Rain was falling softly over Sunnydale. It had started falling at midday, like a shimmering, silver curtain that painted whatever it touched with the sheen of moisture. Thunderclouds had brought the weather in from the coast, and they lay heavy overhead, threatening more violent downpours as the lingering heat of the day sucked the water back into the air. Xander Harris slotted his car into a convenient parking spot and leapt out, snatching up the bags he’d stashed on the passenger seat and making a run for the safety of the Magic Box. Water splashed up around his feet as he ran, so that he arrived breathless and soaked from shoulder to hip and from ankle to knee.

"Okay," he announced, pushing open the shop door with his hip and letting it shut again behind him. "Like the afternoon off. Don’t like the delay on the work. I’ve got contract deadlines to meet. Who’s responsible for the rain?"

Dawn looked at Tara. Tara looked at Willow. Willow looked abashed – and slowly raised her hand with an apologetic smile. "Sorry," she said. "I think it was me."

Xander sighed, walking over to drop the laden bags on the shop counter. "Side effect or backlash?" he asked, leaning against the counter and considering the young witch with patient affection. Willow looked even more abashed.

"Backlash. I was trying to make a rainbow …"

"It was a very pretty rainbow," Anya noted from the far side of the counter, moving to peek into the rain touched bags. "Ooh – pastrami and bagels." She turned a cheek for Xander to kiss, which he promptly did.

"Buffy said ‘bring lunch’," he explained. "So I did. We could have a picnic, but – it’s raining."

"We can picnic in here," Anya said helpfully. "Rain and customers don’t seem to mix. Nobody spends money on a wet day."

"Great," Dawn said, promptly sweeping her school books off the table and dumping them all back in her carry bag. "I’m starving."

"You’re always starving," Tara observed with amusement. "But then, you did only have three waffles this morning so – "

"Hah!" Dawn reacted, bouncing up and going over to help Xander sort out the food. "I’m growing. What’s everyone else’s excuse?"

"Fighting the forces of evil requires determination and lots of physical and mental strength," Willow said, sharing a warm look with her girlfriend. "We need to fuel our bodies to help protect our souls."

"Gonna remember that one," Xander grinned. "Buffy out back?"

"She’s training," Willow confirmed, glancing at the closed door at the back of the shop. "She said something about – working on a few moves? I think she’s trying to keep Giles busy."

"Good idea," Xander noted, handing out cream cheese bagels and tomatoes. "I half wish we had a big bad menace looming – give him something else to think about."

"Well, I’m glad we don’t," Willow said firmly. "He’s still recovering from the last one."

"Think he’ll ever recover? Really?" Tara asked, her eyes drifting towards the closed door. "I mean – he’s changed ..."

"Not where it matters," Willow countered, glancing at Xander, who nodded. "Not in here." And she pressed her hand over her heart.

"Giles is Giles," Xander affirmed with confidence. "Giles with Wolverine accessories, maybe, but still – well, Giles. He’s just – working through some things at the moment. He’ll work ‘em out. And he and Buffy’ll miss lunch if I don’t go fetch them. Don’t eat everything while I’m gone."

The girls waved him off, passing round canned drinks and helping themselves to the food. He grinned and walked up to the door, opening it very carefully and sliding through into the space beyond. He knew better than to walk boldly in when Buffy was training. Last time he’d done that, he’d been greeted by the flash of a double handed sword and a barely pulled blow; he’d had sweaty nightmares about losing his manhood for weeks afterwards.

The slide in looked to be a good idea. Buffy was in the middle of the room, twisting and dancing while twirling a heavy mace, slamming it into the padded shield that Giles was busy hiding behind. Nothing unusual about that; the two of them had trained and practiced that way for years. Only –

Xander’s mouth slowly dropped open. He’d watched Buffy train more times than he cared to think about. He knew her moves, he knew how she’d been slowly improving as she developed her skills, adding speed and control to measured strength. The gawky, adolescent girl had blossomed into a powerful, agile woman, a true Slayer, grown into her destiny until she and it were one creature; the chosen one. And he knew, with a slightly amused, I know he knows it but he also knows better than to say it, awareness, that in the time since her return from – well, just from – Buffy had so far outstripped her mentor that their training sessions had turned into mere exercise. He’d seen how the Slayer had been holding back her blows, walking through the moves, and using her former teacher simply as a sparring partner, a way to hone and maintain her edge. Not that she hadn’t appreciated Giles’ input, or his support. Just that he – a mere mortal man – had had about as much chance of challenging her as, well, as Xander himself did.

And the quietly martyred air with which Giles had earned his inevitable bruises had been as much about how much he loved her as it had been about trying to get her to stretch herself that little bit more.

There was still a sense of slight martyrdom in the air; the man in the middle of the assault was enduring it with patient and focused fortitude – but Buffy wasn’t pulling her blows. The mace was a deadly whirl of steel. One wrong move, one mistimed step and she was likely to take the man’s head right off – or cave in his rib cage, or cripple him for life. Xander blinked, trying to figure how the dance remained a dance, rather than a blood bath. Giles was managing to match her every move, defending himself with effort, but still defending himself – which, given that each slam of the spiked metal against the padded wood was probably strong enough to shatter human bones, was a rather disconcerting spectacle.

"…99, 100!" Buffy twirled the mace one last time; the final blow split the wood of the shield completely in two, and her sparring partner had to drop the pieces and hastily duck back as the spiked ball whispered past his skull.

"Good," he decided, nodding approval and wrestling a little for breath. "Nicely controlled." He rubbed a little feeling back into his arm and shoulder while Buffy went to hang the mace back on the wall. He didn’t usually strip down to a t-shirt for training sessions, but this looked like serious work-out. He’d taken off his glasses - which, Xander realised with a roll of his eyes, wasn't really a sign of anything, since he didn't exactly need them anymore – and both of them were glistening with sweat. "But you’re still leaving your left side exposed. You must use the sweep of the mace to cover the turn."

"Uhuh," Buffy acknowledged, going through the move in her mind and identifying what he was talking about. "Yeah. Yeah - you’re right. If my opponent was a walking suit of armour and wasn’t going to be mush the moment he got close enough to take advantage."

"That is always possible," her Watcher pointed out archly. She grinned at him.

"You think you could take me?" she challenged, feistily. "I am the Slayer, remember?"

Giles had been taking a step away, reaching for one of the towels that were draped over the pommel horse, but he paused and looked back at her with a disapproving frown. "Don’t get cocky, Buffy," he advised, with more than a hint of rebuke. "Overconfidence breeds mistakes. Never u-underestimate your opponent."

She shrugged. "They usually underestimate me," she said, reaching over her shoulder to tug a long bladed dagger out of the weapon’s cupboard. "And over estimate themselves."

He thought about that for a moment. "You do have a point," he admitted. There was a soft, subtle snickt – and Buffy dropped into a hasty duck and roll as five lethal blades sliced through the air right where she’d been standing. Xander jumped, suddenly glad he’d not made any sudden moves or drawn attention to himself. "I," Giles continued conversationally, "have several more. Care to - debate the matter?"

She bounced to her feet and shook back her hair, shifting her grip on the dagger as she dropped into a defensive stance, grinning from ear to ear. "Thought you’d never ask."

He rolled his eyes – and opened the blades set in his other arm, clenching his fists and bringing both arms down to adopt a classic martial stance of readiness.

After which, they began to fence.

They moved slowly at first, a clash of blade against blade as they circled round in wary confrontation, their eyes fixed on those of their opponent and their moves circumspectly measured. He had height, reach – and advantage in weapons. She had speed, agility and reflexes honed to perfection. The first few tentative clashes became a faster exchange, a game of thrust and parry in which deadly points and lethal edges danced over vulnerable skin, but never quite made contact. Giles pressed home his attack, and Buffy dodged and twisted, deflecting blows and ducking sweeps with expert skill. After the first few moments of finding his heart in his mouth Xander started to realise this was just as much of a drill as the earlier conflict. In a real fight she’d have used all her body, trying to down her opponent with a kick, or leading with a punch from her empty hand. This was training with a vengeance – and not just for Buffy, but for the man she fought, a way to help him accept the changes in his body and to empower the soul that wore it. He had been cursed – or gifted, perhaps - with the strength, the reflexes and the weapons of the Grigori – all of which had to be mastered, so that he could be completely in control.

And – boy – was he learning fast.

The exchange of blows became a blur of steel, almost too quick to follow. They moved back and forth in a percussion of sound, clashing together and then springing apart like a carefully choreographed ballet. Buffy danced through the weave of flashing blades, a look of total concentration on her face as she was pushed to her limits; Giles’ expression was equally resolute – one slip, one mistake from either of them, and Xander would be mopping blood off the floor.

And probably body parts as well …

Abruptly – in a sudden, frozen moment of realisation – it was over. They were standing in a studied tableaux at the centre of the room, Buffy's arm outstretched so the point of the dagger rested over his heart – and he with his wrists crossed in front of her, the extended blades nestling on either side of her neck.

"Okay," she said, her eyes rolling down to identify the full peril of her position. "So who gets that one?"

"I do," he answered matter-of-factly. "I-I have armour plating, remember? While you’re trying to drive that home, all I have to do is close down my blades."

Her eyes darted sideways, registering what he meant. "Good point. Nice move."

"It needs work," he decided, stepping back extremely carefully, so as to free her from the tangle of his steel. "But – ah – that was exhilarating. You’re very fast, Buffy. And I - uh - appreciate your self-control."

She smiled at him, her eyes dancing with affection and pleasure. "You’re welcome." She was wrestling a little for breath. He was breathing heavily. "Think we should call it quits?"

Giles nodded, folding down his blades and hiding them away. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I think so. That’s - quite enough for today."

"That’s quite enough for a week," Xander muttered before he could stop himself. They both turned to look at him in surprise, neither of them having noticed he was there.

"Hey, Xander," Buffy waved. "You bring lunch?"

"I brung lunch," he nodded, still a little disconcerted by what he’d just seen. "But the vultures might not have left much."

"Bad vultures," she decided. "Buffy work hard. Buffy need lunch."

"Buffy get lunch," Xander assured her, falling into short speak with the ease of long practice. Giles sighed and shook his head, reaching for the draped towels and throwing one in Buffy’s direction.

"Save me some," he suggested dryly, turning towards the far end of the room. "I need to shower."

"Well," Buffy called after him teasingly, "I wasn’t going to say anything, or anything …" She laughed at the long suffering look he threw over his shoulder, and bounced back to the weapons cupboard, putting the dagger back in its usual place.

"Do you - ?" Xander asked, gesturing at her and after her now vanished sparring partner. "Do that often?"

"You saw that?" Buffy gave him a wary look. He nodded.

"I saw. I saw how – he could have killed you. Those – things of his. They’re razor sharp and stronger than – well, one wrong move, Buf…"

"I know." She used the towel to wipe her face and rub some of the sweat from her arms. "I also know he’d never hurt me. I trust him."

"Trust – Buffy – "

"I trust him," she repeated firmly, tossing the towel down and picking up her overshirt instead. "I have to. Xander," she added softly, fixing him with a look that echoed all the anxious love she carried for the man they discussed. "It’s the only way I get him to trust himself. He can’t ignore what he’s become – anymore than I could ignore the fact that I’d become the Slayer. He helped me come to terms with that. I’m just returning the favour."

Several feet away, and sufficiently protected by the surrounding walls for their words to be nothing more than mumbled conversation, Rupert Giles stepped into the tiny cubicle shower they’d installed at the back of the training room and leant his aching body against the chill of the tiles with a sigh of relief. He knew exactly what Buffy was up to, and he loved her for it, despite the fact that a morning sparring with her was a little like running a marathon and going ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, all at the same time. He knew – as she did – that to ignore the nature and the potential of his demon form was both dangerous and stupid. He’d defeated the Aslewaugh at West County Jail as much on luck and sheer adrenaline as on skill or ability; that had to change. Change as much as he had, since he was now a walking lethal weapon and if he didn’t master himself, he was going to end up hurting someone he didn’t want to hurt. Maybe even killing them.

And that was something he could never live with. Not after Malador …

He flicked the shower control to full and let the steaming hot water sluice the sweat and some of the ache from his body. The heat was soothing and it helped clear his head a little. He was wondering if maybe – just maybe – he was letting Buffy push him a little too hard. There’d been odd moments over the past couple of days when he’d experienced brief dizzy spells – the kind of thing that happened when you stood up too fast, or turned too quickly. He’d not protested the demands she was making of him, knowing that the challenge was honing her skills as much as it was his – and it had been a long time since Buffy had had anyone to spar with who could match her in speed or strength. It was actually a little – disconcerting – to find that he was keeping up with her as much as he was.

"What you need, Ripper," he told himself sternly, "is a little more sleep and a little less introspection." He dipped his head under the shower jet and let the weight of the water pound across his shoulders, massaging away the spasm of exertion and physical demand. Two and half – nearly three months gone, and he still didn’t sleep much. The night invited memory into his dreams, and their vividness still woke him, shaking and sweating in the early hours. He’d stopped screaming, though – and once the sun was up, he’d try and snatch a little more rest in the warmth of the day. Not today, though. Not with the rain and the threat of thunder – a threat he could feel in his bones, like a shiver of electricity. Salamiel had had the power to summon lighting from a lowering sky …

He laughed at the sudden image that thought conjured. If he was ever stupid enough to stand out in the middle of a thunderstorm and unsheathe his blades, then he’d deserve everything he got. Considering how he was built these days, he’d make the perfect lightning rod.

Laughing felt good. He hadn’t laughed for what seemed like forever. Not since – well, not since. He nurtured the feeling as he switched off the shower and stepped out, towelling himself dry as quickly as he could. Xander hadn’t been kidding about the vultures – if he wanted lunch, he’d have to get out there before it had completely disappeared.

A few minutes later he was pushing open the door into the shop, safely clad in his armour of suit and tie, his glasses sitting comfortably on his nose. He didn’t actually need them anymore – but they were a prop, a comforting pretence, and the soft tint he’d had added to the plain lenses he’d used to replace the old corrective ones served to hide some of the startling colour that now lurked in his eyes. Out on the road, a stranger among strangers, he hadn’t paid much attention to the way his sea-changed eyes drew second looks and curious stares – but here in Sunnydale he liked to retain a little anonymity when he was visiting the local grocery store.

The Scooby gang were clustered round the table – books safely put away while they tackled food, he was pleased to note. Xander was laughing at some joke or other – probably one of his – and the others were smiling and talking and sounding just like any other bunch of young people sharing an indoor picnic on a wet and stormy day. Giles smiled, thinking how privileged he was to be part of this exclusive group; he wondered why it had taken him so long to realise that they’d become his family, to understand that – however awkward or embarrassed or out of place he might feel on occasion – they considered him an essential component in the workings of their world.

"There you are," Buffy realised, smiling at him and waving at the plate she was protecting from Dawn’s creeping fingers and Xander’s less than subtle snatches. "We saved you some bagels." He smiled back and took a step forward.

Just as the world tilted and everything in it rippled around him.

For one disconcerting moment, up was down and down was up and he was falling without moving, sent completely off balance. He put out a hand to steady himself, leaning on the nearest bookcase as the rest of them swayed alarmingly in random directions.

"Giles?" Buffy was climbing to her feet, staring at him alarm. "You okay?"

"Uh – yes, yes," he responded, waving at her to sit down and not to worry about it. "Just – felt dizzy for moment. That’s all." He lifted his hand from the shelves and went to take a second step, intending to reach the support of the chair Willow had tugged out for him.

Only the floor got in the way …

"Giles!" Buffy was there, picking him up, letting him lean his weight against her as she helped him into the chair. There were stars dancing in front of his eyes and everything seemed to be dancing with them. Buffy’s face included; she was looking at him with decided concern. "Giles, can you hear me? Giles?"

"I’m – I’m okay," he murmured faintly, embarrassed by the need for fuss, and not wanting to be a problem. His glasses had slipped askew, and he tugged them off, turning his hand to scrub the back of it across his eyes. Everything was slightly blurred, as if his demon sharpened vision had suddenly reverted back to its original human state. Buffy was frowning at him.

"No you’re not," she retorted, taking the glasses from his hand and abstractedly handing them to Tara. "You’re white as a sheet. Will – get him some water will you? Xander, get the door – he needs to lie down. Dawn – "

"I’m there." The teenager dived into the back as Buffy and Tara helped lift him to his feet. The brief respite offered by sitting down abandoned him; the world immediately returned to its tilted spin.

"Oh, dear lord," he gasped, leaning on the Slayer’s strength and feeling his own desert him. She gave him a very worried look and half carried him back through the door he’d just left. Barely a moment later he was lowering his shaking body onto the welcome softness of a pile of fighting mats, Xander and Dawn having hastily dragged them out for just that purpose. A somewhat better option than the battered sofa by the wall which, while perfectly comfortable to sit on, was hardly wide enough to support him at full stretch. Willow appeared, pressing a glass into his hands and he leant back against Buffy’s support while he sipped at the sweet liquid it contained.

"Honey and stuff," the young witch explained at his bemused frown. "For strength and balance."

"Right," he acknowledged fuzzily, watching her face dance and waver in front of him. "Of course."

"Lie down," Buffy ordered, taking back the glass and helping him do just that. It wasn’t quite so bad being horizontal. The world only swayed a little, and things slowly settled back into focus. They were all clustered round him, a circle of worried, anxious faces, and he resisted the temptation to laugh out loud at the sight.

He was fine, for heaven's sake. Just paying the price of working a little too hard, too fast, that was all. He’d often had a dizzy moment or two after sparring with Buffy. She had that effect on a lot of people. Although – he couldn’t remember ever having fainted before.

"He’s not looking good," Anya decided with her usual honest bluntness. "He’s gone as pale as Spike."

"Paler," Xander said helpfully. "That’s definitely not a colour I’d want to be."

"He’s sick," Dawn decided worriedly. "Is there a bug going round? A – a demon bug, maybe? Do demons get bugs, because – "

"Dawn," Buffy interrupted, probably a little more sharply than she really intended. "He’s okay, he just fainted. Why don’t you go make us all some coffee?"

"Tea," Giles requested weakly, reaching to loosen his tie and tug open the top button of his shirt. "Please." He seemed to be having a little difficulty catching his breath. Dawn – who’d begun to pout at Buffy’s abrupt rebuke, immediately broke into a dazzling smile and rushed off to do as she’d been asked.

"Nobody faints without a reason, Buffy," Willow said, kneeling down and giving their patient a worried smile. "How you feeling?"

He thought about his answer for a moment. "I’m – I’m okay," he announced, although he wasn’t and she was right – nobody just keels over like that, not without some kind of reason for it. "Really. I just – I just need to rest for a minute."

"How many fingers?" Buffy asked, waving several digits across his line of sight. He blinked, wondering if he’d hit his head when he fell; it was beginning to ache, and things still weren’t coming into focus.

"Uh – two – no, three. I think …"

"He’s sick," the Slayer concluded anxiously, sharing a concerned look with her friends. "And I was – god, I’m sorry, Giles, I – I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard today. If I’d known – "

"Known what?" he asked, trying to make it a joke, trying to dismiss their concerns, not wanting them to fuss. "Buffy, I’m fine. I just – " He half lifted himself up – and fell back with a gasp as the world pitched and yawed around him with nauseating motion. "Oh dear," he gulped, closing his eyes as a lance of pain speared through his eye sockets and buried itself in the back of his skull. "Maybe – maybe I’ll just – lie here for a moment or two."

"Sick," Buffy, Willow and Xander chorused, with anxious conclusion.

"He needs a doctor," Tara suggested. Xander nodded.

"I can go call – "

"No," Giles reacted; a hasty half jerk upwards that set the universe spinning yet again. He didn’t need the gentle pressure of Buffy’s hand pushing him down again. Gravity took care of that as his perceptions faded out – and then far more slowly faded in again. "No," he repeated, a bare breath of sound. "No doctors …"

"He’s right," Willow said, reaching for his hand and cradling it between her own. "I mean – we can hardly take him to the hospital, can we. He’s not – he’s not exactly – "

"Human," Buffy completed softly, squeezing her Watcher’s shoulder with a sympathy entirely unconnected to his current condition. "No, he’s not. No paramedics, Xander. Not the usual sort, anyway. I don’t suppose anyone has the number of a good witchdoctor?"

She’d meant it as an attempt at a joke – a fairly feeble one, but that was understandable in the circumstances. Anya took her literally.

"I have," she offered brightly. "Well, not a witchdoctor, exactly. He’s more a – demonic consultant, I suppose you’d say. I use him occasionally. I don’t think he makes house calls though. I could always check."

Several heads swiveled in her direction. "You have a demon for a doctor?" Xander questioned warily. She frowned at him affectionately.

"Hello," she said. "Ex-demon, remember? Can’t exactly share my previous medical history with a registered physician, can I? Creeg treats all kinds, asks no questions. Besides – he’s very good. And his fees are very reasonable. He’ll even trade in kind, if you want."

"What do you think?" Buffy asked, turning back to Giles with a questioning look. He grimaced, realising he didn’t have a lot of choice. He had steel in his bones, armour woven under his skin and the metabolism of a creature that hadn’t walked the earth in centuries. A metabolism that – he had to admit – he really didn’t know that much about. Maybe he was sick. Or maybe it was something else. It had been nearly three months since his transformation, but he’d spent most of those coming to terms with the events that had spawned it. He’d assumed, since his body had healed, that it had also stabilised in its new configuration. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was still changing. He rather hoped that that wasn’t the case – but it was undoubtedly better to be safe than sorry.

"Well," he allowed slowly, "I’m sure it’s nothing, but – maybe I should see someone. Just in case."

Lightning flashed with startling brightness, driving back the afternoon gloom. Thunder followed it, rattling at the shop windows, rumbling through the glassware and shivering dust off the higher shelves. The rain was coming down in pounding sheets, dancing off the pavement and filling the gutters with a rush of water. Xander cursed softly as the shock sent his carefully built house of cards tumbling, scattering painted pictures across the table and onto the floor.

"Tower struck by lightning," Tara grinned, looking up from her book as a card fluttered into her lap. "You really shouldn’t use Tarot cards to do that, you know."

He shrugged, starting to pick up the fallen images. "They stack better. Besides, they’re the only cards we have. Other than the set we use to play go fish – and they’re hopeless for building things with."

"I thought you were doing pretty well," Dawn observed, looking up from the ‘take down, polish and put back’ job that Anya had found to occupy her.

"I was, wasn’t I?"

"Definitely you and the building thing," Willow smiled, adding a little more dried fennel to the incense she was making. "Do you think this needs some balm of gilead?"

"It’s a dollar 60 an ounce," Anya called from under the counter. "So no, it doesn’t." She stood up, dumping a pile of catalogues on the counter. "I could have sworn I had the latest list for Graven Images. You haven’t seen it, have you, Buffy?"

"No," Buffy answered abstractedly. She was sitting at the table, a book open in front of her, although she hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. Her eyes kept drifting, inevitably, towards the door at the rear of the shop. "No, don’t think so." The question had recalled her from her reverie and she glanced down, noticing the card that had landed on top of her open note book. Her hand went out, lifting it and turning it over.

"What did you get?" Tara asked curiously. Buffy smiled a slightly sad and anxious smile.

"The Knight of Swords," she said. "I hope he’s all right in there …"

 "I don’t usually make house calls, you know." Drakar Creeg was reassuringly human; a demon by discrete decoration rather than overt monstrosity. His skin held hints of scales, there were tiny horn bumps sitting above his ridged eyebrows and his eyes were murky green and slitted, like a snake’s – but apart from that, he might well pass as a man, especially in a darkened room, or an extremely crowded place.

A very ugly man, perhaps, but a man, nonetheless.

"So Anya said."

The doctor smiled. That betrayed his demon origins with startling intensity. There were sharp, pointed teeth and jutting fangs lurking behind his lips. "Lovely lady, Anyanka. Real nice line in poetic justice. Back when she was on the team, of course. These days – well, she’s doing well for herself. And I said – if it’s for her business partner, of course I’ll come. This place supplies quite a few of my needs. Herbs and resins and – other things. A regular customer, you know?"

"I didn’t," Giles said warily, watching the Rattler Demon as he laid out his working tools. A clay bowl into which he tipped the water he’d asked for, a patterned cloth, inscribed with arcane symbols, a variety of feathered and bone tipped fetishes, a handful of stones, several pouches of coloured powders … the tools of a Shaman, or a tribal magician, alongside which he placed a stethoscope and a number of other, far more usual medical instruments. "I’ve not been in the shop much lately."

"Mmm," Creeg nodded, nodding satisfaction with his arrangements and turning to look at his new patient with thoughtful assessment. "So I hear. Well, I haven’t, actually, but one picks up rumours, here and there. To be honest, I never expected to be here, like this. With the Slayer – " And he turned his head to glance at the closed door into the shop, " – only a step or two away. When Anya called – well, I was just too curious not to come. Why would an ex-vengeance demon be summoning me to conduct an emergency consultation with you – who, as most of the darker side of Sunnydale is well aware, is not just the Slayer’s Watcher, and co-owner of this particular establishment, but is also one of the most educated and competent scholars of the occult this side of the Atlantic."

The man he described raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. "I didn’t know I had that reputation," he said.

Creeg grinned. "Modest too. I like that in a man. Rest assured, Mr Giles; your skills are well respected in certain – circles – that take note of these sorts of things."

"That isn’t entirely reassuring," Giles decided, with a vaguely worried frown. He stared at the demon for a moment or two, wondering if this really was as good an idea as it had seemed an hour or two ago. The dizziness had passed, leaving him with a pounding headache and a dryness in his mouth he hadn’t been able to get rid of – despite consuming several cups of tea and the rest of Willow’s patent honey concoction. He was – he’d had to reluctantly admit – definitely sickening for something. But he wasn’t totally convinced that consulting with this smiling fiend was the most sensible way of finding out what, exactly. "Anya tells me that you can be trusted. That you offer a – discrete – service."

"Absolutely," Creeg swore, placing both hands over his heart – which happened to sit directly under the centre of his breastbone. "I never betray the trust of my clients. No matter who – or what they are. It’s more than my life’s worth. One wrong word, one small indiscretion – and I’m out of business. Not to mention the likelihood of ending up as someone’s lunch." He leant back against the table and chuckled softly. "Just think of me as a small fish. One of the ones that swim round sharks and never get eaten because they’re far too useful for picking off parasites and cleaning clogged teeth."

Giles frowned at the analogy, then heaved a quiet sigh. He couldn’t go on behaving as if nothing in his life had changed, when the outcome of recent events had meant nothing but change. He wore a demon’s flesh and that meant he needed a demon doctor. This one did come highly recommended, after all.

"In that case," he said, a little wearily, "I believe we can do business." And stood up.

He’d been sitting, cross legged and meditatively comfortable, on the same pile of fighting mats which had been such a godsend earlier in the day. Buffy had suggested he try and get some sleep – a suggestion he’d known better than to follow, given the headache and the looming thunder – but he’d welcomed the way she’d shooed everyone away and made them leave him in peace and quiet for a while. There had been moments, in any number of days which had been hard to get through and harder to leave behind, when he’d seriously considered seeking an absolute of peace and quiet: a remote monastery in Tibet, perhaps. Or some distant hermitage in an even more distant location.

Wisdom, of course, told him that peace and quiet was a matter of mind, not locality. If he couldn’t find tranquillity within himself, then he’d never find it anywhere else.

Not even, he suspected, if he went back to Malador …

Lightning accompanied his move, along with a bone shivering crack of thunder. The lights flickered, framing him in the flare, briefly wrapping him in shadows. Creeg jumped, then recollected himself with a hiss of embarrassment.

"Sha," he shivered, turning his reaction into deliberate over reaction. "Unseasonable weather. Get’s me jumpy, all this – electricity in the air. Too much rain. I’m a desert man, myself. Like it hot and dry."

"I know what you mean," Giles agreed, casually unbuttoning his left cuff as he walked across to join the Rattler by the table. He’d long since abandoned his jacket; Willow had probably hung it up somewhere. "Once the cold gets into your bones, it can be hard to shift. You’re wondering what you’re doing here, aren’t you." A soft statement, not a question. He’d been making polite conversation and all that was doing was delaying the inevitable. This was going to be hard; not just the admission he was about to make, but all the rest of it – the reason for his change and the memories it would summon. But without any of that, his current symptoms wouldn’t make any sense, and the chance of the doctor coming up with an explanation would be slim.

"You pay me, I’ll stand here all day," Creeg smiled. "But, yes, I’m wondering. You’re human. If you’re sick, you don’t need me to cure you. And if you’re cursed – well, that costs extra."

"Cursed." Giles thought about that, a wry smile haunting his features. "That might be one way of looking at it. But – no. Not a curse. More a - a gift, really. Not one I asked for though. Tell me," he requested softly. "Have you ever heard of a being known as the Incandescent?"

"The Incandescent?" Creeg looked puzzled for a moment. "No, I – wait a minute. The Lord of Shadows? The Ta’aa n’ckdar?" He laughed, his forked tongue flicking in and out with amusement. "He’s just a fairy tale. My mother used to tell me stories … about some war on hell and heaven alike. About how the Malumbra would carry me away if I didn’t pay attention, if I didn’t behave. Tales to freeze the blood, some of them. But hardly true."

Giles blinked, trying to imagine the fang toothed demon as a child – and what his mother might have been like. The image it conjured was just too horrendous to contemplate.

"I don’t know about the tales," he said, "but just over two months ago, the Malumbra turned up in Sunnydale. They were real enough. And so was he. Salamiel, the last of the Grigori, the prince of Malador. The first, the foremost, the Incandescent. He was trapped – locked in the prison of his realm and unable to escape it. He needed a vessel, an heir – someone to carry his crusade of vengeance back to the worlds he’d been exiled from." He paused to study Creeg’s slowly furrowing frown and concluded, very softly, "He - ah - chose me."

What? the demon mouthed, his slit eyes narrowing as he looked up at the speaker’s face. It was likely that was the first time he’d caught the cast of colour that tinted his patient’s eyes.

Giles took a deep breath and made himself continue, trying to still the shake that threatened to disturb his voice. This was not going to be an easy story to tell. "Fortunately for me – and probably the rest of the world as well, Buffy and – well, some others, managed to intervene before he was able to complete his plan. They - they saved my soul. But by then the – the change had already taken hold. He remade me, Creeg. He shaped me in his image. I’m not the man I used to be."

The Rattler was staring. "And the – the Ta’aa n’kdar? Did the Slayer kill him?"

Giles slid open the blades in his left arm; slowly, a studied stretch of muscle and steel. "No," he murmured, recalling the moment, the look in a fallen angel’s eyes. "I did."

 Buffy had finally managed to become absorbed in the contents of her book - but she’d left her Slayer senses on full alert. When the door finally opened, she sat up with a start, knocking the table and sending Xander’s rebuilt tower tumbling once again.

"Oh great," he complained. "Good job I work with more permanent materials in the day job."

Buffy ignored him. She was already on her feet and moving to greet the emerging doctor. He was carrying his little black bag and he had a vaguely worried expression on his face. "How is he?" she demanded. "Is he sick? Is it some kind of bug, or something more serious? What?"

Creeg carefully placed his bag on the counter and heaved a pensive sigh – which was actually a disconcerting hiss and an even more disconcerting rattle, since he was disturbed enough to let his hidden tail clatter. "He’s sick, it’s not serious – not yet, but it could be if he doesn’t do anything about it." His slit eyes met those of the Slayer, and blinked, registering the demanding expectations that lay there. "It’s not a bug," he announced, considering the rest of his audience with wary concern. "And apart from this one little thing, he’s remarkably healthy – considering. Amazing transformation … Oh, yes." He recalled himself with an effort, registering Buffy’s impatient glare. "I’m afraid your friend is not sickening with something, but for something. He’s suffering from a very particular form of demonic anaemia."

"Demonic an – " Buffy echoed, sharing a worried glance with Willow, who frowned. "Is that bad?"

Creeg shrugged. "Depends. On whether you’re the demon or his victim." His lips curled into a sudden smile – one that made Dawn gasp and then cover her mouth in a vague attempt to suppress the reaction. "Normally, the demon doesn’t mind – and he doesn’t suffer either. But," he allowed thoughtfully, "I suppose when you’ve been human – and managed to keep your heart and soul on that side of the line …" He paused to consider the line of anxious, puzzled eyes that were watching him. "To be honest," he said, "I find it remarkable that he’s stayed so fit and focused for so long. Especially with all that inner steel to maintain. The raw materials have to come from somewhere. He’s starving, Slayer. Even the princes of hell need to feed occasionally."

"Starving?" Buffy echoed bemusedly, glancing at the now shut door with a wary frown. "But – he ate this morning. Not much, but – oh."

Comprehension had struck. Horrified comprehension.

"Feed on – what, exactly?" she asked, a piece of her already knowing the answer. Giles himself had given it to her, unwittingly perhaps, but graphically – describing a moment, just a moment, of the torture he’d endured and the terrors Salamiel had subjected him to.

I can still taste the blood, he’d said. His and hers together …

"The elixir of life," Creeg answered, giving it the name the alchemists used, the term that vampires smiled over, since to get it they preferred the kill. "Human preferably, although animal would probably do. Fresh, not frozen – and best straight from the vein."

"Eww," Dawn reacted with a grimace. "I thought you treated anaemia with iron tablets. Can’t you just prescribe a few of those?"

The doctor threw her an amused look. "Well," he considered, "he does need the iron, but – no. Has to be the genuine article. And, you know," he pointed out, "I shouldn’t really be discussing this with any of you. But while I am a doctor and my first concern is always my patient’s health, in this case my second has to be the health of his friends. Especially the ones that pay me," he added, smiling at Anya. She frowned.

"Umm? ‘Scuse me?" Xander asked, waving his hand in the air to attract attention. "But what’s Giles’ health got to do with ours? You did say it wasn’t a bug."

The Rattler demon blinked at him. "It isn’t. And I may be wrong. But – demonic anaemia doesn’t kill demons. Certainly not demons of his lineage, that’s for sure. Makes them ill. Weakens them. In serious cases it can cause blackouts, hallucinations, and – " He paused to fix Xander with a challenging stare. "- uncontrollable cravings.

"If you starve a vampire – lock him up, bury him deep for a few months – the thing that emerges tends to be a desperate killing machine. Now," he went on, unphased by the wide eyes and open mouths that were now staring at him in horror, "I’m not saying that that is going to happen here. I know very little about the physiology of the Grigori and I’m only speculating. But his body definitely needs the blood – and if he goes on denying it, well – who knows what might happen. With vampires, it’s an instinct. With the demons it affects it’s – just part of the package. He – ah –" He considered how to phrase his observations for a moment. " – seems to have some – issues – with that."

"Oh god," Willow gulped, sinking into the nearest chair. "Poor Giles."

"Poor us," Xander shivered, no doubt recalling the dramatic display he’d seen earlier that day. "I vote for the pint a day prescription. We can always steal it from Spike …"

"Giles would never hurt any of us," Buffy announced resolutely. "And shame on you, Xander, for even thinking such a thing. This is no different to what Angel – or Spike, come to that, has to do. Diabetics need insulin, vampires and demons need – did you say human blood, doctor?"

Creeg shrugged. "It’s the best kind. Probably not on a regular basis though. Vampires can survive purely on animal blood – and he’s not a vampire. Doesn’t need anywhere near that much. Just enough to – keep those blades of his bright. Of course," he added thoughtfully, "having gone so long without it, he’d be better off with something that little bit stronger, just to kick start the system. I would imagine," he went on to suggest, "that the demon that did this – the Ta’aa n’ckdar – used his own. To fuel the transformation, I mean. It’s a common technique. Binds one to the other and assists in the transference of power. Fascinating process," he concluded distractedly. Tara shivered; so did Buffy. She’d seen some of it happen.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said, waving him towards the front door of the shop. "If we need you again, we’ll call."

"Oh. Oh," Creeg smiled, recognising that he was being dismissed. "Of course. I’ve made an appointment for him – my office, next week. See that he keeps it, will you? I’d like to keep an eye on him for a while."

"We will," Buffy assured him. Lightning flickered, dimming the lights for a moment. Thunder followed it, deep and sullen. "The storm sounds bad. Will you be all right out there?"

He nodded, picking up the raincoat which he’d been wearing when he arrived. "My car’s just outside. It’s been a pleasure, Slayer. Let’s hope we always meet on – business. And may I say, neither too often – or too soon."

She smiled, knowing what he meant. "You may. Thank you."

"You’re welcome. He’s welcome," he added with a pointy-toothed grin, and was gone, out into the pounding rain.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, in which Tara hugged Willow, and Xander sank back into his chair with a disconcerted slump. Buffy walked over to the window and calmly picked up the silver chalice that sat in the centre of the display.

"Hey," Anya protested. "That’s gotta a ‘do not touch’ sign on it. You know what ‘do not touch’ means, right?"

"I’m only going to borrow it," Buffy said, bringing it back to put it in the middle of the table. "I’ll put it back when we’re done."

"You could just use a coffee mug," the ex-demon muttered with a roll of her eyes. "Easier to clean afterwards."

"Needs to be silver," the Slayer announced. "Just this once. We have to do this right."

"Do what?" Xander asked suspiciously. "Buffy – are you thinking – oh god, you are thinking. Are you serious?"

She gave him a measured look. "You don’t have to, Xander," she said. "None of you have to," she added, looking round the gathered group with troubled eyes. "But I really think he’d appreciate it if we all did …"

Rain was still drumming on the windows, filling the training room with a soft staccato of sound. Buffy slipped through the door and stood for a moment, considering the man who was sitting, cross legged and head down, on the far side of the room. He’d been sitting like that too often lately; bowed with the weight of the world, and carrying it with martyred pain. It was never going to be easy, facing what had happened to him, dealing with what he’d become, but this – this was yet another blow, a knock back to doubt and fear and anxious guilt.

It was a blow he was going to have to take, to learn to weather, like the storm that currently pounded around them. This wasn’t just his life that was being put on the line – although Buffy seriously believed that Giles would never allow himself to succumb to the kind of demon instincts that Dakaar Creeg had implied might be waiting to emerge. He lived with enough guilt as it was – and she suspected that, driven to those kind of extremes, he’d end up taking his own life in preference to that of another innocent soul. She didn’t want either to happen. The first would be an unbearable waste, the second an unthinkable tragedy. The Grigori had once been a great power for good – and the heir to that power had the potential to use it in much the same way; to use his new gifts in support of the cause he had always fought for. He had to find a way to overcome the abhorrence of what had happened to him, the cruel and traumatic nature of his transformation, and to see the truth of the creature he’d become. The battle he faced now was no less demanding of his courage than any he might have previously faced – but he’d long since proved himself worthy to be numbered among champions, and she had every hope that he would rise to the challenge, and accept the dictates of destiny.

The way she had.

Being chosen, being different, was never easy. There were matters of responsibility, of having to live two lives and learning to temper what you were with what you wanted to be. He’d helped her through all that – and she was determined to help him, in whatever way she could.

Not because she was the Slayer, and he her Watcher, no matter how deep that bond might run. Not even because she owed him. It wasn’t even because he was her friend. It was much, much more than that.

You really care about this guy, don’t you? the angel had asked, knowing the answer, but needing her to know it, to understand why she was prepared to walk into hell on one man’s behalf. A little part of her hoped that she would have done it anyway, that her sense of duty would have been strong enough to make her face the Incandescent simply to stop him, because that would have been the right thing to do. But Salamiel’s ambitions had made his defeat a personal crusade; he had invaded her domain, threatened her world and taken away something she loved.

And in the end, it had been that love which had saved them all.

"Hey," she offered softly, walking across to stand in front of him. She was cradling the precious cup in both her hands, keeping it hidden for the moment, uncertain of how he might react.

"Buffy." Giles’ greeting was glum. He didn’t even bother to lift his head.

"Last time I looked, yeah," she assured him, trying to keep her voice light. "How you doing?"

He sighed, a soft heave of shoulders weighted with melancholy. "I’ve been - better," he admitted bleakly. "Not r-recently, I have to admit, but – " He paused, lifting his eyes to meet hers in the rain washed gloom. "How much did he tell you?"

"Enough," she replied, watching him with sympathy. That look of vague anxiety had been a common expression on his face for as long as she’d known him – but now it echoed a depth of sorrow and pain that even time would struggle to erase. He held her eyes a moment longer – then looked away, shivering a little as he struggled to contain the emotions which threatened to overwhelm him.

"Oh, lord," he breathed. "Just when you think … The Aslewaugh were wrong. I am a monster, after all. And a danger – to you, to the others – "

"Don’t be silly," she asserted determinedly. "You’d never hurt any of us. Not unless we deserved it," she added, half under her breath. There had been times when his patience had astounded her – and his quiet, weary disapproval had always cut much deeper than any punishment might have done. "You just have to – adjust your diet a little, that’s all. It’s not so bad," she went on, aiming for cheeriness and not quite hitting it. "It’s not – oh, I don’t know – needing to feast on living hearts, or brains, or any of the real icky stuff like that. Do you know how hard it’d be to find you a virgin on a regular basis? Around here, anyway."

He laughed, despite himself. It held a desperate note. "I suppose that would be difficult," he agreed wryly. "Dear lord, what am I going to do?" he asked, a soft cry to the world, rather than a question he expected her to answer. She did anyway, crouching down in front of him and putting the chalice into his hands, folding her fingers over his and holding them there.

"You’re going to drink this," she ordered gently. "And then we’re going to work this out. Somehow."

He looked down – at the chalice and its contents - and then up at her, abject horror written across his face. "No…" he breathed, trying to push her away. She pushed back, anchoring his panic, keeping the cup and its contents steady.

"Yes," she insisted, making it a determined command. "Giles, you need this. You know you do. And it’s a gift. From us. To you. No strings, no conditions, no regrets. Look," she went on, trying to reach him, to get past that suddenly distraught stare and the consternation in his eyes. "If you’d been – in an accident? Lying up in the hospital, bleeding to death – we’d be there, wouldn’t we? Lining up to give blood, to save you if we could? That’s all this is. We all put in. Even Anya. It’s not much, but – "

"Buffy," he whispered, a tormented cry from the depths of his soul. "I can’t …"

"Yes, you can." She held his eyes with her own, offering nothing but support, willing him to believe her, to accept the gift the way it was intended. She’d known this would be hard. He’d have to overcome the memories that haunted his heart, work past the horror and the self disgust, and face the truth of what those moments had made him. "Willow made it official, you know? Said some words for us – when we gave. It’s a – a covenant. Freely given. A gift of life. Just this once."

He looked away for a moment, his whole body trembling. "Do you know," he asked, his voice barely a murmur of sound. "W-what it means? To ritually offer your blood to a demon? To make this kind of sacrifice?"

She shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," he hissed, a sound filled with pain. "Buffy – it gives him power over you. Binds you to him. Makes you his."

She hadn’t known that. No wonder Anya had hesitated – but then she’d given, just like the rest of them. With a smile.

"Well, that’s okay, then," Buffy decided, breaking into a smile of her own. "Giles – we’re already family. This just – affirms all of that. I trust you. We all do. Please – trust yourself. Drink it. Before it gets all – skimmed over and clotty."

The comment hit the right note of ludicrousness; his lips twitched, quirking a painful smile. "You really mean this, don’t you," he realised, staring at her with bewildered eyes.

"Damn right, we do," she affirmed. "You think we did the pain thing, cut all our thumbs and dripped over this cup just to torture you? Spike, we might," she admitted reluctantly, "but not you. Never you."

He went on staring. "I – I don’t deserve – " he started to say, and she cut him off with a determined frown.

"Giles! Stop it. That’s not true, and it’s not right, and you are not a monster. We love you, and we want to help you, and this is what you need right now. Make the most of it. After this the best you’ll get is cow. Or a little pig, maybe."

His eyes were full of conflicting emotions; the rebuke, offered with affection and just a little impatience, was almost too much for him to take. A tear escaped the corner of his eye and he choked back a desperate sob. "Oh god," he murmured, struggling for equilibrium, fighting for self control. After a moment or two, he managed to draw in a shudderingly deep breath. Then another. "All right," he yielded reluctantly. "U-under protest, you understand."

"Sure," she nodded. "Giles, I do understand. Really I do. But this is for the best. Trust me."

He lifted his eyes – haunted, anguished eyes, tainted with violet, taut with inner pain – and met hers with a look of such vulnerability that it turned her heart over. "I-I do," he said.

And lifted the chalice out of her hands, lifting it to his lips to take a hasty gulp and swallow before he could change his mind. He did it with the kind of expression that anyone might wear, forcing themselves to drink a dose of really nasty medicine. His upper lip curled in reluctant disgust as it made contact with the silver rim, and she grimaced in sympathy. The blood was thick, dark, and sticky by now; it would be warm and salty, and not at all nice …

That first swallow was hard – but, after it, he lowered the chalice and stared into its contents with a very strange look on his face. Buffy stared at him with concern.

"Giles?" she questioned anxiously.

"I can taste you," he murmured bewilderedly. "All of you. I –" He dipped back for another taste; a sip this time, taken with wary caution, as if he believed that first experience might have been a bizarre mistake. It clearly wasn’t. His frown deepened. He studied the cup for a moment longer, then took another deep breath and steeled himself to drink what remained. "My health, I guess," he pledged resignedly, tipping it back and swallowing it down as quickly as he could. She took the chalice back from him when he was done, catching it before he let it fall. Giles shuddered, a reactive tremor that went right through him, matching the soft peal of thunder that rumbled overhead.

"Bad, huh?" she questioned ruefully, not quite sure what to make of the look on his face. "Look – if you want to go throw up …"

"No. No," he refuted warily. "I – uh - I don’t think … Buffy," he said hesitantly, "it wasn’t bad. It was – different. Not what I expected. Not what I - remembered."

A memory of pain, of desperate ordeal and unbearable torment; forced to drink the blood of tortured innocents, mixed with the dark ichor of a creature even demons feared. And this – a gift of love, offered freely, tainted only with concern and care. Buffy smiled, putting the now empty chalice on the floor behind her so that she could recapture his hands and consider him with warm affection. "I should think not," she teased. "That was vintage Slayer – with a little Scooby gang mixed in for effect. Pretty exclusive stuff, you know? Nothing but the best for my Watcher. He’s got taste."

His smile was shaky, but it was a smile – one of those rueful what am I going to do with her smiles that she knew so well. "I suppose that’s true," he allowed, his voice sounding a little choked. "Although – you don’t strictly need a Watcher any more. And the Council revoked my active status when you – died. I- I still get a retainer, but – I’m more or less a free man these days. Free demon," he corrected, glumly.

She squeezed his hand with sympathy. "You’ll always be my Watcher, Giles. More than ever, now. You don’t need the Council to claim that title. You’ve more right to it than any of their agents. You’re the only one of you there is. The last of the Grigori. A whole mystical order, all on your own."

He half laughed at that, a soft exclamation of sound. He shook his head with wearied forbearance. "Oh, Buffy," he sighed. "You have no idea what that really means. But you’re right. And I suppose I need to start figuring it out. I probably ought to tell the Council, too – although I have no idea how."

"Oh." She hadn’t thought of that. There’d been a few phone calls – one or two, while he’d been away – and she’d fobbed the callers off with glib excuses and a few little white lies. He’s out of town right now. I’ll tell him you called … "You think you should?"

He patted her hand and then lifted his to wipe wearily at his eyes. "Yes," he affirmed, resignedly. "They’ll know something has been going on. In fact - I’m surprised we haven’t had someone turn up to find out what exactly. They are Watchers, Buffy. Knowledge is their power – acquiring it, having it, using it. You’re the Slayer – a dead one, returned to life perhaps, but you’re here and you’re guarding the hellmouth. I was sending regular reports. They haven’t had one for a while."

"You’ve had – other things on your mind," she excused. He acknowledged the understatement with a haunted smile.

"I suppose I have."

"How you feeling?" she asked, filing the rest of that conversation away for another time. They’d worry about the Council when they had too. Right now, he was the important consideration.

"Tired," he admitted. "But – I think that might have dealt with the headache. I’m sorry, Buffy, I – "

"Uhuh," she interrupted firmly. "No sorries. We’ve had this discussion, remember? Why don’t you lie down, see if you can get a little sleep and we’ll talk later. Okay?"

"All right," he acquiesced, unfolding his legs to do as she suggested, stretching out on the comfort of the mats. She smiled her approval, picking up the now empty chalice and standing up, looking down at him with gentle affection.

"We’ll work this out, I promise," she said.

The storm was dying; the sound of the rain had sunk to a soft patter against the panes and the light was brighter now, slowly returning to Californian warmth. There was a feeling of freshness about the day, as if the rain had washed away all the lingering smog and the stink, leaving nothing but clean air behind. It was going to be a clear night. One filled with stars and expectations.

She was the Slayer. The chosen one. She lived in a world of light and darkness; she carried the fire of heaven in her heart – and today she’d given a piece of her soul to a demon prince, gifted him with it, because she loved him.

Some days were like that.

This was Sunnydale, after all.

"Buffy?" Giles called as she started to walk away. She looked back. He was watching her go, his eyes glimmering with a hint of reflected light – or perhaps with the glint of unshed tears . "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for – for everything." 

Long Sea Crossing - Interlude 2. 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