Once again, it was a scream that started it. Screams were common things when you patrolled the dark streets of Sunnydale at night, and Buffy had heard a lot of them over the years. But this one was different. This one had a blood-curdling, I’ve just looked into the heart of hell note in it. And it went on for quite a while – which was unusual, because most of those sort of screams usually ended in an abrupt gurgle of death. It seemed to be coming from the oldest, darkest part of the cemetery, the end she didn’t bother patrolling much anymore since the majority of its inhabitants were either dust, genuinely dead, or living (make that unliving) elsewhere. Trouble usually sprang up from the busy end – new graves, new vamps, a little black magic or a lot of bad karma – and not even the lowlifes like Spike went slumming in the dust and cobwebs of the past these days.

Nevertheless, there was screaming. A lot of it. Buffy grabbed a stake from her pocket, tossed her bag over her shoulder and headed towards trouble at a run.

The oldest part of the cemetery was also the most neglected. The grass was knee high round the graves, the brambles thick over the crypts and if there ever had been flowers in any of the decorative urns laid out for them, they’d long since withered into non-existence. The Slayer hurtled round a yew edged corner and came to a momentary halt, trying to assess the situation. There were two young people huddled on the path down by the old Masterson crypt. One of them was glancing around with decided panic. The other one looked as if he’d been the one screaming; his hands were pressed to his head on either side and his whole body was juddering.

"When will people learn that Sunnydale is no place to play Dare after dark?" Buffy wondered, asking the night, since there was no-one else about to answer the question. It was a rhetorical one, in any case. Kids had been daring each other to do stupid things since the world began, and they’d probably go on doing it until it came to its inevitable end. Which wouldn’t be soon. Not if Buffy had anything to do with it.

"Cut it out, Peter," the panicked boy was saying, tugging anxiously at his friends shoulder. "It was just a shadow. That’s all. What’s got into you?"

Good question. Peter was a youth of fifteen or sixteen at a guess, wearing a old lettered sweatshirt and pre-faded jeans. His companion was a little younger; his jacket covered a grubby t-shirt and there were two bulging bags sitting at his feet. Not two kids on a dare, then, but two runaways, looking for a safe place to crash. Sunnydale Northern cemetery was the last place on earth that they should be.

"Boys," Buffy began to say, tucking her stake back in her pocket and striding down the path towards them. "Something tells me you took a wrong turn somewhere …"

Her voice tailed into silence. The younger boy had straightened up and was backing away in horror. The Slayer didn’t blame him. Peter had thrown his head back, just like a wolf, and let out an ear shattering howl.

"Now that’s not the usual reaction," Buffy muttered disconcertedly, dipping her hand back for the stake, just in case. "What – I got cobweb hair or something?" She half lifted her hand to check, dragging it back again with self annoyance. This was not the time …

The howl died away. The boy’s head jerked down, to glare at her across the distance, his eyes glowing a deep and disturbing red. Then he spun, making a savage grab for his companion, who leapt back with a cry of terror – and immediately fell over a hidden tombstone.

"Bummer," Buffy said, and raced to the attack.

Her first thought was to just restrain the boy – although the demony eyes thing was not a good sign. Nor were the three inch talons that had suddenly sprouted from the youngster’s fingertips. She dodged the slashing blow that was aimed in her direction, blocked the downsweep of the other arm and kicked out – hard – into the youngster’s midriff. He flew back with a oof of pain, slammed into a tilted tombstone – and collapsed into a heap, a little like a discarded doll. Buffy bounced back into a wary ready stance, watching him warily for a second or two. When he didn’t move, she took a cautious step forward – just as a swirl of darkness oozed its way out of his body and reformed itself into a vague, shifting shape made of shadows.

"Oh my god," she said. She’d never seen anything like this before. It was big – at least man sized – and it had two long taloned arms that reached almost to the ground. It also had those big red, glowing eyes, which sat in the patch of darkness which made its face and it glared at her with a look that would haunt her dreams for nights to come. Her hesitation was only momentary; it was followed by a quick spin of the stake and a determined throw, straight at the apparition’s heart. The wood flew fast and true – and went on flying, straight through the creature and on, until it embedded itself into a nearby tree.

Just to her right, the younger boy had scrabbled back to his feet, and was staring at the impossible thing with a wide eyed look of utter terror. Buffy didn’t blame him. A cold wave of malice was swirling out of it, running icy fingers of fear up and down her spine. This wasn’t your average vamp, or even a common or garden demon. It was something very old and very nasty and instinct was screaming at her to get away from it as fast as she possibly could.

"Run,’" she ordered, stepping between the thing and the boy. He took another hesitant step backwards.

"Peter…"

"Run," she repeated urgently. The thing was moving forward, flowing rather than walking. "I’ll get Peter. Just go!"

He ran. She desperately wanted to run after him, but there was no way that she’d leave the other kid behind. Instead she dived forward, tucking into a roll intended to take her past the looming creature so that she could bounce back up beside the unconscious boy. Whatever the thing was, it was faster than her; cold claws raked through her shoulder and side as the thing’s talons struck - and white fire answered the touch, flaring up from the narrow bracelet which encircled her wrist. For a moment the nearby world was rimmed with light, then it - and the thing – were gone, one leaving a dazzle of spots before her eyes and the other a whiff of something utterly disgusting lingering in the air.

"Big bad shadowy thing," Willow considered, flicking through yet another book and frowning at some of the illustrations she came across.

"Uhuh," Buffy confirmed, massaging her frozen shoulder and trying to decide if the pins and needles were a good thing or not. "Smelt bad."

"Rotten bad, chemically bad, or any other kind of bad?" Giles asked, reappearing from the back of the shop with another pile of books – and a hot steaming towel, which he draped over Buffy’s shoulder as he passed. She smiled thanks at him, rubbing the heat into her still chilled skin.

"Rotten bad, I think. Um – a bad eggy, left out too long kind of smell."

"Brimstone?" Spike suggested from his place in the corner.

"Is that a real thing?" Dawn asked, looking up from her homework to frown at him. "I mean – I always thought it sounded silly in the stories. How can stone smell of anything?"

"Brimstone," Giles explained patiently, replacing the pile of books Tara had finished with and handing Willow a new volume from his stack, "is an archaic name for sulphur. Which we happen to have a supply of, of course." He pointed over to the far end of the shop, where Anya was busy doing her nightly restocking of the shelves.

"Shows how much you know," Spike scoffed. "There’s a big difference between the sulphur you dig out of the ground in this world, and the brimstone that gets brought in from others. Real brimstone has a tang to it. Kind of a – aroma de pit, you might say. But if that was brimstone you smelt – the real thing, then this – shadow … He’s come from somewhere real deep. It’s not fashionable with the common demon set these days."

"It felt old," Buffy said, trying to ignore the way Spike was grinning at her. Giles had given the vampire a decidedly irritated look. He really hated to be corrected on things like that. "Really old. And nasty. I hope Peter’s going to be okay."

"He seemed to be," Willow said, opening the new book with cautious fingers. This one was actually crackling at her. "A bit dazed and cold, but the bump on his head wasn’t that serious. Xander called from the shelter," she added, nodding at the mobile phone which was sitting in the middle of the table. "They’ve found both boys a place."

"Good," Giles approved abstractedly. "That’s good. It’s too dangerous for children like that to be out on the street. Too many of them just go missing …" He sighed, sitting down beside Dawn and borrowing her pencil so that he could make a note of something he’d found. She frowned at him and plucked the writing implement back – raising a general smile around the table because Giles went on writing for at least three words before he realised the pencil had gone. "Oh," he registered. "Um – were you using that?"

"Yes," Dawn answered pointedly, then sighed, dug in her pencil case and handed him another one. "What’s ‘coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt’ mean?"

"Those who cross the sea change the sky, not their spirits," he answered promptly. "And you should be getting on with your homework, not reading Horace."

"This is my homework," she complained. "It’s the quote at the start of the chapter. I’m too young to tackle all this philosophy stuff."

"Mmm," Giles considered, peering at the text she had propped on the table. "I wouldn’t have thought an essay on being true to your nature would be beyond you. Quote some Milton in response. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.’"

"Huh," Spike snorted. "Fellow that had never been to hell, obviously."

"Or heaven," Buffy added, half under her breath. "Guys, can we focus here? Big mean and nasty out there. Tried to possess me. Remember?"

"Ah – yes," Giles noted a little embaressedly. "Shades and shadows …" He dragged a book out from the pile he’d dropped beside Tara and frowned at it. "Not a common apparition, that’s for certain. There is a school of thought that suggests the followers of Hecate had power to summon living shadows, but the references are obscure and the thing you describe – doesn’t sound very Greek."

"Didn’t like Greek fire," she said, lifting her wrist so that the crystal on her bracelet glittered in the electric light. "I think this warded it off."

"Hurrah for Hepheastus," Spike muttered disparagingly. He was not a fan of Buffy’s latest accessory, which had a habit of giving him electric shocks, like little static discharges whenever they got too close. Since he wanted to get close, it was driving him a little crazy.

"Got it!" Tara exclaimed, having been diligently nose deep in research while the rest of them bounced the problem around. "Look – " She turned the book Giles had just given her around. There, in an old woodcut, right in the middle of the page, was an image that Buffy recognised immediately. A dark, hulking form, through which the background of a roughly sketched landscape could still be seen.

"Apparus luneris Malumbra," Giles read, peering through his glasses at the peculiar hieroglyphs that had been written beneath the image. "How odd."

"Odd?" Willow piped up, leaning over her girlfriend’s shoulder to get a better look at the page. "Good odd, or bad odd?"

"Just – odd," he decided, looking decidedly puzzled. "The picture’s a copy of a much earlier image – something off a wall painting by the look of it. The script is Assyrian. But the words – If I’m not mistaken, that’s a dialect of Enochian."

"Which is?" Buffy prompted, used to Giles getting all academic on them at odd moments. He didn’t answer for a moment, focused on reading the text beside the picture – which also looked as if it had been copied from something much earlier. "Giles?"

"Mm? Oh – ahm – E-enochian. The so-called language of the angels. No-one knows exactly where it came from. But a lot of very early magical texts were written in it. Is there more of this?"

"Bits," Tara said, turning the pages back to show him. "There’s a lot of this weird script, and a whole load of latin. Is this it?"

"That’s it," Buffy confirmed gloomily, just as Anya wandered over to see what they were looking at. "Mr Smoky himself."

"Oh – my - god," Anya reacted, her gasp of horror turning every eye in the room towards her with concern. "You met one of those? You can’t have done. They’re just a myth. A story demon mothers tell their children to make them misbehave. They’re not real," she insisted, at the look Buffy was giving her. "They – they can’t be."

"Why? What are they?" Dawn asked, looking decidedly alarmed. The ex-demon assayed a nervous laugh.

"The Malumbra," she said, trying hard to turn the word into a joke. "The shadows of dead Watchers …"

"She meant the Grigori, of course," Giles explained, earning himself a oh of comprehension from his audience. "The Celestial Watchers – not our august body – although I can think of one of two members of the council who might qualify for demonification when the next apocalypse comes round."

Wesley chuckled at the thought, knowing exactly who he was talking about. "Aren’t the Grigori supposed to be a myth themselves?" he asked, glancing in his rear view mirror before turning onto the next boulevard. His passenger sighed.

"I’d always thought so," he said. "But – it seems not. Somewhere near the dawn of time an entire class of angels, led by a prince of their order, descended from heaven to help emergent man free himself from the rule of demons and teach them the truth about good and evil."

"Heavenly missionaries," Wesley considered. "Probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Aren’t half of them supposed to have become corrupted by the experience?"

Giles snorted. "Most of them were," he said gloomily. "They were just innocent souls. No idea what they were getting into." He threw his company a knowing look. "Rather like you and me, really. All the books in the world can’t prepare you for your first vampire – or demon," he added, a little uncomfortably. Wesley nodded, well aware that the man beside him had dabbled in black magic and dealings with demons in his youth, rebelling against his family traditions until sense had reasserted itself and he’d returned to the Watchers’ cause. It was one of the things that made the council consider him something of a maverick – and why he’d ended up being the one sent to watch the hellmouth, rather than the Slayer herself.

That had all back fired, of course. Buffy had moved to Sunnydale shortly after acquiring her powers, and Rupert Giles had promptly taken her under his wing. Much to the benefit of the entire world, which might otherwise be dust, dead, or demon dominated by now.

"Some of them aren’t so bad," he said, unable to help the slightly wry smile that accompanied the remark. He got an equally wry smile in return.

"I hope not." Giles’ words were soft, but they carried a weight that sent a shiver down his friend’s spine. The man had spent his life fighting the forces of darkness – only to find himself numbered among them. It couldn’t be an easy burden to bear.

"You’re suggesting the Grigori fell prey to temptation because they didn’t know what it was?" Wesley said, pondering the idea. "Is it possible to corrupt true innocence?"

"Not exactly. I think it was more that they didn’t realise what was happening until after it happened. If they were truly innocent, they couldn’t have been tasked with teaching anyone. They had to know good from evil – and once they recognised what they’d been doing, they had to make a choice. To turn back – reject their appetites, and strengthen their self control – or to go on and descend willingly into the dark. Even the first of the fallen angels once sat at the heart of the Light."

"And the first true sin was pride," Wesley capped, understanding what he was getting at. "By refusing to admit they were wrong, they’d inevitably become the things they’d been sent to make a stand against."

"Exactly." Giles shifted in his seat, watching the world beyond the window with haunted eyes. "Some embraced the change, some rejected it – and one, being the brightest of them, and falling furthest because of it – couldn’t bear the truth of what he’d become. He went mad. Utterly mad. He began a crusade against demon and angel alike, slaughtering both, stealing their power and enslaving their dead shadows to his will."

"The Malumbra."

"The Malumbra," the storyteller echoed bleakly. "He led them on a campaign that devastated the earth and cut a swathe through hell. In the end, the princes of darkness rose against him en masse. They couldn’t defeat him, but they could contain him. They locked him into a hell dimension of his very own and they hid the key so that no-one would ever find it."

"But someone did?" Wesley hazarded. There was a sense of decided horror in his voice; the mayor’s demonic ambitions were nothing more than petty playground stuff compared with the sort of creature Giles was talking about.

"Someone did. A vampire – Cordwin Metcalfe, embraced in the 18^th century, ambitious, and a little too knowledgeable for his own good. He stole the Eye of Harmony after it was unearthed on a dig in Iran and he brought it to Sunnydale thinking he could use it to open the hellmouth and make himself a kingdom on earth. Trouble was, it wasn’t the hell mouth that opened. It was a portal into Malador. The place where Salamiel had been chained – and where he had been waiting for a chance to exact his revenge."

Wesley shuddered at the thought. "A creature like that, unleashed on the world? Why didn’t he just come straight out and wreak hell and havoc?" he asked. Giles stared out into the night and didn’t answer for a moment or two.

"Because he couldn’t," he said eventually. "He was chained, held within his personal hell by spells that turned his own power against him. He was weak, too – time passes more quickly in Malador than it does here. Five hours for every one on earth. And he’d been there a long time. Like the Malumbra that still served him, he was little more than a shadow or his former self. But he was still - dangerous. Still driven. And still completely insane. He absorbed Metcalfe’s memory and power – and then started to send his servants into the mortal realm to bring him souls so that he could feed. Young souls. Runaway children mostly. The ones that wouldn’t be missed."

"God," Wesley breathed, pulling into the hotel parking lot and turning to look at his company with horror. "A fallen angel feeding on the innocent?"

"Feeding on the abused," Giles corrected bitterly. There was an edge in his voice which spoke eloquently of his own horror at what lay behind the simple words. "Buffy rescued two of them that night. They were lucky. What none of us knew was that she’d been followed – or that their master had ambitions far beyond the usual preying on the weak. We were hunting shadows, and getting nowhere with it. It was a week before he made his move. And it was one n-none of us expected …"

Long Sea Crossing-Chapter One. Part Two. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by anyone - Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or Buffy the Vampire slayer trademarks or copyrights.
© 2003. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill