"It’s simple." The head warder – whose last name had turned out to be Wilson – paced round West County’s latest inmate, tapping the length of his baton against the side of his leg as he did so. Giles rather uncharitably hoped that his finger would slip and that he’d give himself a dose of his own medicine. It seemed unlikely; away from Henshaw’s overbearing presence, the warder seemed a little less like an eager thug and much more like the patient public servant he ought to be. Whatever was about to happen, it didn’t look like a duty he enjoyed very much; he was going through a required routine – and there was an anxiousness behind his eyes that suggested he didn’t entirely approve of what it was leading to. "This is the moment you get to be judged. It determines how you get treated during your stay with us. Everyone goes through it. Most of them survive it. A petty thief might get away with a light sentence and a chance to help out around here. Library, catering or gardening duty. A more hardened criminal may get a harsher judgement." He continued to pace, ignoring the way that one of the guards flanking the nearby door shifted with decided discomfort at his words. "The misguided," he said, "might be lucky enough to escape with minor punishment – providing he’s genuinely penitent, of course. And the truly guilty," he concluded, taking that last step round to stand face to face with his handcuffed prisoner, "will get exactly what they deserve."

Giles couldn’t face the accusation in the man’s gaze; he let his eyes drop and turned his head away, only too aware of how that was going to be read. He didn’t really care. Wretchedness had swirled up to claw at his heart and drag him deep again; it didn’t matter how much he rationalised it, he was guilty, and he couldn’t escape the truth. He had murdered a child. Not the one they thought he had, perhaps, but a helpless innocent nonetheless. The weight of that – the unbearable memory of it – lay over him like a penitent’s cross, crushing his soul and numbing his senses. He felt battered – not just from the physical bruises, which had painted a patina of purple and blue over his armoured ribs and still clenched in his stomach and guts whenever he took too deep a breath – but by the emotional storm which continued to lash at him, no matter which way he turned.

His world was tainted, soured by experience in ways he’d never dreamed might be possible. Even the little, unimportant things held unexpected terrors and torments, magnified now by his sense of helpless captivity. Take the shower, for instance. Time was he’d not have given a second thought to stepping under a communal shower; he’d jostled with school fellows for space under antiquated showers back in his academy days, enduring scalding streams or ice-cold inundations with good humour and unquestioned acceptance. Showering in company had never been a big deal; just something he’d always taken in his stride.

But less than an hour ago he had been standing in an echoing, tiled space, subjecting his bruised and weary body to a scouring assault, acutely conscious of being watched, of being weighed and measured by hostile eyes. He’d felt exposed and vulnerable, the caress of ice-cold water stirring memories of colder caresses and of being held, helpless and hopeless, in a grip of merciless steel. His mind had retreated from that, seeking refuge in distance, trying not to think at all – until the warder had realised he wasn’t coming out and had shut off the water and thrown him a towel . Even then he hadn’t moved; it had taken an encouraging jab or two from the cattle prod to stir him from his daze – fortunately without an application of current, although he suspected that might have followed, had he not stumbled away a step and hastily used the towel to cover his dignity.

The memories and the images still lingered, intruding on the here and now, enhancing the grim impression of fear which stained the prison walls. Wilson had issued him with fresh clothes – drab, gray pants and a short sleeved gray tunic more like a sack than a shirt – and then relocked the restraining handcuffs, binding his hands behind his back before escorting him deeper into the prison complex like a lamb being lead to the slaughter. He’d walked down endless passageways and through countless gates, too immersed in his inner turmoil to pay much attention to the route – or to the discomfort of harsh surfaces against his bare feet. Men had fallen into step behind the submissive parade, uniformed guards flanking him with ominous presence. He’d shivered as they’d closed in, his mind painting them with shadows while the cold terror of the Malumbra laid siege to his anguished heart.

Cold concrete floors had given way to unexpectedly warm tarmac overlaid with harsh desert sand. For a brief moment or two he had been out in the open, brushed by the lingering gold of a dying day – only to be swallowed up again by featureless walls, heavy doors slamming shut behind him with a sense of finality. That fleeting moment of evening sunlight had lifted him a little; he knew that somewhere, out in the impending night, Buffy would be on her way to save the missing child. He was certain his Slayer would find her. Certain that she’d defeat the monsters and save the day, the way she always did. That was the important thing. What happened to him didn’t really matter. Not any more. The men who escorted him thought him a monster – and that was exactly what he was, a creature of steel and terror, shaped in the image of a fallen angel, driven to desperate murder in the name of love.

The realisation of what he’d become – of what he was - terrified him; far more than the memories, far more than the grim faced guards, and far, far more than anything that he might be about to face.

No matter how much faith Buffy might have in him, no matter what she - or Iolaus, for that matter – might have said, he still feared the demon’s taint, the significance of Salamiel’s legacy.

The heritage of the damned.

"Here’s how it works." Wilson was saying. "You stay here until those doors open – at which point you step through them – and God help your soul, because no-one else will."

That got his attention. Giles lifted his eyes from the floor with a sudden sense of alarm. The warder was considering him with a grim look; one backed by a hint of pity.

"I’ll give you the speech, because I give it to everybody," he said. "Although I doubt you’re going to need it, because they are just going to love you.

"You are about to face a court of judgement, one that will weigh your crimes, determine your guilt and execute your sentence. This is not a court of human law, but one that serves a greater power – a power all men answer to in the end. Here in West County we do not depend on the fallibility of men, but measure those that come to us with absolute justice. The judgement is final, and there is no appeal. The men who will stand witness to that judgement have themselves already been judged. They have all walked the gauntlet. Even I have faced the test."

Giles was staring at him by now; he didn’t like the sound of any of this. There was a power, lurking in the confines of the prison. He realised that he’d been sensing it ever since he’d arrived, its presence adding weight to the consternation of his memories. But it wasn’t a higher power; it was dark and it was hungry and it emanated a web of fear and oppression that draped every surface, and smothered every soul within its reach.

His included.

He probably should have been protesting, insisting on his innocence, refusing to co-operate – but guilt and grief and fear weighed him down. Why shouldn’t he be judged? What right had he to protest an innocence he couldn’t truly claim? If there was punishment, could it be any worse than what he’d already endured – or any more than he deserved?

"You’ll walk forward, through the gathering, giving them a chance to determine how tainted you are. They feed on evil. They suck it out of a man, cleansing the soul and lightning his heart – and they leave nothing behind. No man is truly innocent, but the guilty and the corrupt have most to fear, since they have the most to give up." Wilson smiled grimly. "If you’re the monster they claim, they’ll swarm over you and drain you dry. It isn’t – pleasant," he added thoughtfully, "but it’s quick. Afterwards – well," he considered dismissively, "for you there probably won’t be an afterwards. But if you’re still on your feet after judgement – Mr Henshaw will decide whether you deserve mercy, or further discipline. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a place on the benches with the rest. If not – " He sighed. "Then I’ll be writing a report about yet another unfortunate suicide among our detainees." He tapped the end of the baton on the floor in front of him. "Wait here. And don’t do anything stupid. The last one that tried to run got dragged back for her before we had a chance to stop them."

He nodded to the men flanking the door and stalked away, leaving his prisoner shivering with anticipatory horror. Suspicion had begun to crystallise into wary conjecture as the warder had delivered his speech; Giles couldn’t be sure, but he was beginning to suspect what might be waiting behind the closed door – and if he was right, then he wasn’t just in trouble. He was in real trouble.

Life and soul, death and damnation trouble.

Again.

"So," Sky asked, more by way of conversation than any real desire for the information, "How long have you been a Slayer?"

"The Slayer," Buffy corrected abstractedly. She was staring out of the car window into the night, watching the suburbs of Wilton Meadows become replaced by desert scrub and isolated homesteads. "There’s only ever one at a time. Well," she added, frowning over what she’d just said. "Actually, there’s two of us at the moment. Maybe three … Umm – see, you only get a new Slayer when the old one dies. So when I died – "

"First time," Spike interjected helpfully from the back seat of the squad car. Buffy ignored him.

"- which was only for a minute or two, because Xander revived me – someone else got chosen. And when she died, there was Faith. Faith was a good Slayer – but then she went bad. She’s in prison at the moment."

"So that’s two," Sky noted, turning off the Valley road and onto the track that lead to the Hoskins place. She didn’t really believe she was having this conversation. But then, she couldn’t possibly be driving into the desert with two complete strangers, no backup and nothing but the guilt churning in her guts to convince her that she was doing the right thing. "You said maybe three. Someone else died?"

"I did," Buffy sighed. "Really died. Dead, buried, coffin – the whole thing. I died and I went – away. And then Will – Willow – she called me back. Will’s a witch. A pretty good one. Although Giles thinks she takes too many risks, that she’s playing with a fire she doesn’t understand. I wish she’d listen to him."

"She’ll learn, love," Spike murmured from behind them. "Though she might get burned doing it."

"That’s how you got here, isn’t it," Sky said, recalling some of their earlier conversation. "A translocation spell, you said?"

"Uh-huh." The Slayer nodded, still watching the encroaching night. "Willow popped us the entire distance – and knocked herself completely for a loop. Tara – that’s Will’s girlfriend – she says she was out for hours. She’s awake now, but – I guess she won’t be casting anymore spells for a while."

The policewoman frowned, trying to realign something that sounded utterly nonsensical with cold hard reality. Witches, Vampires, and Demons. They belonged in story-books, not stalking modern day America. The evils that she knew – and she’d been witness to some pretty evil deeds during her career – were bad enough; human monsters, many bereft of conscience, others twisted with hate, violence or lust. Had some of them been demons – or just driven by them, corrupted by the kind of evil that a sane society preferred to deny?

"Five – nearly six years," Buffy announced after a moment, finally answering Sky’s initial question. "I think. Something like that. Funny," she considered, frowning over the realisation. "I didn’t meet Giles until after I inherited the power and moved to Sunnydale. But I feel like I’ve known him my entire life." She smiled, encompassing memories Sky had no way of comprehending. "I don’t know how he coped with me, those first couple of years. I was so young and I thought him so – old. Ancient. Like a rock. Weathered by wind and rain and sand. Older than Angel, somehow. Which is crazy, of course," she laughed, "because Angel is nearly 300 years old and he sired Spike. It was just that, Giles had all this wisdom and knowledge and stuff. He didn’t have all the answers, but he knew where to look for them, and he kept trying to teach me about duty and honour and destiny. He’s been my mentor, my sensei, my guide and my guardian. When I met him he – uh – seemed as old as his books and as unconnected as – as I guess any adult does when you’re just sixteen. Then I got older," she said, "and he didn’t. Somewhere along the line we became family – and my ancient, stuffy Watcher turned out to be this pretty cool, happening guy. Not so old, and perhaps not quite as wise as I’d thought, but - wise enough."

Sky had to smile at the description, recognising in it the discovery she’d made about her own father, back when she was Buffy’s age. Maximilian Zaherne had turned out to be a wonderful man as well as a wonderful parent; his rich and varied interests and his love of life had been a revelation to a young woman who’d spent her early years resenting his determined guardianship and the way he’d watched over her with anxious and loving eyes. Those hints of his humanity, his warmth as a man and his strength of heart, had always been there – but it wasn’t until she’d learned to see them that she’d realised how complex and perspicacious he’d been all along. He’d always been her father, but in later years he’d also been her friend. She missed him.

She suspected she always would.

"This is it," she announced, pulling the car to a halt close to the overhang where they’d found the pickup the day before. The truck itself was gone, towed back to the impound yard, it and its contents pawed through by a meticulous forensics team. As far as anyone could tell, the girls had never been anywhere near the truck, but that didn’t prove anything, one way or the other.

"Right," Spike acknowledged, climbing out of the car and taking a moment to draw in the desert’s night air. Buffy stepped out of the side door and round to the trunk, reaching to pop it open almost before Sky had time to trigger the lock from inside the vehicle. The policewoman sighed, emerging into the evening with a weary heart. It had been a long day, and she hadn’t really slept the night before. Was she doing the right thing? She probably should have called someone, told them where she was going, arranged some backup – except there was no-one who’d have listened, no-one who’d understand the gut feeling, the whisper of instinct that had brought her back to this place. The rednecks she worked with never understood that, and she doubted they ever would. Megan would have come. Megan would have loved every minute of this. But Megan was dead, gunned down in that pointless, senseless drive-by incident back in Vegas – and afterwards Sky had vowed never to get that close to a partner, ever again. Did she really think it was worth traipsing out into the desert in search of mythical demons and a child who – by all rational consideration – had been dead as long as her sister? Jodie Millen was undoubtedly buried somewhere out in the wilderness. But buried alive?

A part of her hoped against hope that it would be true – and the rest of her denied it with terrified horror. Because if it was true, then all the rest had to be true as well.

"Here." Buffy was pushing a shovel into her hands, along with one of the powerful police torches that Sky had appropriated when she’d picked up the car. "Do you have a decent weapon?"

"I have my gun, if that’s what you mean." Sky reached to check. The .44 was still safely tucked into its shoulder holster, concealed beneath her jacket. Buffy smiled grimly.

"That’ll have to do," she said, tossing Spike another of the shovels and reaching into the heavy bag she’d tucked into the trunk when they’d set out from the mall. A soft metallic ring echoed through the air – along with a sudden gleam of steel as the embers of the day reflected off the weapon the Slayer had pulled out of the bag. Sky’s mouth went dry.

Buffy Summers’ first weapon of choice was an axe. A huge, two headed, wickedly edged axe, which she hefted with satisfaction before propping it up against the car and reaching back into the bag. A narrow bladed sword emerged, along with two short vicious daggers, which Buffy tucked into her belt – and last, but not least, an elegant crossbow, which she cocked and loaded with practiced skill.

"Zamaroth are material demons; tough, but with no particular immunities. They’re tricky, though. They have regenerative powers, so you have to dismember them to ensure they’re really dead and not just faking it. If you’re going to shoot them, aim for the heart or the head. Hurt them anywhere else, you’re just going to make them mad."

"Okay," Sky nodded, then frowned. "Do you have a license for all this stuff? If you don’t, I’m looking at a 3 to 5 before I even start. Possession of deadly weaponry," she explained at the blank look Buffy gave her. "Intent to cause harm?"

"Oh," the Slayer laughed. "That. No, I don’t have an official license. I think Giles has – um – a permit to collect and sell antique and reproduction weaponry? Something like that. He keeps stuff in the shop, so he had to get the right permissions for it." She smiled, a little hauntedly. "I’ve always let him worry about the paperwork. He has a – knack for it."

"She’s the Slayer," Spike drawled scornfully, shouldering his shovel and taking the sword from Buffy’s hand. "That’s all the license she needs. The bad guys don’t obey the law, deputy. They don’t give a damn about it. Hell, sometimes they even break a few of the laws of nature. This is war." He grinned, studying the sword blade with a decided gleam in his eye. "And I love it."

Sky floundered for a moment, torn between duty and instinct, between the letter and the spirit of the law she had sworn to uphold. "Miss Summers," she decided, choosing her stance and firming her resolve, "right now, I am so outside procedure, I’m in a foreign country. If what you say is true, then you need this stuff, and I’m in no position to confiscate it or charge you over it. There’s a child’s life at stake here. You – you seem to be willing to risk your own to save her. The least I can do is risk my badge."

Buffy gave her a measured look. "Thank you," she said. Sky responded with a wry smile.

"I’d say you’re welcome, but – we’ll just have to wait and see."

"You’ll see," the Slayer assured her softly. She glanced across at Spike, who’d moved forward to lift his head and sniff the air, like a wolf seeking the scent of prey. "You getting anything?"

"Blood," the vampire answered, bluntly. "The place reeks of it. There’s a little fear and a barrel load of anxious sweat too." He turned his head and stared at Sky with amused eyes. "Lot of people been through here today."

"We’ve had over two dozen volunteers searching the valley – and another five or six walking the stream and the edge of the desert. They didn’t find anything."

"They didn’t know what to look for," Buffy declared, shouldering the bow and picking up the axe with her free hand. "Any trace of demons?"

"Well, yeah," Spike grinned. "They must’ve worked ol’ Rupert over pretty thoroughly when they arrested him. But - that’s not what you meant, right?"

"Right," Buffy affirmed grimly, stalking past him down the hill and towards the waiting desert. Sky stared at Spike with a mixture of puzzlement and alarm. There’d been a joke in there she just didn’t get. And how did he know this was where her men had taken out their anger on their prisoner? It had been over twenty four hours ago …

"How sensitive are you to the scent of blood?" she asked, not really certain that she wanted to know the answer. He smiled at her. It was a rather unnerving smile.

"Right now? Right now I can smell the warmth of yours racing through your veins – and I can smell her, hot with passion, burning with righteousness. Nothing like the blood of a Slayer to get the old adrenaline going. But over that? There’s the scent of death, ‘bout a day old – just down there.

"And here – here," he emphasised, pointing to the ground, "this is where someone beat the crap out of someone because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t look at me like that, deputy. You know it’s true. You might even have helped. Can’t say I’d blame you if you did. Must have looked pretty bad."

Sky bristled a little. "I think you’re making this up," she accused. "Maybe my men did – act a little roughly in the arrest. But it was just a few bruises. Don’t tell me you can smell bruises."

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Never needed to. Don’t need to now, either. I can tell the difference between dead little girl and well-pummeled Englishman, believe me. I know the guy’s scent. Recognise it anywhere. Especially now. Got a real distinctive tang these days. One of a kind, is our Ripper." He laughed. "You should be glad he didn’t fight back."

"Spike!" Buffy’s call was imperative. He sighed theatrically, grimaced and headed after her, moving like a silent shadow, making barely a sound on the graveled sand. Sky stared down at the dusk shrouded ground, trying not to think about muffled grunts and the impact of fists on flesh. Their victim hadn’t fought back. Nor had he cried out; he’d offered no protest at his treatment, accepting it, enduring it in stoic silence. Since he’d refused medical assessment, she’d no way of knowing just how badly her men had hurt him.

She hadn’t really cared at the time – but, knowing what Buffy had told her, she now felt decidedly guilty about all of it; guilty about letting it happen, about approving the arrest report, and – worst of all – about letting Maybourne haul him off to West County without getting some kind of medical evaluation first.

She knew – as Jennings had known, and Maybourne probably suspected – that sending an accused child molester to somewhere like West County was just asking for trouble. If the inmates didn’t beat on him, the guards probably would.

After all, they’d have no way of knowing that he might be an innocent man.

Long Sea Crossing. Chaper Two, Part Five: 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