"I was working down in Wilton Meadows at the time," Sky explained, helping herself to a second taco. "It’s this – one horse sort of town. One where the horse died and no-one bothered to replace it."

Angel snorted. "Think I’ve been there," he said with a grin. "Well, maybe not there, but places like it."

"Tell me about it," she laughed. "Sounds wonderful, huh? Wilton Meadows. Except there are no meadows and Wilton was the name of the con-man who sold parcels of worthless land to get people to live there. It’s right on the edge of the desert, next to an Indian reservation and overlooking some real badlands. Nothing much happens out there – just the usual stuff. Domestic violence, a little date rape, kids in trouble, that sort of thing. I was working for the County force, supposedly focusing on special projects. That was meant to mean I got all the abused kids, the beaten wives and the missing person cases. What it really meant was that I got to twiddle my thumbs a lot. When I wasn’t being asked to help out with the Saturday night drunks or the prostitutes that took advantage of them. It was a life, but I wasn’t really living it. My dad had died, about a year before; I didn’t have anyone else and I didn’t really know where I was going.

"Then we got this call – about two missing kids who hadn’t come home when they were supposed to." She paused to throw a glance at her husband, and she smiled. "After which, my life was never the same again …"

"Unit two-twenty. We’ve cleared the Hoskin’s land and are now moving down river."

The com unit crackled as she thumbed the switch. It had been a hot day and the air was heavy with lingering heat. "Unit two twenty, we copy that. Area 15 and 17 is reported clear. It’s starting to get dark, deputy. You sure you can carry on?"

Sky Zaherne, deputy in the West County force and currently co-opted leader of one of three search units sent out to find the Millen girls, heaved a quiet sigh. "I got two missing kids out here, Jo. What do you think?"

The com unit crackled again. There was going to be thunder tonight. "Copy that, two-twenty. Call in when you can."

She dropped the handset back into its cradle and leaned back out of the car, glancing around, trying to assess the situation. They’d been following the course of the narrow stream that backed the old Hoskins place, since Jodie and Angela’s father had suggested the girls liked to go there to hunt fossils and play. The stream itself was little more than a muddy runnel, cutting out into the desert to vanish somewhere in the uneven ground that marked the start of real badland country – but it had its moments, and it supported a line of scrub and brush that marked out its territory, even in the growing gloom. Somewhere up ahead there was the entrance to a narrow valley, one the Indians claimed as sacred land. And beyond that, nothing but raw desert. She doubted the girls would have wandered much further than where she was standing right now. It had been a hot day. They’d probably found a cool spot by the stream and gone to sleep there. They might even stumble over them any minute.

"Okay," she decided, directing her three man unit to spread out on either side of the scrub line. She put Linus at the far end, since he had the sharpest eyes, and sent Kingsley and Artie along the midline, close to the stream. She took point herself, her instincts warning her that something was about to happen, and knowing that she needed to be alert for it. They’d cover the next two hundred yards or so and then she’d send Artie back to bring up the car while the rest of them continued on. It wasn’t the best of search patterns, but it was all she could do with what she had.

Barely a hundred yards later, they spotted the pick-up. It wasn’t an old vehicle, but neither was it tourist new. It had been parked under a sloping overhang, presumably to shield it from the direct impact of the sun, but also serving to effectively conceal it from all but the closest observers. She signaled the men to stay put and walked over to take a closer look.

The cab appeared to be empty except for an abandoned jacket, tossed onto the passenger’s side of the seat. It looked like a hunter’s jacket, a little battered and stained with desert dust. She tried the door, but it was locked, so she slid round and took a look in the back. There was a tarpaulin covering most of the cargo; the shapes of boxes and softer bundles emerged from under it like a landscape frozen in ice. She lifted one end and took a quick peek, finding nothing more than bundled blankets, a little canned food and a box full of books. Old books. Books with leather bindings and gilt inlay, with yellowed pages and even, in one or two cases, latches and locks. They seemed out of place in the back of a dust spattered, well used pick-up, especially one packing someone’s life in it. She knew the signs. The truck was somebody’s home – or the closest thing to home they had. A drifter, passing through, looking for work perhaps, or somewhere to hide.

She frowned, dropping the tarp back into place and trying to let the thought that had sprung to mind blossom into something more than whispered instinct. Drifters could be bad news. Most of the time they were just lost sheep, but they might be wolves – and something about this one was ringing alarm bells. Something about the quality of that jacket, and the presence of the books …

She glanced up at the trail ahead and the soft rim of gold that hugged the horizon. Wherever the owner of the truck was, he had to be somewhere ahead of them, since they’d met no-one lower down on the road. The truck was covered by a drift of desert dust. By the look of things, it had been parked for hours. If the girls had come up this way, they would have seen it. And possibly the man driving it.

The thought crystallised into narrow-eyed concern. She beckoned the men over, reviewing options. "We got company out here," she announced, keeping her voice low. "Might just be co-incidence, but I’m not taking chances. There’s no reason for anyone to come out here on their own like this. He might have followed the girls out of town. Which also means he might be with them now. Linus – circle round at the back there, towards the valley. Artie – you take the other side. Kingsley, with me, okay?"

They nodded, setting off as they’d been ordered, shifting from searchers to hunters with practiced ease. Sky reached under her shoulder and pulled her gun from its holster, matching the actions of the reservists and falling, like them, into a semi-crouch as she began to lead the way up the trail. This was the part of the job that set her pulse racing: heading into the unknown, senses fully on alert, ready to confront the evils of the world. She had joined the police force because she believed in right and justice. Too many years of seeing the system fail had not yet cured her of those beliefs, even if she no longer quite believed in the power of the system itself.

As for the evils of the world – well, she believed in them all too strongly …

Missing kids were never a good thing. Sometimes they were found alive and well, often they were not. Too many of them were just never found at all. She’d dealt with desperate runaways, traumatised victims of abusive parents, spoiled brats who needed love far more than they’d ever needed toys and treats and being allowed to go their own way, even silent, damaged children old before their years – children whose childhood had been stolen from them, whose lives were filled with fear and guilt – and all in the name of love.

According to their father, the Millen girls were just a pair of high-spirited kids, with no common sense and a curiosity that knew no bounds. He’d done his best to take care of them after their mother died, but he was a busy man and he didn’t always have the time they needed. They’d roamed before, he’d admitted, upset by the confession, but they’d always come back, often at the moment he was just starting to get worried about them. This time they hadn’t. He’d waited hours. And then he’d called the police.

Sky hadn’t been the one who’d interviewed him – or his equally anxious brother-in-law, come to that, but she’d seen how upset they’d both seemed to be. She just wished they’d called earlier. The last few hours of a dying day is not the best time to start searching the desert – or the town, even using the house-by-house check that the sheriff had hastily organised.

There was a hint of movement, somewhere ahead: she signaled Kingsley to stay close behind her as she crept forward, down the shallow slope. There was a clearing here, a natural bowl created by the foot of the sweeping spur that blocked the entry to the Indians’ valley. The stream gathered in a hollow at the foot of it, creating a small pool edged with wind smoothed rocks, before spilling onto into the badlands themselves. She’d been down here before, earlier in the year, dealing with a stubborn old man who’d come out to the valley to die. His ancestors, or so he’d claimed, had been the ones to carve the rocks and leave their spirits talking to the wind. He’d wanted to join them. But in the end, his daughter had persuaded him to return to the nursing home, where they’d treated his condition and finally discharged him, fit and well. She’d rather liked the old man, and hoped it would be a long time before he joined his ancestors. She hadn’t been able to see the carvings he’d been talking about though. All she’d seen carved on the rocks had been modern graffiti and a few sixties ‘Indian Rights’ slogans. She hadn’t gone right up into the valley, of course, but no-one in their right mind would. It was a treacherous place, subject to landslides, natural pitfalls and lurking rattlers. She seriously doubted anyone had ever climbed to the spirit’s peak, way up above the main valley floor.

You’d get a good view of the desert from up there though. If you were stupid, or crazy enough to make the attempt.

Or needed to speak to the wind that badly …

She paused beside a jutting rock, staring down into the shadowed hollow as she tried to make out what lay below. The last of the sunlight glinted off the surface of the pool, rimming it with dying gold – and it outlined the figure that was rising from a crouch, down by the water’s edge. A tall and rangy figure, bare headed, with short dark hair; the man was Caucasian in colour and build, and wearing dark jeans and an equally dark sleeveless shirt. He was almost invisible against the shadowed stones, but the movement and that last touch of light had picked him out, just as he stood. He was looking away from her – further into the desert, down the broken slopes that led into the arid land beyond.

A traveler, lost in wilderness, lost in soul, her mind supplied, quoting her father and his inevitable verses, most of which had never made any sense. This man had that air about him; the air of someone on the brink, a restless, unsettled soul in search of himself …

"My god," Kingsley whispered, pointing – not at the man, but at the pale bundle which lay at his feet. Sky blinked, trying to see past the golden layer of light to interpret the shapes beneath it. A pale bundle with …?

"Oh christ," she swore, the sudden poetic vision crashing down into cold hard reality. It wasn’t a bundle of anything. It was a child. A girl, her gold-touched hair spilled across the dark ground, and her sun-washed dress ominously stained. She wasn’t moving. Nor – looking at the line of her body, the twisted angle between head and neck – was she ever likely to do so again.

The man glanced down for a moment, staring at the sprawl of the corpse, then began to walk away from her, picking his way round the tumbled stones as he headed towards the desert below. Sky was already on the move, pounding down the trail, her gun a determined weight in her hands. Kingsley was less than a step behind her; they arrived at the base of the hollow and slewed to a halt, weapons coming to bear with well trained precision.

"Hold it right there, mister," she demanded breathlessly. "Don’t even move."

"It must have looked pretty bad," Giles admitted thoughtfully. "A stranger, walking away from a corpse …"

"Abandoning the scene of the crime," Sky interpreted with a smile. "Which could probably be termed a misdemeanor, even if we hadn’t thought you done it."

"But you did," he pointed out and she sighed.

"Yeah. We did. What else were we supposed to think? You were so – calm about it. Just strolling away into the desert …"

"I was trying to track the Zamaroth that killed her," Giles explained to their audience, half of whom immediately nodded in understanding – and the other half of which just looked blank.

"Zamaroth?" Cordelia echoed. "The who the what now?"

"Nasty things, the Zamaroth," Angel noted, with the air of one who’d dealt with the creatures before. "More imp than demon. But they’re Scavengers. They don’t generally attack people – unless they get disturbed, or … oh god. There were two missing girls, right?"

"Right," Giles affirmed grimly. Sky reached to give his knee a comforting squeeze, and he caught her hand, wrapping her fingers in his own. "I didn’t know that, then. If I had – "

"If you had, you’d have been running," Sky interrupted. "And I’d have probably shot you. Kingsley certainly would have done."

"Hands behind your head," Sky barked, circling round so as to keep the man covered while she moved in a little closer. He’d obeyed her first order, freezing right where he stood, becoming a statue in the growing gloom. Now he followed the second, lifting his arms with studied slowness, bringing his hands to rest behind the back of his head. Closer now, close enough to make out colour as well as shape, the watching deputy felt her stomach churn. The man’s fingers were stained with blood.

Her eyes darted, involuntarily, to the sprawl of the dead child. The front of the pale print dress was torn, ripped away from her body – and beneath it her flesh was equally ripped, a gaping, bubbling wound gouged across her breast.

"Jesus Christ," she heard Kingsley swear, in furious exclamation – and the man, the stranger with death on his hands, bowed his head and trembled, as if the words had struck a physical blow.

"Cuff him," she ordered, pulling herself together with an effort. Kingsley didn’t need any further encouragement; he tugged the handcuffs from his belt, stuffed his gun back in his holster and went for their prisoner like a pitbull released from its chain. Sky should probably have protested – but there was nothing but numbed horror in her heart as she watched the officer kick the man in the back of his knees to get him to kneel, then drag his hands down to secure them behind his back. She didn’t even blink when the regulation manoeuvre was followed by a vicious swipe of elbow and arm that sent the now helpless captive sprawling in the dark – and she turned away with studied deliberateness as the man under her command stamped and kicked out with savagery.

"He resisted arrest," Kingsley informed her with an angry, satisfied grin, roughly dragging the man to his feet and pushing him past her – past the silent corpse, past the pool of her blood and the spill of her golden hair.

Sky nodded, accepting the lie – and for the first time, got a good look at the monster that had invaded her world.

He wasn’t what she expected at all.

She was looking at angled, patrician features spaced between a high forehead and a strong square cut chin – the face of a man with depth and character, one marked by wisdom and experience. His eyes were dark in the dying light, and had a haunted, empty look that reflected his sorrowed, almost desolate expression. The soft dappling of his half grown beard somehow only served to emphasize the aristocratic effect rather than diminish it; she was looking at a lanky knight, bereft of steed or armour. He was Don Quixote without his Sancho, or an abandoned Lancelot, wandering in madness, lost and penitent … and he was a child killer, and she shook herself angrily, annoyed at letting herself be deceived, even if only for a moment.

"You have the right to remain silent," she told him, beginning the litany, repeating the words that anchored her back in reality and focused her on the moment in hand. Kingsley was glaring at the prisoner, clearly itching to do him further damage – and when Artie and Linus arrived, it was pretty clear that they’d joined his expectant queue. The prisoner himself exercised his rights – and remained silent, staring at the ground, his head and shoulders bowed, and his face and eyes shuttered. It was only when she’d finished, when she’d holstered her gun and half turned to start issuing orders, that he looked up at her, his eyes taut with grief.

"I didn’t kill her," he said, a soft whisper in the growing night. "If that’s what you think. Not this one. God," his voice dropped into the barest sound as he turned away. "Not this one …"

A cold shiver went through her heart. She’d never heard a sound like that; it cut through her like a knife.

"Oh, great," Artie spat with disgust. "Don’t they lock the damn crazies up anymore?"

"They’ll throw the key away on this one," Linus decided with satisfaction. "Where do ya want him, Deputy?"

Sky pulled herself together with an effort. "Get him down to the car and call this in," she ordered, turning to Kingsley and hiding herself behind brisk decision. "You stay here and watch – Angela, I think. Yes. It’s Angela. Artie – you take a look around. See if Jodie’s – anywhere nearby," she concluded with a gulp. Barely a pace down the trail, being led away by Linus’ none too gentle hand, their prisoner galvanised into action.

"There’s another?" he demanded, jerking free of the officer’s grip and stepping back to stare at Sky in utter horror. "Oh dear lord…" His eyes darted towards the darkened desert, and then back again with frantic demand. "You have to find it," he begged, his voice cracked with urgency. "You have to find her."

Sky stared back at him. There seemed to be genuine desperation in his words – and she cursed herself again, letting the anger bubble up, using it to push away her doubt and the hesitation. Maybe he was crazy – but if so he was a sick, twisted thing – and if he wasn’t, then that was even worse, because then this act, this pretence, was as despicable as his deeds. "Oh, we’ll find her," she promised angrily. "You can be sure of that."

"We didn’t of course." Sky sighed, dipping a nacho in the salsa and crunching on it distractedly. "Not that night – or the day after, either."

"Zamaroth are burrowers," Wesley observed thoughtfully. "And they’re only active at sunrise and sunset. Unless you dig them up, of course."

"Yeah," the policewoman smiled. "Found that out the hard way. But that was later. Right then we were assuming we’d stumble over her in the dirt. Like her sister. Victim of the Ripper," she added, with a wry glance at the man beside her. Giles heaved a small sigh of his own.

"Yes, I know," he said, at the look Wesley gave him. "Just a little ironic. But understandable in the circumstances. I suspect the Zamaroth had been lurking among the rocks when the girls arrived. They probably leapt out, one of them grabbing Jodie while the other slashed at Angela when she tried to intervene. She fell – it must have been her cry I heard up in the valley – and broke her neck when she landed. By the time I’d got down there, the Zamaroth had gone and she was - dead. But I saw one – just a glimpse, heading out into the badlands. The tracks and the claw marks were unmistakable. They leave this distinctive curve – yes, well," he dismissed, seeing Fred’s eyes go a little wide. "I’d checked the wound and once I’d realised there was nothing I could do for her, I’d started after the things that killed her."

"Which was when we turned up, and - jumped to conclusions." Sky dipped back for another nacho, which she proceeded to dunk in the dregs of maple syrup left on her plate. Gunn grimaced, and Cordelia grinned. "It was probably just as well we didn’t know what the autopsy would reveal. It’s never easy, dealing with a violent death. Even harder when it’s a child. My men were – pretty angry about it. Perp caught red handed, open and shut case – well," she considered, with another of those sideways glances at her husband. "If they’d known she’d been sexually assaulted before she died …"

"I might not be sitting here," Giles concluded candidly. "I may have steel in my bones and a certain amount of armour under my skin, but a .44 bullet at close range can still do me a lot of damage." He lifted his hand to massage abstractedly at his chest as he spoke. The spot lay right above his heart, and Angel frowned, wondering if he were expressing theory, or speaking from experience.

"I wouldn’t have let them do that," Sky reacted, sounding a little hurt at the suggestion. He gave her an indulgent look.

"You let them beat me nearly senseless," he pointed out. He didn’t seem too put out about it.

"Well, yeah, but …" She frowned at him with affection. "You really should have complained about that. After the charges were dropped."

"No." He shook his head. "I understood why they did it. I never blamed them – or you," he added softly.

The vampire went on frowning, turning the tale over in his mind. "A Zamaroth wouldn’t have assaulted her," he said with puzzlement. "Not sexually, anyway. They’re not equipped for it, for a start. They have these – tendril things. And they only mate at the full moon."

"Eww," Cordelia protested. "Not going to ask how you know. Not going to ask how they - either," she added, with a quiet shudder.

"I wouldn’t," Wesley advised dryly. "Angel’s right. The Zamaroth couldn’t have been the ones – "

"They weren’t." Sky heaved a small sigh. "There’s more than one kind of monster in the world. And not all the demons have horns, or scaly skin. Ah – no offence," she realised hastily, glancing at Lorne.

He smiled. "None taken, sweetheart. I know exactly what you mean. It’s the colour of the soul that matters – and whether you’ve got one, of course."

"Amen to that," Giles murmured softly, giving Angel a pensive look. The vampire grimaced and glanced away, ashamed to meet his friend’s eyes. There’d been a time when he’d been responsible for kidnapping and torturing Buffy’s Watcher – and while the pain he’d inflicted had been nothing compared to what Salamiel had done, it said a lot for the man concerned that he was able to view the events of that time with sensible perspective. The fact that a soulless Angelus had also been responsible for the death of Jenny Calendar – the woman who, but for that little matter, might have been the one destined to wear the wedding ring currently nestling on Sky’s finger – was probably something neither of them was ever going to forget.

"Let me get this straight," Gunn said, leaning forward to consider both of their guests in turn. "You had a dead girl who’d been raped, and another one who was missing – and you’d arrested a guy for the crime – only he knew that the real killer were these demon things that were out in the desert somewhere – and no way were you gonna believe him about that … So – umm," he concluded thoughtfully, glancing at Giles, "how come you’re not still locked up somewhere? I’d have thrown away the key."

"I nearly did," Sky admitted. "But, fortunately for both of us – and Jodie Millen – the law allows everyone at least one phone call."

Something was ringing.

Loud and demandingly.

It dragged Buffy out of her dreams and back into a bleary-eyed awareness of early morning, the fresh impact of light piercing the curtains and painting the room with threatening brightness.

"Uhhgghh," she groaned, groping for the offending instrument. It had been a late night. She’d spent most of it hunting down a killer demon, that had turned out to be student prank gone decidedly bad. By the time Willow and Tara had located the amateur magician and closed his summoning circle, she, Spike and Xander had gone several rounds with a big bad and ugly who would just not lie down and die. She’d crawled home and crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that the book of arcane arts the boy had found in a junkshop was now safely tucked away with the other ‘don’t touch on pain of something very nasty happening’ volumes in their locked cage in the basement of the magic shop. Sleep had been a wonderful experience.

Until the phone rang.

"Uh – Summers residence," she grunted into the mouthpiece after she’d dragged it off the hook and into her tangle of sheets.

"Buffy?" The voice was instantly familiar – and she sat up, totally awake and completely focused.

"Giles? Giles! Where are you? Are you okay? It’s been a month – "

"Buffy," he interrupted firmly, his voice pitched low and his tone sounding urgent. "Buffy, l-listen to me. I’m in Nevada. A place called Wilton Meadows. There are Zamaroth demons here, and they’ve - they've taken a child. If they’re nesting, she – uh - doesn’t have much time left. You have to find them. F-find her. Before it’s too late."

There was a desperate note in his voice, one that set alarm bells ringing. Loud ones.

"Where? A what? Nesting? Giles – what’s going on? Why can’t you – "

"Buffy, please." It wasn’t just desperation. It sounded like pain. "I-I don’t have time to explain. Just come. Find the girl. Save her."

There was no need to think, no reason to hesitate. He needed her, and that was enough.

"Okay," she soothed. "Wilton Meadows, Nevada. Got it. On my way. Where do I find you?"

There was a uneasy pause. "In jail," he admitted after a moment, the words resigned, the admission bleak. "They think – no, it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. Just – find her." There was another of those distressing pauses and then he said, almost too softly to catch, "Oh, lord. I - I love you. I – I just wanted you to know that …"

And then the phone went dead.

Buffy stared at it for a moment or two. The anguish in his voice had been heart wrenching. Something bad had happened. Something very bad. Something he couldn’t cope with, not in the state of mind he was in. She should have gone with him. She should never had let him go in the first place …

Her lips tightened with quiet determination. Through hell itself if I have to, she’d promised. Nevada wasn’t anywhere near that distance – although, if she read the situation right, time was of the essence and she had to be there as fast as she could. She slammed the phone down, bounced out of bed, into her clothes and out into the hallway almost without taking a breath. The door to Willow and Tara’s room was closed. Normally, she’d knock – but this was an emergency, so she threw it open and strode right in.

"Will? Giles called. He’s in trouble and we have to help him. What’s the quickest way to get to Nevada?"

"Nevada?" The echo was a bleary one; Willow and Tara had been lying tangled up together, and Buffy’s sweeping arrival had dragged them up from mutual sleep. Willow sat up and blinked at her anxiously. Tara was doing much the same. "He’s in Nevada?"

"That’s what he said. Wilton Meadows, Nevada. He’s in jail."

"Giles? In jail?" Tara stared at her in total bemusement. "Whatever for?"

"I don’t know." Buffy was pacing. The sound of her friend’s voice, raw with emotion and laden with anguish, was haunting her. She knew that pain. It came from carrying the weight of the world, of having to face the unfaceable. There’d been a time when she’d been submerged in it, dragged from the bliss of eternity and thrust back into the cold hard world that was life. But her memory had been one of loss, her grief a matter of denial. His … She shuddered and paced back the other way while Willow climbed out of bed and slipped into her dressing gown.

The faint echoes of Heaven had wracked her soul.

The vivid echoes of Hell were likely to shatter his beyond repair.

"He said something about demons – Zamara, Zamaro – Zamaroth. That was it. Zamaroth. And a missing child."

"A child?" Tara stared at her, wide eyed and anxious. "Then it’s really, really urgent?"

"I got that impression," Buffy sighed. "But it’ll take a couple of days by car – and even flying – "

"A translocation spell." Willow’s suggestion was abrupt, her voice determined. Tara went from staring at Buffy to staring at her girlfriend instead.

"No," she denied. "Th- that’s too dangerous. You might – "

"I can do it," Willow interrupted firmly. "I know I can. Tara – " Her voice softened into anxious appeal. "For Giles? Buffy has to be there."

Tara didn’t look convinced. "It’s too risky," she said. "Willow – that sort of distance, that sort of power? You could burn out – overload."

"Not if you were there to earth me," Willow assured her. "It’ll take a lot but – I can handle it." She glanced at Buffy’s wary expression and quirked a hopeful smile. "If I can bring Buffy back from –elsewhere – I’m sure I can get her to Nevada. It’s not that far."

"Can you really do this, Will?" Buffy needed speed – but she wasn’t prepared to risk her best friend’s safety to get it. "I wouldn’t want – "

"I can do it," Willow repeated, her affirmation gaining in confidence. "I’ll need a few things – and I – I don’t think I can handle more than one soul at a time. So – so you’ll have to go alone."

Buffy hadn’t been thinking that far ahead – but now Willow mentioned it, the thought of charging to the rescue with no-one around to watch her back was a little concerning. Not that she couldn’t handle a demon – whatever sort of demon it was – on her own. Just that she was going to be in a strange place, with no idea who she could trust. Giles aside, of course. That went without saying. "One soul at a time," she repeated thoughtfully, then smiled. "What if I take Spike?"

"Spike?" Tara and Willow exchanged a look. "I – uh – guess," Willow considered, thinking the ramifications over. "That could work. But we’d have to be careful where we sent you." She gestured out of the window. "Daylight ‘n stuff? He’d be no help if he were – " She gestured eloquently. "Poof. You know."

Buffy nodded. "I know. We can work that out." Her mind was already leaping ahead, making necessary plans. "Get what you need and meet me in Spike’s crypt as soon as you can. Tara – call Xander, get him to come round and pick up Giles’ key. I’ll need someone back here running research. Anything he can find about Zamaroth demons. Dawn can help."

Willow was nodding. "Anya will have what I need in the shop. And I can do a web search for this place – get a map. That’ll help."

"Great," Buffy acknowledged, already heading for the door. "I’d better go pack."

Long Sea Crossing -Chapter Two. Part One. 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