"I was a little - upset, by the situation," Giles admitted, with a hint of embarrassment. "And I gave them absolutely no quarter. I must have killed ten, fifteen of them before they overwhelmed me. I must admit," he said, "I hadn’t realised until then just how effective my weapons could be. They cut through demon hide with remarkable efficiency."

"You can say that again," Wesley observed, recalling his friend’s lightning move in the bar – and the expression on the face of the vampire, just before he collapsed into dust. "Carbon steel, I suppose. Or a variant on it, perhaps. Lightweight, but hard – and very strong. How do you keep them sharp?"

"He doesn’t," Sky smiled. "They grow that way. Like fingernails. If they chip or break, they just – grow out again."

"Cool," Cordelia said, studying her fingertips – and scowling as she realised she had a broken nail.

"That’s very efficient," Fred noted, then frowned. "They break?"

"Not very often," Giles protested, glancing at his wife with an affectionate frown. She threw him a patient look in return, holding it until he coloured a little and dipped his head with a wry smile. "Okay," he admitted, "so there have been a couple of times … But having half a building land on you is going to do some damage. And Egridal was a big demon. With magical defenses. Besides,” he concluded, giving Sky the kind of loving look that spoke volumes, “I’d have given anything to win that fight."

"Ah – can we rewind a minute here?" Gunn requested. "You just said the Aslewaugh overwhelmed you. You don’t look very overwhelmed to me."

"He has a point," Angel agreed with a grin. Giles nodded thoughtfully.

"Fortunately, so do I," he said. "Several of them in fact. They did overwhelm me – sheer weight of numbers really. I went flat on my face. But when she crawled up to take advantage of the fact - "He paused to smile at the memory of it, recalling the moment with wry irony. “I – ah – shrugged my shoulder blades."

"Ouch,” Wesley reacted, wincing theatrically. “Shish ke-bug, right?"

"Right," Giles agreed with small laugh. "Of course, she damaged herself even further trying to get free. Ripped her underbelly right open. Smelt terrible," he observed ruefully. "Funny how the reference books never mention the really unpleasant aspects of these kind of things. I mean – ‘foul stench’ total fails to capture the sheer – odiousness of the actual odour. Dripping Aslewaugh guts – definitely not my idea of a sensible bath."

"Not mine, either," Lorne grimaced. "You’re supposed to cut their heads off."

"Oh, I did that too. She backed off screaming, I rolled over and - " His gesture conveyed the action eloquently. "No more brood mother. It was a little easier to deal with the rest after that. She had the brains in the family and I – I had a lot of anger to express."

"Ri-pper, ri-pper, ri-pper!" The drumbeat had become a chant, a tribal incantation, filled with breathless frenzy. With the brood mother dead, the tyrant’s spell had finally been broken; the men of West County had awakened to a spectacle of retribution, the bloody slaughter of the beasts that had kept them in thrall. Hard violent men pounded the benches with furious bloodlust, screaming on their champion until he hunted down the last skittering bug and dispatched it, spearing its screaming, struggling body and then slicing it into silence with one final, merciless stroke.

The chant became a cheer; a sound that echoed through the bleak buildings like a rushing, cleansing wind. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a weary, somewhat bemused man blinked at the tumult and took a moment to realise they were cheering him. He looked around, taking in the carnage; there was blood and ichor everywhere, a swirl of foetid colours painted across the wood of the floor. Black blood dripped from his blades, staining the gleam of steel, and he was soaked in foulness, spattered with it from head to foot.

"Well, that was fun," he muttered, his tone denying the sentiment even as he expressed it. The crowd had gone back to chanting his name – well, his nickname – celebrating his victory with fulsome praise. He hesitated, a little self-consciously, then did what they wanted and acknowledged their acclamation, thrusting one fist up into the air, letting the bloodied blades catch the light, and feeling their answering roar resonate through his bones.

After a moment he let his hand drop again. He felt utterly exhausted. The myriad cuts and bruises he’d sustained were beginning to scream for attention and the adrenaline that had driven him had completely drained away. He was left feeling empty and oddly distanced from events.

"Mr Giles? Ripper?" Wilson was standing in front of him, his expression wary and his stance distinctly respectful. "Are you all right?"

He wasn’t entirely sure. Had he really just - ? He took another wary glance around, taking in the extent of the slaughter. Most of the tyrant bugs were slowly dissolving into viscous goo, leaving just a hint of their angled, armoured shape behind. The corpse of their brood mother was nothing more than a foul heap, collapsing in on itself. "Yes," he comprehended slowly, registering that he was alive, more or less in one piece, and that there was nothing left to fight. "Yes, I think I am." He paused, looking up towards the Warden’s box with anxious concern. "What – what happened to the Warden?"

"Mr Henshaw," Wilson announced warily, "had a heart attack. Right after you – ah – " He nodded towards the dead brood mother.

"Go, Ripper!" a voice called from the benches. Others join in the approbation. "Slash and burn, man, slash and burn."

"That’s enough," the Chief Warder ordered sharply, glancing in the relevant direction. His men were ushering the prisoners back to their cells, herding them out with friendly banter and no few glances back towards the blood spattered arena – and the equally blood spattered figure it still contained. "Show the man a little respect. You owe him. You all owe him."

Giles found a weary smile from somewhere – one that Buffy would recognise this time, a quiet, self depreciating smile. "That’s - probably very true," he realised, lifting his hand to wipe some of the gunk from his eyes. Wilson took a swift step backwards as the movement swept the points of deadly blades in his direction. "Sorry," their owner apologised. "I – uh – haven’t quite got the hang of these yet."

The warder gave him a bemused look. "Could have fooled me," he said, his eyes darting across the remnants of the carnage. "Uh – just what are you, exactly?"

It was a good question. One he was better equipped to answer now.

"One of the good guys," he said wearily. He turned his hand so that he could blink at the filth that coated his arm – and the blades that emerged from it, crusted with drying blood. "And desperately in need of another shower."

"Of course," Wilson reacted, looking apologetic. "Williams?" His call summoned one of his men, who hurried over, trying hard not to stare and failing miserably. "Escort Mr Giles to the showers, will you? Make sure he is not disturbed."

"Yes sir!" the man snapped. "This way - Ripper." He offered the nickname with more than a hint of respect, gesturing towards the doorway that – only a short while before – had admitted its owner to the courts of judgement and the demonic jury that had proclaimed him free of sin. It seemed a little churlish to have repaid that generous verdict with nothing but death, but on the other hand if he hadn’t done so he wouldn’t still be around to contemplate what it actually meant.

"Thank you," he acknowledged, stepping over a liquefying corpse and stalking across the floor with unconscious grace. There was an art to moving with everything extended, a difference in balance, an awareness of reach that went beyond the usual confines of his limbs. The guard kept a deferential distance, which was probably just as well.

It turned out to be a short walk; there were changing rooms and showers built in behind the gymnasium, offering a slightly more civilised environment than the concrete and tiles in the main building. The guard sent another man to fetch a change of clothes, unlocked a supply cupboard to produce some soap and stack a few towels on a changing bench, then ushered his charge into the privacy of the shower cubicles – and walked away, taking up a respectful position by the outer door. He didn’t quite say ‘take as long as you like’, but he implied it; the stance he adopted was more like that of an honour guard than anything else.

Giles surmised that the guards, like the inmates, had been woven into the tyrant’s spell; released, they would, no doubt, begin to realise the horror they had been party to. This man was obviously grateful for his escape – and respectfully wary of the man capable of bringing it about.

An innocent man. Who also happened to come fully equipped with very personal and very deadly weapons - and who clearly wasn’t intimidated by a few monstrous creatures spawned in the depths of hell. Of course, compared to some of the things he’d faced over the years, the Aslewaugh were simply minor horrors and, while dangerous, nothing to get too distraught about. Not like facing down a horde of vampires, or dealing with the gibbering mouthed, tentacled thing that guarded the other side of the hellmouth. And compared to the Malumbra – Giles shuddered and quickly pushed that thought from his mind. He didn’t want to go there again. Not tonight. But he still had to admit that life with the Slayer did give a man a different perspective on things.

The water was hot, and a wonderful experience, sluicing across his skin and cutting through both grime and fatigue in equal measure. He let the weight of it scour steel and flesh alike, before pulling the heated metal beneath his skin, feeling it merge back into his tired bones. There was a sense of cleansing in it that went far deeper than just the surface of his body; he felt as if he were washing away not just the outer contamination, but one of the layers of grime with which Salamiel had painted his soul. The sense of helpless exposure he’d felt while standing naked beneath a shower’s stream was finally gone; even there he was aware of being armed and armoured for the fight, empowered by the very gifts with which the Incandescent had sought to corrupt him.

He closed his eyes and shivered, conscious that this feeling of power, this brief respite from the storm, was just that – a moment of victory snatched in what was likely to be a long, grueling war. At least he was on the offensive now, and he would hold to the ground he’d won; he could only hope that the rest would follow, however hard the battles that awaited him.

A mythological labour, Buffy had suggested. Like killing hydras. He wished he’d had Iolaus with him out there in the arena – but then maybe in a way he had. He might wear a demon’s flesh, but he knew that somewhere – deep and buried, still waiting for him to find, the angel had left some of his fire in his soul. He hoped he’d prove worthy of the gift.

He hoped he’d get a chance to. He had dealt with the Tyrant bugs, but he still was in prison, after all. Still accused of a heinous crime, and facing the possibility of a life sentence – if not condemnation to Death Row. The court of the Aslewaugh had no standing in mortal law, which would demand proof of his innocence before it would even consider setting him free.

But that, of course, was all up to Buffy now …

"There’s nothing out here," the policewoman decided, sweeping the beam of her torch across the rocky, sand-strewn ground. It was a clear night and the air was crisply cold, as sharp as the stars which twinkled overhead. They had descended into the badlands, following instinct more than a trail; west, Giles had said, so Buffy had steered them accordingly, heading for the looming shadow of the buttes and hoping he hadn’t been mistaken.

Spike was in hunting mode, loping along low to the ground, his coat flapping around him like distorted bat wings. He’d vamped up almost as soon as they’d hit the desert floor, shifting from darkly sensual man to seriously barbarous beast. She was oddly glad about that; not just because of the way it disconcerted the policewoman – whom she had decided not to forgive, now she knew she’d stood by while her men beat their helpless prisoner black and blue – but because it helped refocus her energy, redirected it to the matter in hand. All the time they’d been waiting – waiting for the sun to go down, for the deputy to arrive – she’d been fighting the need to crawl into her vampire lover’s arms and lose herself in his passions. He was like a drug she couldn’t quite resist. While she was with him, she didn't have to think, didn’t even have to feel – just exist, just be, in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She was using him, she knew she was. She didn’t love him. Not the way she’d loved Angel, or the way she’d thought she’d loved Riley. It wasn’t even infatuation. Just need and passion and moments when she could cut loose and no longer care.

Moments when the arms that held her did so with strength and desire, when she was the centre of the entire world and nothing could touch her. Nothing mattered.

She’d needed that today.

It wasn’t easy, being the Slayer. You always had to be strong, you always had to be stubborn, and you always had to be ready – ready to act, to react, to step forward and become the warrior you’d been trained to be. She’d killed countless vampires, slain innumerable demons, stood against horrors that would freeze a lesser mortal’s soul – and none of them had prepared her for the ordeal she had faced, walking up to that cold and soulless cell.

She’d felt so powerless. Seeing Giles, listening to him, knowing that he needed help, and not knowing how to offer it. Time seemed to be replaying itself with heartless reiteration; her special gifts, her speed and her strength, had been less than useless during those long agonised days that had taken her mother from her. And they had seemed just as useless today.

No power on earth could erase the horror he’d endured; she knew that. But it was so unfair. To have gone through so much, to have suffered and struggled so hard for so long – and still not be free of it. That just wasn’t right. For him to be forced to carry all that pain and guilt and torment – to have to face that, with a wounded heart and an exhausted soul …

She’d crawled from the encounter feeling beaten and dispirited. Demons she could face, vampires she could slay. But the battle her Watcher currently fought was not one in which she could intervene, no matter how much she wanted to. All she could do was pray. Pray that the fire he’d been given would be enough to strengthen and protect him. Pray that he find a place within himself where he could regroup and turn to make a stand. And pray that the powers that be had a purpose in mind; that they wouldn’t be so cruel as to aid in his rescue, only to leave him to flounder and drown once it was done.

She wouldn’t listen to the little voice suggesting that his life and his heart might be acceptable sacrifice compared to what might have been had Salamiel succeeded in his plan. She couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe it.

She’d seen the light.

She knew better than that.

But it hadn’t made today any easier to bear.

Having hot raunchy sex with Spike probably wouldn’t have helped much either – but that hadn’t stopped her from wanting it.

She didn’t want it now, though. Now was all business and concentration, the real Slayer stuff. This was what she lived for. What she’d come back for. The thing she did that made a difference. Every time, it made a difference.

"Yes there is," she said, striding past the dart of the torch beam, catching up with Spike where he crouched, alert and battle ready at the top of the next rise.

"Down there," he said, shifting back from beast to beauty before the deputy scrambled up to join them both. The policewoman had had only glimpses of his true face – that one brief moment back at the burger bar, and the few wary glances she’d thrown in his direction as he’d loped through the dark – but hopefully they were enough to be convincing without needing to scare her half to death. Buffy had to give the woman credit; she’d listened and she’d come along, which was more than she’d expected after their first, uncertain meeting.

Not that she’d handled that – or their time in the Mall, for that matter – very well. She’d arrived at the sherrif’s station full of confidence, only to be knocked totally for a loop by what the man at the desk had told her; the reason for Giles’ arrest and the charges laid against him. She’d spent half her time in the deputy’s office fighting down a desire to simply charge in, rip the relevant doors off their hinges and set him free. And then after that she’d had to try and explain the situation to a highly sceptical cop, when her mind was focused on the confession she’d heard and the man who’d made it. She probably hadn’t been very coherent. It had certainly taken a while to convince the deputy to take them where they needed to go. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately, if you happened to be Jodie Millen – they’d been stuck in the mall until sundown. It wouldn’t have been safe to take Spike out into the sun – and without Spike’s help it would be much harder to track their quarry.

She didn’t quite know what to make of their acquired company; the policewoman had a sleek beauty that suggested elegance and smart business suits – not dark denim jeans, cowboy boots and a black leather jacket, although she wore those with the competence of a fashion model. It seemed that she had an unexpected chameleonic quality, capable of looking good, no matter what she was wearing or what she was doing in it. A couple of years ago, she’d have made Buffy feel decidedly inadequate – especially as her looks appeared to be a natural gift, not artful preparation. She still felt a little overshadowed; given the elegant height, the long dark hair, and the flash of steel blue eyes, it wasn’t any wonder that Spike had been giving the woman admiring looks all afternoon. At least the deputy hadn’t been phased by the rugged, rough slog through desert scrub in the darkening night. And she’d had some sort of martial arts training, from the look of things ; she walked like a cat, graceful and elegant in every step, confident in her balance and alert to every move.

She was also jumpy, on edge, and seriously wondering what she was doing – but that was okay. Jumpy was good when there were demons about. As for the rest of it – well, she was about to find out.

"I wasn’t sure," the vampire was saying, "but – I can smell ‘em now. Rank little buggers. You’d think all that digging in the dirt would help keep ‘em clean, but – nah." He chuckled softly. "There’s little girl down there, too. Cold and hurt and scared. Sweating with fear. You wouldn’t pick her up in the city, but – out here? It’s all this empty air. Lets the scent carry."

"She’s alive?" Deputy Zaherne peered over the ridge as if expecting to see the missing girl appear at any minute. "You sure?"

Spike smiled at her. One of his leering, evil smiles that suggested he knew all sorts of things that nobody else did. "Trust me," he said.

On this occasion, Buffy did. Not just because of his vampiric senses, but because this was exactly the sort of place they’d been looking for. Xander had found some very helpful information about the Zamaroth – once he and Dawn had unearthed the relevant books from the seemingly haphazard piles in Giles’ library. Which was actually the spare room in his apartment, since that was where he’d stashed all the volumes they’d rescued from the school. Just before they’d blown it and the Mayor up.

"So where do we dig?" she asked, shining her torch down into the gully. The beam swept over several heaps and mounds of soft gritty dirt; most were probably the result of wind-drift – but at least one would be covering up the entrance to the creatures’ nest.

"Wherever you like," he answered. "Just digging will stir ‘em up. Down there, I reckon." He pointed to one end of the gully. "That’s closest to the girl."

"Okay." Buffy glanced round, assessing the situation. The Zamaroth would come up from underground, once they’d been disturbed. They didn’t know how many of them there were – and she had a civilian in tow, albeit one trained to defend herself. "This is how it goes. Spike – you go after the girl. You can track her – dig as close as you can get and try to get her out of harm’s way as fast as you can. Deputy – I want you to dig this side of the gully. Just enough to disturb the nest, no more. They’re going to come up, and when they do they’ll strike fast. They’ve got hooked claws and they won’t hold back in using them. So no heroics, okay?"

The policewoman tapped her chest, grinning a little in the dark. "Wore my kevlar vest," she announced. "I saw what they did to Angie. I wasn’t taking any chances."

Her words lifted a brief smile to Buffy’s lips – partly because they demonstrated that the deputy wasn’t just a pretty face, but mostly because they conveyed something far more important. She wasn’t just going along with this to humour them. She was willing to believe them.

And that meant she was also willing to accept that Giles might be innocent of the crime she’d accused him of.

Even if he wasn’t. Exactly …

"Good thinking," Buffy acknowledged, shaking the thought from her head. She’d already betrayed one of Giles’ secrets today. There was no way she’d ever divulge what he’d confessed to her that afternoon. He had blood on his hands and guilt in his heart – misplaced guilt for what she knew to be a blameless act, perhaps, but he didn’t see it that way. Compassion and murder were never going to be comfortable bedfellows. He’d killed Ben for the sake of the world – and he’d killed Marie Ann for the sake of her soul. Hard choices.

The only choices.

And she – who’d once driven a sword into the man she loved and sent him to hell in order to stop a terrible evil from being unleashed - had nothing but sympathy for the man forced to make them.

"Let’s get this over with," she said, grounding her torch so that it illuminated the space below and heading down towards the battle ground.

Long Sea Crossing -Chapter Two, Part Seven. 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