The sound of raised voices, of muttered complaint and angry demand, began to filter through to the cell block where Sky anxiously hovered in the corridor. Someone hit the silent panic button; a red light started flashing over the duty officer’s desk and the deputy who occupied it looked across at her in alarm. "I’m on it," she acknowledged, hastily turning to unlock the gate behind her and tug it open. "I’m sorry," she said, speaking almost before she’d registered the scene further down the passageway. "Time’s up. You have to go."

Their prisoner was still huddled on the end of the bunk much as she’d left him, his head buried in his hands – and the Summers girl was pressed up against the bars of the cell, her hands clenched so tightly on the metal that her knuckles had gone white. She looked round as the gate opened and a distraught look chased across her face. Bad timing, Sky thought, but she had no choice. She could hear men running outside in the passageways – if any of them came in and found just how far she’d been bending the rules, trouble wouldn’t begin to cover what she’d find herself in.

"Come on," she ordered brusquely. "Hurry."

The young woman still hesitated. "Hold on," she murmured, speaking to the man, not the deputy that summoned her. "Just hold on. I’ll get you out of here. And I’ll find the girl, I promise."

"Now," Sky demanded, glancing back at the man at the desk, who was looking as anxious as she felt. Buffy sighed, releasing her grip on the steel with deliberated effort. The prisoner didn’t look up as she left, but she glanced back, wincing a little as the gate slid home behind her. "Thank you," Sky acknowledged, adding a nod of thanks towards the officer at the desk. She owed him one. "Did he tell you where Jodie is?"

The young woman had a distant, haunted expression on her face; she seemed disconcerted by the question. "Not - exactly," she said.

The outer cell block door slammed open. "Zaherne!" Maybourne demanded. "We’re being invaded. Get your butt into the lobby and make with the soothing noises before we have a riot out here. And get her out of sight! They find out she’s with him, they’ll probably lynch her too."

"Dracu," Sky swore, resorting to her father’s favourite exclamation at times of stress. She was conscious that the young woman beside her might now hold the answers they desperately needed to break this case. But Maybourne was right. It sounded as if there were a serious incident in progress, and the last thing she wanted was for things to get totally out of hand. "Miss Summers – "

"Go," Buffy suggested, her eyes shadowed and unreadable. "Don’t let them do anything stupid. If you want to help find the girl, find me before sunset. I’ll be in the mall."

Sky hesitated. If she let her go, would she stay around, or would she vanish as quickly as she’d appeared? The voices off were getting louder. Things were getting ugly out there … "All right," she decided, almost against her better judgement. There was something about this young woman that she instinctively trusted. "I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybourne? Take her out the back way – before anyone else sees her."

"Sure," he snorted, jerking his head towards the lobby and the sounds of hostility that filled it. "Play nice. I’ll catch up with you."

She nodded thanks and set off up the passageway at a run. She could hear the sheriff’s voice raised in an appeal for order, and the sounds of other men shouting him down. There was a drill they’d practiced for just such a situation, which was why Maybourne had been sent to find her; the belief was that an angry mob would be more inclined to respond to a woman’s voice, and right now she was the senior female officer in the place. She didn’t like it, but – all sexism aside – it was probably a sound piece of psychology. She just had to remember not to get aggressive, no matter what the provocation might be.

There wasn’t just an angry mob in the main lobby. It was filled with one. Incensed, demanding men were pushing at the desk. Some of them were climbing on it, barely being held back by the few deputies Sheriff Jennings had managed to round up for the task. Most of the duty officers were out, on patrol or co-opted to the search parties. That left only a handful to defend the station – and they hadn’t been expecting this.

"Where is he!" Dandon was demanding, spearheading the surge of fury, slamming his hand down on the desk. "Where’s the monster that killed my girls? I know you’ve got him. I know what he did. He’s gotta be punished. He’s gotta be taught."

"Please, Harry, please." Jennings wasn’t having much success at being heard. "Don’t do this. The law will take care of justice – "

"Justice!" The roar back was bitter and mocking. "What justice? Lock him up for life? Feed him and take care of him at our expense? Will that bring them back? Will that undo the pain and the horror of it? Sweet, innocent children. Did they scream? Did they fight back? I want to hear him scream. I want him to beg. I want him here – now."

On his own, he would have been intimidating. Backed up by a seething, furious crowd, he was like a juggernaut; unstoppable. Unreachable.

Sky immediately realised they had a real problem. If they answered his demands and brought out the man she’d just left in the cells below, the mob would tear him to pieces. If they didn’t, and the men tried to take the law into their own hands, then a lot more people were likely to get hurt. And would the officers of Wilton Meadows really put their lives on the line to defend a child molester and murderer? It would be hard to blame them if they didn’t have their hearts in the task.

Sky grimaced angrily at herself. I’d trust that man with my soul, the Summers girl had said. He claimed he was innocent, even if he’d refused to defend himself beyond the simple denial. And no man – no matter how guilty – deserved to be dragged out into the street and executed without recourse to trial or even a chance for a fair hearing. That wasn’t justice. It certainly wasn’t law.

"What’s the trouble here?" she asked, moving forward to stand at the Sheriff’s side. She kept her voice low and her tone gentle; she’d been told – by any slew of ex-boyfriends and several of her erstwhile partners – that she had a decidedly captivating voice. She’d used it to talk down several would-be jumpers and disarm more than a few disgruntled hostage-takers over the years. She just had to hope it would work its magic now.

"Deputy Zaherne." Dandon greeted her with wild eyed eagerness. He’d clearly been drinking, which was going to make this even harder. "You were there. Tell them." His hand swept the crowd. "Tell them how he had her blood on his hands. Tell them how you found her."

Jennings gave her a surreptitious shake of his head; hardly advice Sky needed, since the last thing this mob required was more fuel for their indignation. She sighed, moving over to lay a reconciliatory hand on their leader’s arm. "Mr Dandon. Harry," she soothed, "this isn’t the time for this. Jodie is still missing. Shouldn’t you be out there, helping to look for her? And what about the rest of you?" she added, raising her voice to be heard above the angry muttering. "Why aren’t you out with the search parties? Why are you here, demanding justice, when a child’s life is at stake? Or do you know something we don’t?" The last was a soft stab in the dark, aimed at Dandon, rather than the rest of them. Something passed over his face – an expression she couldn’t read – and then he scowled, angrily.

"They’re not gonna find her," he declared with confidence. "Not unless we make him tell. He knows where she is. What he did to her. Get him out here and we’ll ask him."

"Yeah," came the supportive chorus. "We’ll make him talk. He’ll spill his guts."

The last generated an ugly laugh; Sky fought down a strong desire to hit the man who’d said it.

"Listen to you," she said instead, deciding to target Dandon’s support rather than his alcohol inspired determination. "Who do you think you are? The Klan?" She picked out a couple of men she knew; one an Amerind, the other with the blood of Africa in his veins. "Is that the kind of justice you want? You should be ashamed of yourselves." They shuffled their feet and looked away. The comment had clearly hit a nerve. "It doesn’t matter what the man’s done; he’s still entitled to fair trail, for law and justice to prevail. You take that law into your own hands and you’ll be no better than murderers yourselves. You think we have a monster locked up back there? Maybe we do – but right now, I’m looking at nothing but monsters. I know you’re angry. Hell, I’m angry. But if I give in to that anger, then I’m no better than the beasts I’m trying to fight against. Every child in the world is at risk; how are we going to save them with violence and anger and hate? What they need is love. Strong arms to protect them, strong souls to keep them safe. What about your children? What sort of example are you setting them right now? Go home. Let us do our job – and maybe we can all sleep safer in our beds tonight."

Looks were exchanged; men who’d been prepared to strike out in hot blood began to re-evaluate what they’d been about to do. Several of them put down their weapons. Several more began to edge for the door, looking ashamed.

"Lovely words, Deputy," Dandon drawled, leaning forward intimidatingly. "Do your job? Where were you when Angela was screaming for help? When he was forcing himself on her? Hot and sweaty lust– no mercy, no pity. I bet he laughed when she tried to fight him. Enjoyed the way she squirmed and struggled –"

"That’s enough," Sky snapped, shaken by the picture he was painting. By the crude, violent images he conjured. His eyes were incensed; they held a brutal rage she hadn’t thought him capable of. For some strange reason she found herself comparing them to those of the man she’d spent half the night questioning; softly haunted eyes, tinged with that odd hint of violet. Eyes filled with pain, with grief, with guilt and with anguish; if they ever blazed with this kind of fury, it would be a bright and unbearable fire. "Enough," she repeated firmly, toning down her voice, forcing it to keep its soothing note. "You’re just torturing yourself, Mr Dandon. That doesn’t help anyone. You need to go home. You need to be with your brother-in-law. He needs you. He needs your support, your strength, everything you can give." She reached out and gently tugged the pickaxe from his hands. He held his grip for a moment, but then released it, his certainty falling away under her tempered gaze. "Go home," she insisted, handing Jennings the tool and raising her voice to address the rest of the mob. "All of you. Just go home."

"Nice job," the Sheriff assessed, smiling at Sky with decided admiration. She sighed, shaking her head in incomprehension and clinging to the cup of coffee that Maybourne had handed to her. She was shaking, trembling inside and out, conscious – as she hadn’t been while facing down the beast – just how close they’d come to a serious riot out there.

"I was lucky," she decided, sipping at the coffee and welcoming its warmth. "He got them riled up before they’d had too much to drink. Some of them still had some sense left. It might not be so easy next time."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Jennings agreed, getting up from his desk and pacing back and forth. "We can’t keep him here. We don’t have that much man-power, and – to be honest, if they had dragged him out, I’ve a feeling half the men in the station would have been helping them. Nobody likes a child molester."

Sky quirked a wry smile at her coffee. "What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty?" she muttered, knowing – and understanding - what he meant.

The Sheriff threw her a wary glance. "I just want him out of here," he said. "Before I do something I’m going to regret. Maybourne?"

"Sir?" Her fellow deputy straightened.

"Get the paddy wagon round back. You’re taking our Ripper to West County. Henshaw can keep an eye on him while we close down the case."

"West County?" Sky protested, sitting up and staring at him. "He’s not even seen a judge yet. Why not send him across to Manorville? They’re equipped for long stay prisoners. West County’s – well, it’s the securest facility we have. Men that go there, don’t come back."

"I believe that’s the general idea," the Sheriff drawled. "I seriously doubt he’s going to qualify for bail, Zaherne. And we need secure. If we want to be sure of him surviving to stand trial."

She subsided with another sigh. He had a point – although the prison he was talking about wasn’t exactly renowned for survival rates among its internees. And to place a man accused of child murder and rape within reach of the notorious jail’s more volatile inmates was just plain stupid … Her eyes lifted to catch the look that crossed the Sheriff’s face and she shivered, reading there an echo of the disgust and abhorrence that had brought many of the mob to rage at their door. He didn’t care. He just wanted the mess off his doorstep, and if anything happened to their prisoner, he’d simply consider it natural justice. He was probably hoping there wouldn’t be a trial.

And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

"Couple of nights in West County and he’ll be a whole lot more co-operative," Maybourne grinned. "If that kid is buried out in the desert somewhere he’ll be drawing us a map. I’ll go fire up the wagon. Coming, Zaherne?"

"Uh – " Sky glanced across at him and shook her head. She wanted to catch up with the Summers girl. "No, no – I – I think I’ll go help with the search parties. You can handle him. I don’t think he’ll give you any trouble."

"Right," Maybourne winked. He knew perfectly well she thought she was following a lead. "Catch you later."

Business was brisk as Sky made her way into the Wilton Meadows Mall. As brisk as it was ever going to be: the builders of the place had had grand ambitions, most of which had never come to fruition. There were as many empty shop units as there were occupied ones and the place had an echoing, empty feel to it, like a de-consecrated cathedral, or some vast sound stage, across which the few busy shoppers scurried with utter disregard. Someone was preaching pamphlet salvation to a bored audience of three, someone else was touting bargain offers and handing out leaflets with a hint of desperation. Several old men were playing chess over by the fountains, carved into their seats as if they were part of the decoration, while middle aged matrons hurried past them into the beauty store without a second glance. At the other end of the scale, there were a group of grade school kids loafing near the food court, and a few older ones hanging around the music store. There was canned pop playing over the Musak speakers, and a silent flicker of adverts painted behind the dust on the video wall.

All much as might be expected for a weekday afternoon in a town with little heart and a parochial soul. Most of the real activity in Wilton Meadows took place in the church halls, in the bars and the discrete whorehouses - or behind well-closed doors.

She didn’t quite know where to look for the Summers girl, but she found her soon enough, sitting at a table at the edge of the food court, sipping at a large coke and frowning at what looked like an untouched Big Mac. It was the company she kept that attracted the eye, rather than the young woman herself. There was a man sitting beside her, his crop of short, pale hair and his long sleek leather coat marking him out from the usual crowd. Several of the schoolgirls who were hovering in the vicinity were throwing him admiring looks, although Sky couldn’t quite see the appeal herself. He had a hard, don’t mess with me air, laden with attitude and arrogant confidence – and his quiet, predatory smile was decidedly disconcerting.

If she’d found him lurking over the body of a dead child, she’d have locked him up and thrown away the key without a moment’s hesitation.

"Miss Summers?" She walked up to the table, glancing around with wary disquiet. This was not a place in which to hold the conversation she needed to pursue. Buffy Summers looked up, blinked in vague surprise at seeing her out of uniform, and then greeted her with a polite and anxious smile.

"Deputy Zaherne. I was – getting worried. Spike was saying you might not even come."

"Guess I was wrong," the man observed, looking the new arrival up and down with appreciation. "Worth the wait, in any case."

"Spike," Buffy admonished uncomfortably, and he laughed.

"Don’t get huffy, love. I’m sure the lady don’t object to a compliment or two." Sky blinked at him. He – like the man she’d watched being led away barely half an hour before – spoke with a British accent. Except that his was brash, unrefined and laced with hints of Hollywood. The contrast was startling. "Bet she gets a lot. Sure of it," he added, with confident amusement.

"I’m not here to be complimented," she told him bluntly, dropping into the seat opposite the young woman and staring at her with quiet challenge. "We need to talk. I need to know what he said – and I need to know what you meant."

Buffy’s stare was challenging. "About finding the girl?" Sky nodded. "Same thing. He told me where to look. We’re going as soon as it gets dark."

"As soon as – " Sky frowned at her in confusion. "Why not now? If you know – " She’d half risen to her feet, needing to make it a demand; fingers of steel closed on her arm and forced her back into her seat.

"Don’t make a scene, sweetheart," Spike suggested with quiet amusement. "Hate to have to leave here in a hurry."

She turned to stare at him. His grip was unnaturally strong and it hurt.

"Don’t hurt the deputy, Spike," Buffy ordered softly. "We need her."

"Don’t need nobody, Slayer," he said, but let go anyway. "You and me – we can do the business." He broke into a broad grin. "We can find the girl and kill the demons too, if you like. Hey," he mollified at the angry glare this earned him, "I want Ripper home, same as you do. Place ain’t the same without him."

Sky blinked a second time. Had he just - ? Arte and Linus had come up with that nickname, a black, bitter joke on the way that Angela had been mutilated before she died. But neither of these two could know about that. The details concerning the girl’s death hadn’t been released, even if the more sordid conclusions of the autopsy had somehow been leaked to the local press.

And – demons? Slayer?

Buffy’s glare faded to a slightly irritated frown. "That’s going to help his case no end," she complained with an exasperated sigh. "We need her, Spike. We need to know where the trail starts – and we need her there when we catch them, so we can prove Giles’ innocence. My word won’t be good enough and you – "

"Okay, okay," he agreed, putting up his hands to ward off her vehemence. "Got the point. Need a reliable witness." He jerked his head in Sky’s direction. "She gonna agree to that?"

"One way or the other," Buffy answered quietly. Sky frowned.

"Now, look here – " she began. The young woman reached out and caught her hand, forestalling her protest.

"No," she said firmly, "you look here. Look around you, deputy. What do you see? People going about their business? Happy, contented people, safe and secure in their lives?"

Sky grimaced, deciding to play along for a while. "More or less. A few unhappy people in among them. But – yeah – generally safe and secure."

"Do you know what keeps them safe?"

She met the challenging look with one of her own. "People like me?"

Spike chuckled. "She got you there, love."

"Shut up, Spike. Deputy, you have no idea. No idea of the dangers that threaten them, or the things that lurk in the shadows, just waiting for the next helpless victim to stumble by. This safe secure world is just an illusion – and where you might protect them from themselves – I’m the one that gets to deal with some of the real monsters. Do you believe in vampires?"

"Vampires?" Sky couldn’t quite believe her ears. This was nothing but nonsense and madness. She’d always found her father’s insistence in the reality of demons and blood sucking corpses rather amusing; after all, he’d said himself that he’d been brought up in the old country with some very old fashioned beliefs. Vampires were creatures of legend and Hollywood – and maybe she was making a mistake even talking to these two.

"Vampires," the man called Spike echoed with a grin – and changed.

It was barely a second or two – a sudden furrowing of his brow, a shift in his features that turned him from handsome man into demonic creature and back again, all in the blink of an eye. There’d been evil, terrifying eyes, and long, fanged teeth – and there he was, smiling at her expression, his eyes glimmering with amusement and satisfaction.

"Oh my god," Sky breathed, shaken by that sudden glimpse of evil under his streetwise mask. "Did you just – who are you people?"

Buffy smiled. Grimly. "I’m the Slayer," she announced. "Giles is my Watcher and Spike here is – complicated. Let’s find somewhere where we can talk."

"I didn’t want to believe her," Sky said with a hint of self-depreciation. "Who would? It was a wild and impossible story, about demons and monsters and horrors straight out of a Stephen King novel. And when she started telling me about Zamaroth nesting habits – well, that was completely preposterous."

Wesley sighed, reaching to help himself a handful of nachos. "It’s quite common, actually," he noted. "There are any number of demonic species that spawn by burying living victims along with an egg sack, or a larva of some kind. It’s so that when the young hatch, they have food on hand until they’re strong enough to dig themselves free and hunt for themselves." Fred’s eyes went wide and she glanced at Angel, who nodded grim confirmation of the fact.

Cordelia shuddered. "That’s just sick," she declared with feeling. "Eeww."

"There are worse examples," Giles considered thoughtfully. "Species that lay eggs in their victims for instance. And creatures like – "

"I don’t want to know," Cordelia interrupted hastily. "Not over supper, anyway. Not ever if I can avoid it." She glanced between the two Englishmen and frowned in bemusement. "How come the two of you know so much about demon ickiness anyway? Do you read up on this stuff for fun?"

Wesley exchanged a look with his fellow scholar. "Know thine enemy," he quoted. "Always good advice. And then there was Victor Abraham’s class on demonology, back at the Academy. Fascinating man. Fascinated by his subject."

"Devoured by his subject," Giles remarked, a little ruefully. "Quite literally in Victor’s case. Just serves to demonstrate that you should be careful about who and what you summon."

"Amen to that," Wesley agreed, clearly familiar with the incident. "Never trust a demon, even if you do know his name. Ah – present company accepted, of course," he added hastily.

"Of course," Lorne drawled, a little scornfully.

The Englishman had the grace to blush; Angel grinned. "I think that’s pretty good advice," he said. "Except – uh – personally? I’d extend it to include lawyers."

"Yeah. Me too," Sky agreed with a knowing laugh. "In fact – given a choice? I’d rather trust a demon than a lawyer any day. Some demons, that is," she corrected, then added, with a wry smile. "Maybe only one or two …"

Her husband gave her a questioning look. "As many as that?" he queried mildly. She laughed.

"Sure," she said. "There’s Lorne, here and Angel, and Spike – sometimes … You," she told him teasingly, "I can’t trust you to pick up my dry cleaning. Library books, yes," she explained to Fred, who was grinning from ear to ear. "Dry cleaning? Forget it. Goes right out of his head. Never ask a prince of hell to organise your laundry."

"Are you ever going to forget about that?" Giles asked with a wounded sigh. Sky smiled, leaning across to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

"No," she said – although the look she gave him suggested she’d long since forgiven whatever fault there might have been. "Where was I?"

"In the mall, talking to Buffy," Angel prompted.

"Oh, yeah," she recalled. "We were waiting for the sun to go down …"

Long Sea Crossing - Chapter Two, Part Three. 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