed your mother's gallery using my head as a battering ram...believe me, I want the stupid bitch dead."

The Slayer released the harsh grip on his throat, a grim smile twisting her lips. "Now that sounds more like the Spike I know and loathe."

The vampire straightened his shoulders, resettling his jacket as he rubbed his sore throat. "Y'know, it would almost worth being dusted to see her take you apart," he shot back.

Buffy's hand shot out, fingers closing on his groin with punishing strength and nearly dropping the vampire to his knees as she leaned close to his bent over frame. "Just remember, if you're lying, I'll take you apart a piece at a time...and this is the piece I'll start with."

Bent double and his eyes rapidly filling with crimson tears of raw agony, he almost told her the truth, filled in every left out detail, and begged forgiveness for lying. Only his hatred kept him from surrendering to the awful pain and saying anything she wanted. "I'm telling the truth," he gasped, his voice bordering on a shriek.

"You'd better be," Buffy whispered near his ear, then released her brutal hold as she backed off, while Spike spilled to his knees, whimpering softly. "Come on, Will," the Slayer said as she grabbed her friend's hand and tugged her out.

"Bitch," Spike exhaled to no one in particular. He could hear the blond Slayer speaking to her Watcher in the livingroom, but didn't have the strength to care what she was saying.

Chapter Ten

"What do you mean you're leaving?" Giles demanded as he watched Willow start gathering the volumes she needed from his collection.

"Will needs her laptop, and I want to go talk to Willy...see if he's heard anything."

"But--"

"We'll call in regularly to see if you've found anything, and I'll have your cell," she added as she grabbed Giles' tiny flip phone from the coffee table. She tucked it in her pocket, then leaned over to kiss her mother's cheek. "Mom, you be careful, okay. Don't go out tonight." She looked at Giles. "And whatever you do, don't let anyone in."

Her Watcher frowned. "Buffy, if you find out anything, we'll fight her together...right?"

"Of course," the Slayer lied smoothly. "But I've got to find her first. I'll call you later and let you know what's going on."

Willow looked over as she finished stuffing leather bound books into a borrowed backpack. Buffy had forbidden her from saying anything or she'd have told the others the truth, but she'd promised. Which meant she had to make sure the Slayer was okay. "I've got what I need."

Buffy jerked her head toward the door. "Come on."

"Be careful," Xander murmured as Buffy started to turn away.

The Slayer pivoted back to face her friend, her expression neutral, though she had the oddest sensation he'd guessed what was going on. "You too."

The teen offered the smallest of smiles and a brief nod. "Don't worry. I'll look after things here."

"You'd better." And then she and Willow were stepping into the early morning sun and a day so beautiful it was hard to believe there was real evil anywhere in the world.

* * * * * * *

The motel was little more than a low rent flophouse, a leftover from the 1960's love of Route 66 and the automobile, long since fallen into disrepair. It had a pool--though the water was less than clean--hourly rates, in-room movies of a particularly fleshy nature, and beds that vibrated for a quarter. However, the primary appeal to the woman lying naked--the torn and bloody clothes she'd been wearing for two days soaking in the sink--on a bed that felt as though it had been cast from cement was the thick brick masonry and tiny windows that faced North behind their heavy, plastic-backed curtains. Sunlight didn't get into the main room, which was a relief. Otherwise, she'd have had to spend the day in the bathroom. She rolled over, grumbling impolitely under her breath. Not that the bathtub probably wasn't more comfortable than the bed. She rolled onto her back again, folding her hands across her stomach as she glared at the ceiling as though it was responsible for the muck ups of the previous two days. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and concentrating on quieting herself. The hunger was on her, thick and hot, the need for blood drawing her muscles taut and making every sense painfully acute.

A less than ideal situation in view of the fact that there are some things Dominoes doesn't deliver.

Lying there with her eyes closed, she could hear the few denizens haunting the motel at that hour, her blood running at their frenzied couplings and torrid, sweaty interactions. She tried to distract herself with mental games, but that only brought up the memory of the sound of her name on the Watcher's lips. So strange to hear it again after so many years of other names, other identities, none of them truly her, until it sometimes seemed she had no identity beyond the moment in which she existed. Then she had to distract herself from the distractions.

More sounds and smells of thick lust filled her senses, making the hunger burn in her veins.

The sewers were starting to sound better with every passing moment. At least there, the clinging stench might have distracted her from the hunger and her own thoughts. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow and striving to ignore the voices and the sounds of lust coming at her from all sides.

Tried and failed as a girl's voice cried out, "No!" The sound of flesh hitting flesh.

The vampire pushed up on her hands, sharp eyes sliding around the room as she separated the nearby sounds from the background noises.

"You'll do what you were paid for, bitch."

Her gaze landed on the door that sat in the corner of the room. The sort that was meant to allow rooms to be joined together. Probably so families could have a room for the parents and one for the children during the motel's first life as a wholesome overnight vacation stop.

"I told you before--" Again the sound of flesh on flesh, followed by a small cry of pain.

She pushed to her feet, moving to stand in front of the connecting door, her head canted to one side as she listened to the little passion play being performed on the other side.

"Keep it up, and I'll still do what I want, but you won't be getting paid." And again the sound of flesh striking flesh.

Followed by the crash and smash of double wooden doors being torn off their hinges by a solid kick from a seemingly delicate bare foot. For a brief second after that, the only sound was the soft rhythmic scree of the doors gently rocking on the tattered remainders of their hinges.

The girl was young and dark haired, pretty maybe, if not for the caked on makeup running with panicked tears and clothes that would have looked tacky and too slutty on a woman twice her age and twice as sluttish. On her knees and pressed back against the bed, her eyes went wide as she stared in shock at the naked newcomer, visibly not quite believing what she was seeing. Too many drugs and too much life hadn't left her with the firmest of grips on reality.

"What the fuck?" Her would-be suitor twisted, peering over his tattooed shoulder. He was on the short side, but wiry-strong with thinning dark hair and a heavy mustache. Just the sort of pug-ugly who considered beating a woman to be a fair hobby.

Short man's syndrome, bald man's syndrome, and an excess of machismo all in one special package. She was comfortably certain she was going to enjoy this. "It's very difficult to get any sleep with all the noise you're making," she observed dryly, well aware of the way his eyes slid over her body with a combination of lust and hate. No surprise there. It took a lot of hate to be like he was. "And I haven't had the best of nights lately."

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but you have no fucking idea who you're dealing with," he growled, the repetition of mindless swear words accompanied by the sound of a zipper sliding before he turned to fully face her.

She smiled. "Obviously you've confused the meaning of the words know and care," she dismissed. Green eyes slid over to the girl. "How old are you?"

"None of your fucking business," he cut in before the girl could answer.

The green eyes touched on him again. "Could have sworn I was talking to her."

"I don't give a shit who you're talking to, bitch. Unless you want to take her place, I suggest you haul your ass the fuck out of here."

Pale brows lifted and a hint of a wry smile twisted her lips. "Such a tempting offer," she drawled and appeared to consider his manly charms.

Confused now--he was used to having women flinch from him in fear--actually, he liked having women flinch from him in fear--the would-be suitor's eyes slid past the delicately built blond to the doors hanging half off their hinges. No way she could have done that. They must have just been old and rusted. Right, that was the answer; old and rusted and probably just gave way when she knocked. This whole place was falling down so it was no surprise. His composure buoyed up by a healthy dose of false confidence, he looked back at her, eyes sliding insultingly over her body, noting perfect rose-tipped breasts and rounded hips with particular greed. Probably one of those kinkoids that liked it rough. Probably hung around No-tell Motels looking for guys to do her, he decided. "Yeah, babe, I got a lot to offer."

And then she laughed, dashing his ugly fantasies with innate cruelty. "Somehow I don't think you'd measure up to my standards."

"Bitch." He took three long strides forward, intending to grab her and teach her who was in charge in this world.

Only a hand lashed out with the speed of a striking rattlesnake, grabbing him around the throat and lifting him off his feet. He grabbed for her hand, trying to take some of the pressure off his windpipe as he kicked and struggled, trying to break free.

The teenaged hooker pressed harder against the bed, whispering the few fragments of the Lord's Prayer she still remembered as she stared in horror at the woman effortlessly dangling her john in mid-air.

"So, how old are you?" the blond asked as though she wasn't holding a kicking and clawing man several inches off the floor in a one handed grip while standing naked in the middle of the motel room she'd just broken into. Gleaming cat's eyes stared down at the quivering girl, silently willing her to answer.

"Eighteen," the hooker, whose name was actually Jennifer Holly Hollings, though she'd been going by Jenny Cherry long enough that she sometimes forgot she'd had another name before her parents divorce, her stepfather's entry into her life, and her own exit from that same life.

"No...really...how old are you?" the blond asked dryly, her eyes no longer seeming to glitter with quite so many yellow lights.

But that was just a trick of the light, Jenny reassured herself, then her eyes lifted to the middle aged man still trying unsuccessfully to claw his way free. Or maybe not. "Fourteen," she answered honestly, then remembered it had to be November, maybe even December by now and her birthday had been in October when she was still Jennifer Holly and Jenny Cherry hadn't been born yet. "No...fifteen," she corrected. "I...I just turned fifteen."

"How much he promise to pay you?" the blond interrogated briskly, showing no pity, if indeed she felt any.

She ducked her chin, cheeks flushing with shame. "Twenty," she admitted, hating the thought of what she'd been willing to do for the price of a couple of meals at a burger joint. A grim laugh brought her chin up.

"Jesu...a whoremonger and a cheap one at that." A brown leather wallet lay on the nightstand and she pivoted, grabbing it and flipping it open, noting the silver badge inside with a raised brow. "Well...well...Sunnydale's finest at work." She flipped the moneyclip inside out with agile fingers and tossed it to the girl. "Get out and lock your door on the way," she bit out.

Jenny pushed to shaking feet, not even bothering to straighten her clothes as she staggered toward the door.

"One more thing," the blond's silky voice called her back and Jenny pivoted to find herself staring into the face of hell itself, the woman's newly remade sharp demon's features like something she'd seen in a horror movie as a child. She froze, unable to even breathe as she stared at the thing standing only a few feet away. She'd heard other runaways tell tales of murder and mayhem on the dark streets, but never believed them. Now she believed. "Think about how you're going to spend that money, because there are things a lot worse than him," she nodded toward her rapidly weakening prisoner, "out there in the world. You wouldn't want to run into them, now would you?"

The girl shook her head stiffly, expecting to die at any moment.

"Smart girl. I saw a church about three blocks East of here. You might want to start looking for help there."

Jenny nodded jerkily, barely able to make her body obey the dictates of her mind.

"You'd better move along now. You've got things to do and people to see."

Again the girl nodded, then slipped out, careful to make certain the door locked in her wake.

The john suddenly found that she'd lowered him enough that his toes just touched the worn shag carpeting. If he pressed hard enough with the balls of his feet, he could almost push high enough to take most of his weight off his throat. "You'll pay for this," he croaked, his voice ragged as he forced it out past his bruised larynx. "When the cops get here--"

"And who's going to call them?" his captor demanded politely as her head came back around, seemingly as sweet and human as the day she'd died centuries before. "The little whore? I don't think so. Not with your money burning a hole in her pocket. She'll either use it to leave here or buy enough of the drug of her choice that her exit from this life may well be the first painless pleasure of her young life. No, she won't be calling anyone," she dashed his hopes with a smile, then clenched her fingers, pressuring them more deeply into his neck as she wrenched him back into the air, relishing the pain she saw on his face. "You're all mine, my friend." She lowered him again a beat later, letting him have just enough oxygen to stay alive. "So, tell me, do you have a wife...children...a family you beat and torment for fun?"

He spat then, nostrils flaring as his lungs fought to draw in enough air to simply maintain consciousness.

His tormentor lifted her free hand, wiping the spittle away with the back as she peered at him like she might a particularly ugly bug under a microscope. "Now, that's not friendly at all." And she increased the pressure on his larynx, reminding him just who was in charge. "Now, answer the question. Do you have a wife, maybe a daughter that CPS really should remove from the home before even your cop friends can't cover up what you are anymore?"

"The fucking bitch left me!" he screamed, tears of hate and loss leaking from eyes bloodshot from too many nights of whiskey and drugs. "But I'll find her and then that fucking bitch is dead! I'll kill them all!"

Blond brows rose in polite disbelief. "I doubt that very much," she disagreed. "However, I guess that means there are no insurance matters to worry about, which makes things much simpler, Officer Riordan." And then her features morphed again, arching and twisting, showing the hellborne face and sharp canines of the hunter within.

"Jesus."

She smiled and shook her head. "Sorry...no...not here, but I'll be sure to tell him you called the next time I see him." She started to yank him close.

"Wait. I can help you." Riordan was openly crying now, tears running down his leathery cheeks, while his nose dripped with his sniveling pleas.

"Really?" she drawled, her tone courteously disbelieving.

"Yeah...I-I worked for the mayor...y'know, when he tried to take over the town...I mean...I can work with demons...don't even try to roust 'em at that hangout downtown--"

"How kind of you."

"Right...kind...hey, I'm a demon's best friend. You could probably use a friend on the force. I know we're not supposed to know about...about...."

"Vampires?" his captor supplied wryly.

"Right, vampires." He was gaining confidence now, certain he was winning her over. Demon or no, she was just like any other woman in his book, too stupid to know that he always came out on top. He'd play her just right and the moment she wasn't looking--bam--a stake right through the heart. That'd teach her who was boss. "But a lot of cops do...and not just the ones that were on the mayor's payroll. Some of 'em, they even think they can fight it...fools...don't understand you gotta go along to get along."

"Fools," she agreed pleasantly. "Unfortunately, you have a small problem. I don't like demons." She drew him close, so that her cool breath wafted across his face as she spoke. "I don't like you...and...I'm hungry. Very hungry."

Riordan barely had time to gasp before her fangs pierced his neck. He could feel her lips and tongue moving against his skin, drinking so deeply, he could hear the soft sounds as she swept up and swallowed each drop blood slipping from his body. He was just sliding away when she dropped him and pressed her wrist, slick and red with her blood, against his lips.

"Drink if you want to become like me," she offered him a chance at life.

He almost laughed even as he was dying. The fool. She was giving him a chance at eternal life. And the first thing he was going to do was rip out her unbeating heart. He drank, swallowing the thick blood even as he felt something inside him start to change as his heart threatened to seize up and quit altogether.

She leaned down into his field of vision during his last moments of life, laughing at him in a way that he would remember even when he arrived in hell. "Oh, by the way, I thought you might like to know, that while your body lives on, your soul will be nowhere in residence. Tell the devil hello for me." And the last thing he heard was her triumphant laughter.

She stared down at the body for a brief moment, wondering how long the change would take this time. It was always different, though the soft incantation she whispered was supposed to speed things along. She turned away from the rapidly cooling corpse, noting the gym bag at the foot of the bed with some interest. It yielded a few clothes that smelled of sweat and urine, a dime bag of marijuana, a vial that looked to be crack, and a medicine bottle of cocaine. "Had quite a party planned for yourself, didn't you, Officer Riordan," she murmured, thinking it was just as well she'd fed before he'd indulged. The last thing she needed was to face the Slayer while she was stoned off her ass. Lastly, she pulled out a pistol wrapped in a shoulder holster from the bottom of the bag--an expensive Sig-Sauer with a spare clip tucked into the shoulder harness--and tossed it aside with no more interest than she had for the drugs. There was a cell phone, but it was too dangerous to consider using it. Too much chance of the Slayer or the Watcher's Council somehow using it to track her down. Nothing that would do her any good.

She was just settling in to catch an old Gilligan's Island rerun on the snowy tv when the body twitched. "They're he-ere..." she sing-songed as she pushed up and moved to stand straddling his hips, watching impassively as the dead body began twitching its way back to an unearthly existence.

And then bloodshot eyes snapped open, a feral smile slowly curving the newborn demon's mouth.

She dropped to her knees, grinning down at him.

"Now, this is the way to come into the world," the newcomer noted cheerfully.

She smiled with him, then reached past him, easily snapping a spindly leg from the wooden nightstand. "Or leave it," she added as she plunged the makeshift stake through his chest before he had a chance to stop her.

"Fuck..." His last words were all too appropriate. And then he shattered into nothing but dust.

"Makes getting rid of the body so much easier." She leaned into the stinging ash, breathing it in with a sensual smile, then exhaling it again like cigarette smoke. "Was it good for you? Because it was good for me," she murmured to no one in particular as she pushed to her feet, wondering if this bed was any more comfortable than the one in the other room, the dispatched demon already forgotten.

Chapter Eleven

"I need to know anything and everything you can find out about Delaine DuCourvallier," Buffy told Willow as she watched the hacker power up her laptop. They had barely spoken during the long walk back to the dorm, but they were back to being friends, even if they weren't entirely certain what they were past that. "Use Giles books, the Internet, whatever you can think. She's got to have a weakness somewhere."

Willow nodded, already signing onto the Internet as she grabbed the top book in the stack she'd borrowed from Giles, and flipped it open. With the wait times online, there was no use in not getting something done while she was waiting for information to download. "I've found some stuff on this one site, but I'm not sure how much it will help you...I mean, when I was there before, I didn't really have anything specific I was looking for, so I just don't know...."

Buffy nodded, watching over her friend's shoulder. "Do whatever you can. I need to know what I'm up against," she bit out and rested an encouraging hand on Willow's shoulder, incredibly aware of the heat of her skin through her thin sweater.

Willow turned to look back up at her friend, her expression pensive. "Buffy, you're not thinking of facing her alone, are you?" she questioned worriedly. "I mean, what Spike said...you can't meet her alone...."

The Slayer shrugged, trying to look like it was just one more banal slaying in her life, but there was no denying the fear that lived in her eyes. "I haven't really made any...decision...Will...we'll see," she lied. She already knew in her heart what she had to do to keep the people she loved safe from the monster stalking them. The vampire had already proven she was more than capable of getting far too close for comfort. Buffy wasn't going to risk having that happen again.

"Because from what Giles said that is not something you want to do," Willow babbled onward, sensing that no matter what Buffy told her, she was arguing with an already chosen course of action. "She was a Slayer, Buffy...and now she's a vampire...which means she's not like any vampire you've ever faced--"

"I know that, Will," Buffy interrupted, hoping to forestall one of Willow's self-inflicted panic attacks.

"If Giles is right, then she's stronger and faster than you are...maybe a lot...and she's had four hundred years to perfect her slaying skills. You can't face her alone."

Buffy hitched her hip on the desk as she turned to face Willow. "Let's just not worry about it for the moment, okay. Right now, what I need is the best information possible." She smoothed a few stray hairs back from Willow's cheek. "And I don't know anyone else who can find secrets like you can."

Willow swallowed hard, but finally nodded. "I'll do everything I can."

"That's my Willow," Buffy praised, then fell momentarily silent as the possible double meaning of the comment struck her. "I mean..." she stumbled over her own words, then looked away, sighing softly, "I don't know what I mean."

It was Willow who caught the Slayer's hand in her own this time. "Maybe it would be best if we worry about that...tomorrow...." Neither of them needed any added stresses or distracting thoughts, at least no more than were absolutely necessary.

Assuming there is one, the Slayer mentally amended, though her little voice was not so gently hinting that with possibly only one day left to live, she really ought to spend it doing something she enjoyed, like holding Willow close and tasting those sweet lips. "Yeah," she whispered after a beat. "Tomorrow." They sat like that for a long moment, until Willow's computer finished loading the page she was looking for, and then she hesitantly looked away.

"I...uh...let me just see what I can come up with here," the hacker murmured as her cursor danced across the screen.

Buffy was still waiting when she noticed the rhythmically blinking red light on their answering machine. "Looks like we've got a message," she told Willow as she reached out to press the Play button.

There was a brief pause as the tape cued up and then the message began, "Hello, Miss Summers, Miss Rosenberg, this is Officer Riordan over at the Police Department. My supervisor just wanted me to call and let you know that you won't be needed as witnesses against the three men arrested in the Twenty-Four/Seven robbery. The District Attorney has already plea bargained them into long jail terms. They won't be able to hurt anyone again for a long time. If you have any questions, you can call Detective Masters at 555-6166." And then the line clicked off.

"Well, I guess that's one less problem to deal with," Buffy sighed.

Willow frowned, staring at the answering machine with a quizzical look. "Seems a little...quick...doncha think?" The Slayer shrugged. "I don't know. I've always been the suspect when I've dealt with the police before. Besides, it's not like those guys had any defense. I mean, I've read in the newspaper that they're always plea bargaining cases." She shrugged helplessly.

"I guess," Willow exhaled uncertainly. "I hope they give 'em life," she added after a beat.

"You and me both," Buffy admitted, then straightened away from the desk. As awful as what had happened at the convenience store was, she had other, more immediate worries to attend to. "Well, I guess I should be going." At Willow's questioning look, she quickly explained, "I really do want to talk to Willy, and also get a couple of other things done while I have the time." She moved to the closet, and pulled out a large duffel bag that clanked gently as she moved it. Willow knew that the impressive collection of weapons inside was enough to stock the average shop of horrors. Just the tools of the slaying trade. Buffy slung the strap over her shoulder as she turned to face her friend.

The bag served as a reminder of the things out there in the world that intended the Slayer harm and Willow experienced a hard bolt of sick terror. "You...you are coming back...aren't you?" the hacker choked out as she pushed to her feet, staring at her friend with a look of dread.

"Yeah, Will," Buffy assured her. Whatever happened, she had no intention of facing DuCourvallier without at least saying goodbye. "I'll be back. I promise. You gonna be okay?"

Willow felt her heart start beating again as she sank back down into her chair. "Fine...fine...I'm just gonna be doing the research thing. Yeah, that's me, research girl. Nothing to worry about here." She knew she was babbling, but somehow her brain had decided that if she just kept talking, maybe she could delay long enough to keep Buffy from leaving. Not a sensible strategy, but it was her instinctive response.

"Okay," Buffy cut her friend off gently. "I'll just--" Whatever else she was about to say was cut off by a sharp rap on their door. "Get the door," she finished, sounding annoyed at the interruption.

Willow tensed, then turned back toward her computer as she saw the broad shouldered figure standing at the door and heard Buffy say, "Oh...Riley. I wasn't expecting you."

"I just heard about what happened to you the other night at the Twenty-Four/Seven...I mean to you and Willow," he explained breathlessly. "Are you okay?" he asked before Buffy had a chance to say anything. "You and Willow both, I mean." He glanced over, noting the red-haired hacker hunched over her computer. "Hi Willow." He was a firm believer in the old rule about being nice to any prospective girlfriend's girlfriends. It just made everything easier in his experience.

Willow grunted something that passed for a greeting while Buffy set down her bag just long enough to pull on her coat. "We're okay, Riley," she assured him, wondering what the fastest method for getting rid of him might be. "But I was just going out. Personal stuff," she added without explanation.

"Oh." He appeared startled at her lack of willingness to make time for him. "But...well...I just...you must have been terrified." He glanced past her, trying to include Willow in the conversation. "Both of you."

Buffy shrugged, in no mood to go back over those few minutes of raw terror. "It was bad," she admitted after a beat, but didn't elaborate. "Look, I really don't want to talk about that...I...um..." she swallowed hard, fighting the images in her head.

"Probably seeing their faces in your dreams," Riley interjected sympathetically.

Buffy shook her head. "Actually, we never saw their faces...in dreams or otherwise. They were wearing ski masks, and they were still unconscious when the police took them away. The cops didn't bother to take them off." She shrugged again. "Actually, the police left a message earlier. They've already made some kind of deal, so we won't even have to testify."

"Well, at least your friend--that girl who was killed--she'll get some justice."

Buffy shook her head. "She wasn't a friend, just somebody trying to buy a beer. I don't know who she was."

"That's awful." He reached out to massage her shoulder, not noticing the way she tried to subtly tried to avoid the caress. With Willow sitting there thinking God only knew what--was she jealous, relieved, miserable, steaming--the last thing she wanted was to deal with Riley's romantic pursuit. Insipid, but safely heterosexual romantic pursuit, don't you mean? Her inner voice demanded sarcastically. "Well, at least you won't have to go through the trauma of living through it all again."

"Right," Buffy exhaled, wondering why he suddenly seemed hopelessly clueless rather than adorably naive. Did he really think not testifying made any real difference? Was it just the change in her relationship with Willow or had he always been this dense and she just hadn't noticed? Or had she even been purposely looking the other way? "Like I said, I really do have to go," she reminded him as she gestured toward the door.

His eyes floated over to Willow, who was still hunched over her computer, apparently trying to ignore them. He looked like he planned on staying and there was no question in Buffy's mind that would be a bad thing. "And as you can see, Will's really under the study gun."

Riley seemed reticent to leave to the point that Buffy almost had to push him out the door ahead of her. When he was out in the hall, she turned back, relieved that Willow turned to look at her. Relieved too--though she wasn't quite ready to admit it--to see a tiny flicker of jealousy in the redhead's eyes. "I'll see you later," she said softly, her tone making the words a promise. "You do that," Willow responded, her voice only a little more stressed than normal, though after the door closed she had to pinch the bridge of her nose tightly to stop the tears that threatened to fall. The last thing she had time for was hysterics.

In the corridor, Riley had to jog to keep up with Buffy's hurried strides and nearly tripped over a maintenance man who was just backing out of the supply closet near the girls' dorm room. "Sorry about that," he instantly apologized to the man as he reached out to steady him. Buffy meanwhile pulled even farther ahead.

"No problem, mate," the janitor said agreeably, then stepped back inside the closet so he was out of Riley's way as the young man hurried on down the hallway. When the pair had rounded a nearby corner, he leaned out, staring after them with a half smile on his face. "Ah, the trials and tribulations of young love." And with that, Ethan Rayne slipped back into the janitor's closet and began merrily puttering about. He had things to do and Slayers to spy on.

Part Twelve

Riley Finn watched silently as Buffy hurried away down the sidewalk that led away from her dorm. He'd considered trying to go with her, but there'd been no graceful way of pressing the issue when she'd insisted she had private things to do. His hands fisted at his sides as he remembered how cool she'd been to him, no longer burning with that sweet fire he'd grown used to. It was almost as if--no, that wasn't possible--as if she no longer wanted him. He was still standing there like that when a hand curved to his muscular shoulder.

"Well?" Maggie Walsh's voice was clipped and short, very much the tone he expected from his commanding officer. She could be hard woman, though he well understood the need. They were fighting the worst kind of enemies, inhuman, soulless things, and she had no room left for gentle sentiments. But she could also be surprisingly supportive of her men and he'd learned to lean on that support when things were bothering him. "Do they know anything?"

Riley glanced back, meeting her flinty gaze as he shook his head. "No. She said she never saw their faces and seemed relieved that they won't have to testify."

"Good," Maggie said, sounding more at ease after the revelation. "That makes things much simpler."

Riley frowned. "But the dead girl.... There are bound to be questions."

"It's been dealt with," Walsh assured him. "It's unfortunate, but by the time someone discovers her body where it was dumped, all of this will have blown over." An angry family demanding the maximum sentence for their daughter's killers would have made burying her team's complicity in the incident much harder. She sighed softly, her expression disgusted. "What a wasted opportunity," she muttered under her breath. Instead of a two inch headline blasting away on the front page, they'd had to bury it in small print on page ten. Three would-be armed thieves stopped by two college coeds and a social security ready clerk was hardly the sort of thing likely to strike terror into the hearts of the citizens of Sunnydale.

Riley cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable as he broached what was bothering him. "Parker should be on report for drawing that knife. He was in charge of that mission and no one was supposed to get killed. Maybe we should cut back on the--"

"It's an unfortunate, even tragic accident, Riley," Walsh cut him off firmly, though she kept her tone reasonable, "but you know as well as I do how crucial it is that the citizens of this town perceive crime as a serious threat." She reached up to smooth a hand lightly down his upper arm. "It keeps them inside at night, out of our way...and safe, of course. And if it's ever necessary to institute martial law, the protests will be minimal this way."

"I know, but--"

She hushed him by holding up a hand as she began to speak. "In any war, there are losses--and make no mistake, this is a war. It's awful and it's tragic, but that young woman sacrificed herself for others," she pointed out, conveniently forgetting that any sacrifices hadn't been made willingly. "We have to honor her loss by making certain that this mission is successful. Otherwise she died for nothing." It was like the highlights tape of every schmaltzy war movie ever made, but desperate to justify his actions and willing acceptance of similar missions, he lapped up every word.

"I guess you're right," he exhaled at last.

Walsh patted his back as she directed him back toward the Psych building, her office, and the entry into the secret world of the Initiative. "It's hard to be part of a higher calling," she sympathized. "To know secrets that would panic others and send them straight into the arms of danger. We know this town has much higher than normal incidents of HST activity, but if the populace knew the truth, the panic would be a disaster. This way, they stay home in their safe beds and we have the time and the room to hunt these things down and put an end to the danger."

Riley nodded at her reminder. She was right of course. It was just the price of the war that was bothering him. Thank goodness he had such an insightful commander to help him through his doubts. "I know you're right," he admitted. "It's just hard to see people being hurt and not be able to do anything about."

She nodded in understanding. "Of course it is, but that's why what we're doing is so important." They entered the Psych building together, speaking freely since the building was quiet for the weekend.

"Well, I'm just glad that Buffy and Willow didn't see anything. It would have been hard to make them understand the necessity for this operation." His chest puffed out ever so slightly with pride as he continued, "After all, they don't have our understanding of the HST situation." Maggie nodded again, offering a praising smile, but her eyes were flint hard. If the girls had seen her men's faces, the last thing she'd be worrying about was explaining the situation to them. "By the way," she said as they approached the corridor that led to her office, "you're right about Parker. He lost control of the situation and he belongs on report." She still hadn't had a chance to review the video retrieved from the store, but the accounts from her agents in the field had been appalling enough. They'd obviously gotten too excited and tripped all over themselves. How else to explain the fact that an encounter with three girls and one old man had left them all unconscious on the floor? If the officer in charge hadn't been on their payroll, it could have been a hell of a mess.

Riley brightened. He'd really feel much better about everything if Parker was reprimanded for disobeying orders. There was just too much chance of more people getting seriously hurt if all operatives didn't stick to the game plan while on operations like the one at the Twenty-Four/Seven. "I think that's for the best," he agreed with her decision with a precise nod as they came to a halt in front of her office. "I want to make sure we don't have any similar problems on future missions."

Walsh bestowed another smile on him that made him stand a little taller--she so rarely gave them any praise that he knew he'd done well when she smiled at him that way--then reached up to stroke his arm again, her touch very light. "Well, I've got to get some paperwork done," she said as she unlocked her office and stepped inside. "But I want you to know that your thoroughness is one of the reasons you're such a valuable asset to me, Agent Finn."

"Thanks, Dr. Walsh," he said, beaming under her praise, as he hurried away down the hallway.

Maggie slammed the door closed, letting the mask fall away now that she didn't need it anymore. "Well, that," she added with a raised brow, "and the fact that you're dumb as a post and you'd slit those two girls' throats if I ordered you to." She dropped into the office chair behind the desk. "Though I've got to admit that body is..." She trailed off then let out a soft whistle, then shook off those thoughts as she leaned forward to turn on her computer. She had a lot of work to get done. HSTs to control, a man to design, soldiers to manipulate. "A doctor's job is never done," she sighed theatrically as she began opening files, a wry smile touching her lips.

* * * * * * * "So, Willy, what can you tell me?" Buffy questioned as she sidled up the bar in the dark, smoky, underground bar preferred by the demonic denizens of Sunnydale.

The very human bartender looked around nervously, grateful to notice that he had no daytime customers. That was fine by him, particularly with the Slayer nosing around. They didn't take kindly to it when he was seen in the company of someone who regularly shrunk their ranks by dispatching them back to hell, no matter how unwilling he might be in the conversation. "Now, look," his eyes darted nervously toward the rear entrance, which linked into the sewers running under the city--the daytime travel route for those demons with an an allergy to direct sunlight-- "Whatever's up with you, it's no business of mine. I can't help you." He suddenly found himself pressed face down against the top of the bar as the Slayer grabbed him by the shirtfront and hauled him forward as she shoved him down.

"Delaine DuCourvallier," Buffy whispered near the bartender's ear and felt him stiffen.

The bartender twisted so he could stare up at her through wide, terrified eyes, despite the discomfort of his position. "Oh geez, oh shit, you're kidding me, right? I mean, I've heard the legends, but...oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit," he breathed when he saw the deadly serious look on her face.

"Apparently she's here in Sunnydale," Buffy said as she tugged him upright again. "Now, I want to know if you've seen her."

"Seen her?" the bartender squealed. "I'm alive, aren't I?" he demanded, sounding outraged. "Of course I haven't seen her. The only people who've seen her are dead and by that I don't mean dead, but still with us. I mean dead, the permanent, non-moving, six-feet under and staying that way kind. She's crazy," he volunteered without even being asked. "And they say everybody she meets up with winds up dead one way or the other."

"What do you mean by one way or another?" Buffy demanded as she shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Willy shook his head dazedly. "I just mean that according to everything I've ever heard about that chick, there's a really high body count whenever she shows up...and even if she leaves some folks alive, they don't seem to stay that way for long."He shuddered. "Explains why everybody's been all tense around here lately."

Buffy shook him again, her expression deadly serious. "Willy, this would be a very bad time for you to lie to me," she informed him, her voice low and threatening. "Because last night, this bitch attacked my mother and roughed up a friend."

Willy had the good sense to gulp noticeably and shake with stark terror.

Confident that she had his full attention, Buffy hauled him halfway across the bar until they were almost nose to nose. "Now, I suggest you tell me anything you know."

He swallowed again, Adam's apple bobbing against her hand where it was curled into his collar. "Nothin'," he insisted. "I mean just what everybody else knows. She was a Slayer back, like, in medieval times or somethin', and when she tried to ditch the job, the Council handed her over to a buncha vampires."

Buffy frowned. That wasn't the story she'd heard at all, leaving her to wonder where the truth lay.

"I guess they couldn't kill her themselves and they couldn't be without a Slayer...except she got turned and escaped. She's been killing demons and humans since then, though they say she's vowed vengeance against the Council for betraying her."

Wanting to believe he was lying, Buffy shook him again, her expression hard with anger, and was surprised when, instead of launching into another version of his story, he only insisted, "I'm telling you the truth. At least what I've ever heard about it."

"You'd better be," she snarled as she shoved him back.

"Hey, man, I got no reason to lie to protect her. One of her favorite hobbies is s'posed to be killing demons by the truckload. Where you think they all hang out in this 'burg?" He was panting hard, his skin sheen with sweat, eyes wide with terror. "Sheez, I oughta be asking you for protection."

He wasn't lying. Buffy knew Willy well enough to know when he was in lying-through-his-teeth mode and he wasn't. He was genuinely panicked, not just by her threats, but by the thought that this particular demon was in town. The Slayer's brows lifted and she couldn't restrain a disbelieving laugh. "Oh yeah, Willy, I'm in a hurry to do that." She shook her head and turned to leave.

"Come on, I'm human, 'n' you're supposed to protect humans."

"Not this time, Willy. Maybe you should consider another line of work," she suggested as she retrieved her bag from where she'd left it next to the door. "I have a feeling this one just got a whole lot more dangerous."

Out in the sunlight again, she drew Giles' phone from her pocket, dialing as she headed in the direction of her mother's gallery. "Giles, yeah, it's Buffy. Anything to report on your end," she said the instant her Watcher picked up.

"Not really. Your mother has Xander and Anya checking the painting in detail, but they haven't been able to find anything out of the ordinary. She also called, trying to trace information about the original owner of the collection, but hasn't been able to learn anything. Apparently, all of the phone numbers she had have since been disconnected."

"Now, there's a surprise," Buffy muttered dryly, while Giles just continued talking.

"She has a mailing address where she was supposed to send the check, but it's in Shanghai, China, so there's no easy way to trace it. I've put a call into the British embassy there, but I doubt they'll be much help and, all things considered, I don't dare use any Watcher contacts." There was a pause on the other end of the line and Buffy suspected he was debating suggesting they call the Council again.

"Damn," the Slayer sighed, wondering if maybe she was doing the wrong thing in not just letting the Council take care of the problem. "I just talked to Willy. He hasn't seen her. In fact he's quaking in his shoes now that he knows she's in town."

There was a brief pause before Giles replied, "Not too surprising. She has a habit of killing anyone in her vicinity rather indiscriminately."

"Yeah," Buffy exhaled. She started to say something about Willy's other comments, but something held her back. "Typical vampire."

"Hardly," Giles disagreed mildly before continuing. "In any event, we should just be grateful she hasn't linked up with the local demon population. She's quite dangerous enough on her own."

"Yeah." Buffy rounded a corner just down the block from the gallery. "More than dangerous enough, I'd say." The bag slung over her shoulder clanked gently as she jogged across the street. "Look, Giles, I've still got a couple of things I want to check into. I'll call in again later."

A few minutes later, the Slayer found herself standing in the shattered remains of what had been her mother's upscale art gallery. Shattered glass covered the floor between the rubble of what had been expensive display cases. Overhead, the skylight had several panes shattered out and pigeons had found the opening and were roosting in the trendy runs of track lighting that hung from the ceiling. Not good. Not good at all. Buffy wondered if maybe she should suggest her mom bulk up on the prescription pain killers they'd given her at the hospital before coming back, because she wasn't going to handle this well at all.

With a soft sigh, she dropped the weapons bag to the ground and began digging things out, laying the extensive collection out on the floor as her gaze slid around the interior of the building, hunting out and finding any likely looking hiding places for the various implements of death she carried in the bag. She had no intention of going along with DuCourvallier's demands that she appear unarmed, but that didn't mean she had to be obvious about it. She secreted three swords, five daggers, two crossbows--both loaded and with a handful of bolts within reach-plus a dozen stakes, then stepped back to survey her handiwork. No one would ever guess the room was a virtual arsenal of hidden weaponry. It just looked like a trashed art gallery.

She glanced at her watch. Barely one, which meant she had time to get back to the dorm, find out what Willow had learned and maybe even catch a few Z's. She massaged the back of her neck, thinking that last option was deeply appealing. She'd barely slept for two days and even she was starting to feel the lack of sleep. Retrieving the now empty weapons duffel, she paused just long enough to lock up before heading in the direction of the campus at a jog.

Part Thirteen

Buffy returned to their dorm room to find Willow still diligently working on her laptop,, nearly a ream of printouts, a couple of empty chip and candy wrappers and what looked like about a half a dozen empty cans of Jolt (tm) Cola standing in mute testimony to the hours of research she'd already put in.

Buried in her work, she didn't realize the Slayer had entered until she felt strong hands land on her shoulders, and Buffy leaned down to see the screen as she murmured near Willow's ear, "I hope I don't have to read all of that before tonight." The Slayer gestured toward the thick stack of papers.

Willow felt her heart catch as she turned in her chair, eyes lifting to so she was looking at the Slayer's profile. "I-I didn't hear you come in," she stammered, startled to find herself no longer alone.

Buffy smiled, oddly happy just to be back in her friend's company. With Willow, she could almost forget the danger stalking them all. "What can I say, silent Slayer feet." She nodded toward the computer screen. "It looks like you found something." Then she glanced at the stack of printouts again. "Quite a lot of something, actually."

Willow nodded. "I've been scanning all of the art history sources that have any information on Delaine DuCourvallier and cross matching the information with anything I can find on secret British societies of the period." She glanced at the stack of papers. "I just printed everything I could find."

"And?" Buffy prompted.

"I've only had time to skim things and try to pull out what looks most important--but there's not really a whole lot that's very substantial after her supposed death in Italy. Before that, there's a fair amount, mostly because she was from one of the more powerful families in France, but it's not very interesting...at least not that I've found so far...mostly an accounting of how the estates were run and political alliances and stuff. The Watcher stuff on the other hand, is pretty sparse but pretty gruesome. So you want to start pre or post fangs?"

Buffy sighed softly, wishing she was surprised, but the council never had been terribly forthcoming when it came to information. "Let's go for the beginning of fanginess and post-fanginess," Buffy said as she pulled her chair over and sank down on it, sitting backwards with her chin pillowed on the backrest.

"Well, if we back it up just a little, we find that she was pretty well educated, particularly for a woman of the time. Her mother came from a family with some pretty funny ideas--like the notion that women should be just as educated as men--"

"How strange of them," Buffy interrupted with more than a touch of sarcasm.

"In this period it was," Willow noted before continuing. "Her mother had her tutored in French, English, Latin, music, mathematics, and even science and astronomy. Now, strange as it may seem, this didn't particularly please the Watchers. In fact, there are several mentions of sanctions against her for reading various books in her Watcher's library--"

"They punished her for reading?" Buffy said disbelievingly as she tried to envision Giles doing anything that boneheaded. More often than not, the man was frustrated because Buffy couldn't keep up with both her classroom studies and whatever research he wanted done at any given time. "I'm thinking that's a little weird."

Willow nodded her agreement. "From what little I can tell--I mean it's not like they just laid it all out--the Watchers liked to have absolute control over the flow of information their Slayer's received. Literacy was not encouraged."

"Charming," the Slayer murmured thoughtfully. Certainly, they'd never been pleased with her unconventional way of doing things, and from what she'd seen with both Faith and Kendra, they had no great interest in seeing their Slayer's educated beyond the skills required for vampire killing even in the present. She'd been lucky that, as Watcher's went, Giles was nearly as unconventional, in his own stuffy way, as she was.

Willow grabbed one of Giles' journals off the stack of books, flipping it open to a page she'd already flagged. "She was also in trouble because she hated the killing--they accused her of being sympathetic to the demons--she hated the fighting--they implied she was a coward--and she kept sneaking paints into her room--which of course, they completely forbade...."

"Of course." Buffy didn't want to admit how much she was relating to the long lost Slayer, despite Giles' remonstrations. Of course, whoever that girl had been, she was long dead, her soul freed from her body to be replaced by a demonic thing. She gnawed on her lower lip as she determinedly reminded herself of that reality. Whatever sympathy she was feeling had no place in the present. The Vampire-Slayer had to die. She just had to keep reminding herself of what she'd done to Xander and her mother.

"Four years after being taken to England, she tried to run away... they dragged her back...and then she apparently made a deal with the local vampires to kill her Watcher--"

"She must have thought it was the only way she could escape them," Buffy mused out loud.

Willow nodded. "Yeah...only instead of her Watcher, it was his wife, Elizabeth VanOoten, who was killed. They caught Delaine the same night it happened and she was put on trial." Willow looked up at Buffy again. "Unfortunately, according to this, any trial transcripts were burned when the vampires attacked during the trail. They decimated the council--only two members survived--and turned Delaine. One of the accounts claims she gave herself to them, shouting that she'd destroy the council now...if she had to destroy the whole world to do it. After that, they spent the next several years rebuilding the core council from a surviving group of lower level Watchers."

"And DuCourvallier?" Buffy interrupted. She didn't care about the council. She cared about her enemy.

"She disappeared. According to this, they've had hit teams out looking for her every day since she was turned. Looks to me like they haven't done the greatest job though, because the records are really sparse. She was supposedly involved in several pretty nasty demonic summonings in the two decades that followed as well a series of attacks on the council during the 1670's and 80's, but there are very few details. Apparently she didn't leave survivors."

Buffy paled. No survivors. God, her mother had been lucky. She resolved to buy Xander...well, not a beer, because they were all off the stuff anymore, but something. Maybe a milkshake. No, not nearly enough. Burger, fries and the works to go with it. Hell, she'd just buy him junkfood till he couldn't eat anymore. It was as good a way as any to blow her college fund.

The Slayer was still lost in thought as Willow flipped to another page, her finger tracing over the ancient, yellowed parchment. "Giles' account of how strong and fast she was looks to be pretty accurate though...at least if this one story is true. She was spotted going toe to toe with a demon better than twice her height in the 1740's, and she was the one still standing when it was over...but the street they were on wasn't."

Buffy let out a soft whistle. That wasn't good.

"She pops up again in the account by a Watcher tracing vampiric activity in China during the 1840's. The country was in a mess because of the Opium Wars with England--the British kept forcing the import of opium when the Chinese tried to ban it-- Anyway, apparently, her preferred...method...of feeding...." Willow sounded ill.

"Just spill it, Will," Buffy prompted.

"She'd buy an addicted prostitute opium, let her use it...and then...when she was...." Willow fell silent, a muscle pulsing in her jaw. She took a breath, getting herself under control before continuing, "After the prostitute had used the drug...and was...well, inebriated...she'd feed. She killed them...and never turned them as far as the Watcher could tell."

The Slayer's eyes were closed, her expression twisted by revulsion. She'd heard worse in the course of her duties, but for some reason, she found this latest news more disturbing than most.

"The Watcher tried to raise a group of locals to hunt her down, but by the time he managed, she'd disappeared. It's the last confirmed sighting in the journals..." Willow snapped the book closed. "Everything else in here is too general...too uncertain...to be of any use." She grabbed for a printout she'd set aside from the thick stack. "I also two related accounts of her possible activities that don't come from the Watcher journals." She reached behind herself, tapping a key to bring up a picture onscreen. It was a painting showing a pretty young woman, very naked, auburn hair flowing around her shoulders as she flinched away from two men leering over a low wall at her. "The painting is Susannah and the Elders," she said by way of explanation.

Buffy's brows lifted. "I'm assuming this relates somehow?" she questioned after a beat.

Willow nodded. "When Delaine was studying with Orazio, he was also teaching his daughter, Artemesia--she became a pretty well respected artist in her own right. About two years after this was painted, she was raped by another artist named Agostino Tassi. In court documents, he made various allegations about her moral character." Willow's tone signaled her disapproval of what she'd read. "Among other things, he offered this painting as proof that Artemesia had had an 'unnatural relationship' with Delaine DuCourvallier and was an immoral and licentious woman."

Buffy peered at the softly rounded features of the woman in the painting as she leaned closer to the screen, trying to commit every curve to memory. "So this is her?"

The hacker shrugged. "I don't know for certain--it's not exactly well documented--but it's mentioned in several places and she...um...pretty much fits the descriptions I've found...except, well, hair color--she's always described as a blond--but that's pretty inconsequential."

"Call me funny, but a rapist isn't my ideal information source," Buffy admitted uncomfortably after a long moment.

The hacker didn't argue as she continued. "I know--and since he'd already spent time in jail for having incestuous relations with his sister-in-law and been accused of trying to have his wife murdered, there's considerable reason to doubt his word--but others had the same opinion...not that they had an unnatural relationship, but that Delaine DuCourvallier was the model for the painting. It was pretty scandalous at the time. I mean young ladies of good birth didn't appear naked in public--in paintings or otherwise."

Buffy continued studying the piece, trying to imagine what the real life version of the figure would have looked like. Like most graphics on the web, it was fairly low resolution, leaving her wishing she could make out the details better. "All right, so for the moment, we'll assume it's a decent likeness."

Willow grabbed another printout. "In a related account, there's a mention in the records of the court of King Charles I of England, in the year 1641--Artemesia was in residence in the English court at the King's invitation--apparently, he served as patron to a number of artists. The country was on the verge of civil war and Artemesia was getting ready to leave to return to Italy, when she reported to the castle warden that she'd had a late night visitor--according to the documents, she was badly shaken, and insisted that Delaine DuCourvallier had called to her in her apartments, drawing her outside. She said the ghost told her that Tassi was dead."

The Slayer's expression was unreadable. "Was he?"

Willow nodded. "Decapitated in a whorehouse in Naples two months before...which is ironic in view of the fact that, after the rape, one of Artemesia's favorite subjects was the biblical tale of Judith slaying Holofernes...by beheading him."

Buffy's brows drew together, a neat line forming between them as she considered the information. Had the vampire DuCourvallier taken revenge on the part of someone the human DuCourvallier had known before dying? She'd never heard of vampire doing anything like that. In fact, they were far more likely to kill those they'd loved in life than those they hated. If it was true, this was not your average bite or fight vampire. "Anything else?" she asked after a long moment.

"One other thing that might be relevant..." Willow slowed, her tone becoming hesitant. "For the most part, she doesn't seem to have had a lot to do with demons or vampires--at least not in any way that left them alive...or not alive, but mobile...you know what I mean--but there is a mention of one vampire she was supposedly seen with several times in Paris in the 1820's...." Willow fell silent, her head bowed, visibly uncomfortable.

Which could have only one possible meaning in Buffy's experience. "Angelus," she exhaled.

Willow nodded. "Just for a short time...but...yeah...."

"I wonder if she's the one who taught him how to draw?" the Slayer exhaled wryly. Sometimes she wondered why it was the things that the demon had done had the power to hurt her. It hadn't been Angel, not her Angel. At least the pain wasn't anywhere near as sharp as it had once been. The months away from him had at least numbed her to the agony of thinking about his other life.

Willow's eyes were still downcast, and she took a deep breath, leaving Buffy with the distinct feeling she wasn't going to like what came next. She was right. "I...um...I kinda thought maybe he'd know something that wasn't in the books...."

"Will, you didn't..." Buffy sighed.

The hacker sighed softly, signaling that she had. "Well, I mean...I wasn't sure you'd feel comfortable calling...so...I called...he wasn't in...so I left a message...with Cordelia...." Willow's tone made it plain that that had not been a fun moment. "Are you mad at me?" she asked in a tiny voice.

Buffy drew a deep breath, then exhaled a heavy sigh. "No," she said at last. She reached out and patted Willow's shoulder. "You're right...if he...he was...with her...." Just getting the words out made Buffy nauseous. She massaged her temple, wishing she could make the headache suddenly pulsing behind her eyes go away. "You did the right thing," she said after a beat.

Willow shrugged. "Well, I just thought you should know...in case...y'know, in case he calls...so you won't be...surprised...."

The Slayer nodded, then tipped her head forward, hiding her face in her arms where they were folded across the back of the chair. She was just tired of all of it; Watchers, Slayer, vampires, and most especially Vampire-Slayers. She was seriously considering just getting up and moving lock, stock, and barrel to Antigua--not for any particular reason, just because Antigua sounded better than Sunnydale at that point--when she heard the soft creak of Willow's chair.

"I'm sorry if my calling Angel upset you," the hacker apologized.

"Not your fault," Buffy mumbled without looking up. "You just did what you thought was best." There was a long moment of pensive silence, and then Buffy felt warm hands land on her shoulders.

"You must be exhausted," Willow murmured as she slowly began massaging her best friend's taut shoulders. She hadn't thought about it before standing and reaching out to work away Buffy's aches and pains just like she'd done so many times before, but this time she knew it was different the moment she made contact and felt Buffy tense under her hands. She froze almost instantly, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain whether stopping or continuing was likely to draw more attention to the situation. A dull flush sliding over her skin, she just stood there for a long moment, unmoving, but not breaking contact.

Buffy could feel her friend's apprehension, not to mention her own, but at the same time, it felt so right, so.... She couldn't think of a word, except maybe comforting. And familiar. Deja Vu all over again. And comforting and familiar suddenly had an irresistible allure. Consciously, she could attribute it to the myriad of times they'd touched each other over the years, the innocent hugs, friendly handholding, and comforting backrubs ... but ... somehow it felt ... different ... and not just because of what had happened between then. There was something else there as well; something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Buffy was still pondering the paradox when she felt Willow's hands break contact with her shoulders. "Don't stop," she exhaled without thinking. In an instant, the air thickened with their mutual awareness. "I mean...it feels...good...." Oh, that'll help break the tension, Buffy derided herself. She kept her face hidden in her arms, blushing furiously as she kept trying to recover. "Tense," she mumbled. "My shoulders are ... tense and...it...helps...." Just quit while you're behind, she silently chided herself. Just sit here and enjoy and whatever you do, don't think. It's all okay, so long as you don't think.

Willow swallowed hard, silently willing her hands to stop shaking. She'd done this plenty of times; massaging away the Slayer's multitude of aches and pains. Except, those times they hadn't spent the previous night making love, hadn't kissed and touched, and made each other cry out with need. It was all confusing, scary--and wonderfully exhilarating--like coming home after being away for too long. Her heart thumping in her chest, Willow lowered her hands to Buffy's shoulders, smoothing outward from the curve of her neck, pressing in with her thumbs in rhythmic strokes. Buffy had stripped off her jacket on entering and was wearing a simple tank top that left her neck, arms, and shoulders almost entirely bare, and Willow was very much aware of the texture of warm silk skin overlaying taut steel cabled muscles. She continued the firm, slow caresses, feeling Buffy's muscles relax and warm under her fingers, even as her mind kept summoning up memories of the tastes and textures of the Slayer's body.

Buffy felt her body relax and threaten to go limp as Willow continued massaging her neck and shoulders. "Better than 'Magic Fingers,'" she exhaled. In two days her emotions had been all over the map, but suddenly it was all forgotten. She was right where she wanted to be.

The hacker couldn't repress a smile as she pressed the heel of her hand into the center of Buffy's back, working it down the length of her spine. "I aim to please," she exhaled as she continued kneading the Slayer's narrow back and shoulders, growing more comfortable with each stroke.

"And you do," Buffy breathed, letting herself float while Willow took care of her. Emotional stress and 48 hours with very little sleep had left her on the verge of collapse, and the soothing massage was only making her more aware of how close to the limit she'd pushed herself. Long minutes passed while the Slayer enjoyed the gentle ministrations and seriously considered simply falling asleep where she sat. It felt perfectly natural when she lifted her hands, holding them up over her head in silent invitation. She didn't know if Willow would understand the unspoken signal--didn't even know if she understood it herself--but after a brief moment, she felt the warmth of slender fingers wrapping around her palms.

"Buffy?" Willow's voice was a gaspy, chokey version of its normal self that made Buffy smile in spite of everything. There was something so cute about nervous Willow. She gently tugged Willow's hands down, pulling the hacker's arms around her until she felt warm curves pressed against her back. The tips of crimson barely brushed Buffy's bare shoulder as the hacker leaned forward until her lips were near the Slayer's cheek, their hair blending together in contrasting strands of red and blond.

"You should get some sleep," the hacker whispered, her warm breath playing over the Slayer's cheek.

Buffy's eyes were closed as she nodded. "Later," she breathed. It wasn't a conscious decision, just a natural progression from comfort and safety to need and desire. Still holding Willow's hands loosely in her own, Buffy rose gracefully, the movement toppling the chair. It fell the floor forgotten as the Slayer released her hold on Willow's hands, turning inside the comforting warmth of her arms before she had a chance to drop them to her sides. Then, reaching behind herself, she threaded her fingers with Willow's, holding the hacker's hands right where they were as she crossed the tiny distance that still lay between them. Her head canted one way, Willow's the other, and then their lips met, the kiss tender and trusting.

Soft, warm, the contrasting textures of sharp teeth, a rough tongue, and velvety lips, kisses trading back and forth until they were both gasping and shivering. "The computer," Buffy groaned through the shared bonding of their lips. "Needs to be...Offline." That was as responsible as she was capable of being at that moment, despite knowing that there were more productive things she could be doing to ready for the night ahead. More kissage followed, despite any good intentions. Lots more kissage. "Mmm, needs to be offline," Willow agreed long moments later, but they didn't separate, instead leaning harder into each other. "... in a ... moment..."

Opting for the direct route, the Slayer reached behind herself and simply yanked the phone cord out of the wall, not caring when the tiny plastic piece that usually snapped it tightly in place went spinning one way while the cord fell in the opposite direction. Willow, who normally would have gone spastic over such an event, barely glanced over. She had other things on her mind.

Clothes were peeled and dropped or tossed, buttons popped, collars pulled out of shape; whatever it took to remove them quickly as they made their way to the bed. Buffy landed on the bottom, steadying Willow's hips as the hacker came down over her, then opening her mouth to the soft lips that found hers again.

They kissed, touched, stroked, caressed, saying with their bodies what they couldn't see clear to say with words, releasing themselves to the passion that neither quite understood, not knowing of the cruel game played with thoughts and memories, understanding only that flesh seemed to comprehend what the mind resisted.

And as she arched over her lover, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, the Slayer felt more at peace than she had in months. Even knowing that she faced probable death in a few scant hours.

Part Fourteen