The Himalayas

Sarki leapt from stone to stone with an agility that would have surprised any human who saw him, his knuckles grazing the stones and feet firmly gripping the rocks. Not that humans often came this high, the last had been One-Eye and Graceful Death from four moons ago, two mighty warriors who’d dared the wintry extremes to parlay a treaty with his people. Now it was his people’s responsibility to keep the mountains free of demons. In exchange, the Council would not hunt the yeti and had given them many things that made the winter a little easier – blankets for the new-born, ways of directing streams so that they flowed nearer their homes, ways of making their huts stand better against the wind, and poultices that meant wounds no longer smelt foul, chief amongst them.

Yes, Sarki decided as he entered the small village he ruled over. Life was good. Sarki looked up at a buzzing sound in the air above. His eyes widened at the sight of a trio of whirly-birds heading towards his village. Perhaps One-Eye and Graceful Death had returned as they had promised with more aid and stories of battles won. Something flew out of the cylinders fastened to the side of the whirly-birds. Sarki shrugged, perhaps it was a present.

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRR!" He screamed in horror as the projectile smashed into one of the tiny huts and the wooden shack exploded in flames. He watched helplessly as fire reigned down on his people until finally the force from one of the explosions tore him into pieces.

* * *

The Clans, Romania

"I have thrown the stones, we need to move now."

Karel stared at his head wise-woman’s face, noting the fear etched in her lined face. "Why, Jenica?"

His soft tone failed to soothe the old woman’s voice. "They come," she hissed, the light of the candle between them, illuminating the small wagon he called his home, seemingly flickering in time with the rhythm of the witch’s voice. "The devils come, our people have not faced such danger since the Scourge!"

Karel shuddered. He’d not been alive back then of course, it hadn’t even been his clan involved. But his people knew the legends, knew the curse that the Kalderash had foolishly invoked in their insane lust for revenge. "Which clan?" he croaked.

The fear in the witch’s eyes actually intensified. "All of them!"

"Oh yes," he gasped at the horned figure in the doorway of his wagon. "Including yourselves." Jenica’s mouth opened, in a plea or a desperate spell he never knew because before she had a chance to speak her severed head was flying across the wagon, blood splattering the wall. And then the demon was on him, claws tearing at him. "So die all of the Council’s allies."

* * *

The Ural Mountains

Krylo stared down impassively at the thickly forested mountains that were his domain. Spreading his wings around him, he stretched and let out a contented growl, his teeth gnashing together. Things were good for his people, better than good in fact, wonderful.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the treaty he’d signed with the Council representative Robin Wood had helped his people in a multitude of ways, not least re-classifying the Griffin as a sentient race rather than a demon. Still, he sighed as he took to the suddenly darkening skies, his people were notoriously isolationist and it rankled to sign pacts with any race. Especially those who in centuries past had sent their warrior-maidens to hunt them for the horrific crime of being non-human. Being a Griffin meant not only a long life-span, but also a long memory.

But, he sighed again as he headed towards his cave, the newly resurrected Council seemed-.

He roared in agony as fire blistered him from above, burning his golden fur. Looking up he saw a scaled beast staring down at him, its massive wings flapping ponderously and red eyes glaring cruelly at him. Its huge mouth was gaping open, salvia dripping from its glinting fangs.

Krylo bared his teeth as he realised the darkness he’d assumed to be gathering storm clouds was in fact a flight of dragons attacking his people, intent on ending the age-old feud between dragons and griffins with his people’s extermination Pushing himself upwards, he flew at his waiting attacker, wings powering him upwards at the gigantic dragon. He’d fought many battles in his past, against Griffin, human, and demon, but he knew this would be his last.

* * *

Alaska

Oz stepped back from the log cabin, his critical eye assessing the work he’d just completed, exhaling icy breath as he completed his study. Finally he nodded, satisfied that the guitar he’d painstakingly carved into the wall passed muster. He looked around the small village that had been his home since his last visit to Sunnydale, a rare smile tugging reluctantly at him at the hamlet’s wild beauty shadowed as it was by Mount McKinley behind it, and pine trees to its left and right.

Life was hard here, especially when a new wolf joined the pack. But these were his people, people who truly understood the conflict that the inner wolf caused and the constant struggle to control it. Nobody, not Watchers, Wiccas, or Slayers could truly understand it, only another werewolf could really appreciate it.

He imagined that some of his fellow villagers got lonely in this isolated north Alaskan village, but he’d always been content in his own company. In fact he enjoyed the quiet.

And the Council’s assistance helped soften the hardship no end. He’d been shocked when Xander and none other than Faith had turned up six months ago, wanting to negotiate a treaty. With him vouching for them, it had taken less than a day to come to an agreement.

"Speaking of which," Oz looked up at the sound of helicopters. "They shouldn’t be here for another week," he muttered, the supply drop was early. And, his eyes widened as he did a quick count, constituting ten rather than usual six-.

Oz’s heart stopped as realisation. These weren’t the usual civilian helicopters, they were military. And what were the cylinders fastened to either side of the vehicles?

His unvoiced question was answered when a projectile shot out of one of the cylinders and smashed into a near-by hut, enflaming it in a fireball that not even the Alaskan winds could put out. The ground shuddered underfoot as repeated missiles crashed into it, turning the once quiet village into a hell on earth. Oz stared up into the sky, knowing full well running would be useless, his end would soon be here.

* * *

The Highlands, Scotland

Grear stumbled into the dining room, her face streaked with sweat despite the morning’s chill. "D..did you feel it?" she demanded of the three women sat at the table.

"Aye," the woman sat at the head of the table nodded, the stern look in her eyes belying her soft, almost matronly features. The woman shuddered before pulling her shawl closer, as if that would ward what was coming. "I’ve not slept a wink."

"Then what are we going to do?" Grear half-shrieked, voice bubbling with near-hysteria.

Grear’s stomach hollowed at Minna’s answering smile. There was no hope in it, just a grim acceptance of what was to come. "We be as brave as we can," the older woman softly counselled.

"N…no," Grear shook her head, unable to believe the leader of their coven would just calmly resign herself to their fate. She looked at the others. "There has to be something we can do!" she pleaded. "What about the other druids?"

She was rocked by a tear in Minna’s eye. "Child," the most powerful woman she’d ever known shook her head. "You don’t understand, there are no others. Not any more."

"N..no," Grear croaked. "That can’t be-."

Her denial was cut short by the door exploding open, wood splintering everywhere. And then there was only screams.

* * *

Kenyan Plains

"The omens are clear!" exclaimed Morathi, his mouth dry with fear and his heart racing. "We must leave now!"

His second-in-command stared doubtfully at him from across the meditating circle. "We are Hoodoo," Jelani pronounced, his careful phrasing masking a fine brain, "the finest users on the continent. We routed The Dark Cabal. The Shadow Manipulators quail at the mention of our name. We fear nothing."

"Normally I’d agree," Morathi rose from his crouch, aging bones creaking in protest. "But we cannot face what comes."

"But our Council allies," Keb protested. "Surely they -."

Morathi snorted and laughed, the bitter sound resonating throughout the arid cave that was their base. "It is that relationship that dooms us," he replied indignantly. He had been the one who’d signed the agreement. It had been the right thing to do, and he prided himself on always doing the right thing, but now it would doom them all. Already he could sense its stinking evil approaching, soon he would hear the screams of those it killed, those who’d fallen to protect them.

* * *

Paraguay

Devante purred as he moved through the thick jungle that was his domain, his haunches bristling with pride as he looked around, confident in his command. But then why shouldn’t he be? He was a jaguar-man!

There were some demonologists, Dr. Harriet Doyle chief amongst them, who considered the werewolf and the jaguar-man to be somehow related, but he knew different. They, he, were far superior to mere lycanthropes.

More than that, he was chief amongst his people, their finest warrior, a killer of many a demon foolish enough to enter his territory. He stopped as he reached the edge of his village, returning to his human form at will.

Rising, he pushed aside the bushes concealing his home and stepped into the village.

His breath caught as he looked around, eyes widening in shock at the carnage that greeted him. Bodies littered the ground, his people’s wooden huts lying splintered on the blood-stained grass, scattered fires burning, the arid smell of smoke mixing with the stench of death in the air. How had he not sensed, heard, smelt, something?

Blood raging, he tried to change to his true form, all the better to roar his anger, to seek his tribe’s revenge. And gasped when he couldn’t reach Ahau-Kin. Something powerful, something terrible, was blocking him from reaching the Jaguar-god.

Panic now over-riding fear, he started to retreat. Hearing a twig snap to his left, he started to turn. And screamed when his body was enveloped by searing pain.

* * *

Haiti

"Are you having trouble reaching the Mysteries too?"

Chike nodded at the anxiously whispered question from a short, fat man dressed in the same ceremonial robe that he and the other nine highest of all Houngans wore in prepeation for the night’s ceremony . "None of the twenty-one nations wish to talk to me," he admitted. "I feel it is time we communicate with Bondye."

"No, no, no," Keb shook his head, the oldest of the high priests looked horrified. "That is beyond reckless!"

"I feel it is past time," Chike replied, struggling to remain calm. He couldn’t share the information he’d received from the Watcher’s Council, of the demons stalking their world. Such information would only provoke useless panic. But he needed guidance. "Bondye will provide us with answers."

"If he wishes to," Keb sipped at the moonshine in his cracked cup. "Perhaps this is his plan, he is punishing us."

"Then," he stared at the man he’d replaced as head of their order, leader of all their island’s Vodouisants, "we should ask how we can put things right."

Keb sighed before looking around the others. "Very well," the oldest amongst their number nodded. "I assume the sacrifices have been made?"

"They have," Chike nodded.

"Then let us begin."

They all closed their eyes and waited. Chike smiled as he felt the weightless feeling that always accompanied spirit-walking, it had been so long. For a few moments he luxuriated in the kaleidoscope that was the spirit-world before calling for the one true god. "Bondye," he whispered, "your humble servant beseeches an audience." Chike felt his skin prickle as a being appeared before his spirit self. The being appeared to be just a well-built man, perhaps a farm labourer of some sort, but the power flowing from the powerfully-built form made his stomach churn and eyes hurt as if they couldn’t understand what they were seeing. "Bondye?"

"No," Chike gasped as he saw flames leap in the spirit’s brown eyes. "Diablo."

He joined the others in screaming as the malignant spirit’s power ripped through them, tearing mind, body, and spirit asunder.

* * *

Arizona

Wise Head, Fast Mouth hurried towards the tent that housed the tribal shamen, conscious that he was in for a horse-whipping. Once again his talking had made him late. As the most promising apprentice, the elders came down extra hard on him for that very reason which wasn’t fair in his opinion. Readying his excuses, not that they ever did any good, he shoved the tent’s covers open and stepped through.

He fell to his knees, vomit spewing from his mouth at the sight that greeted him, torn limbs and organs strewn across the sandy floor and the walls soaked in blood. Most horrifying were the heads of the nation’s elders put in a neat row facing him, their eyes filled with unending terror and their mouths opened in soundless screams, soundless because their severed tongues lay on a pile in front of them.

Rising on shaky legs, Wise Head, Fast Mouth stumbled out of the tent, tears streaming down his face. "They’re dead! They’re dead!"

Eastern Slopes of The Andres, Peru

"Bollocks!" Spike snatched at a snake that leapt at him from an overhanging branch. Holding it at arm’s length, he looked over his shoulder to a sweat-drenched Kennedy, the way her shorts and midriff top stuck to her lithe frame making her very appealing indeed. "What do you know?" he leered. "There’s something out here more venomous than you!" He grinned at the Slayer’s glower even as he threw the writhing snake into the undergrowth. He wouldn’t mind a few hours in the sack with her, he’d always said a lesbian was just a woman who hadn’t met the right man.

‘Cept Red might not take too kindly to that. And if there was one person in the world that someone with his highly set of self-preservation instincts didn’t want mad at him, it was definitely the wicked Wicca.

Deciding to take his mind off tearing the nubile Slayer’s clothes off, he turned to the Witch leading the way. "What mess have you got us into this time, Red?"

"I’ve told you twice already!" the witch snapped.

"Humour me, Red," he said. If nothing else Red’s lectures were the closest things to cold showers he could get.

"Fine," the Witch snapped again with the ill-humour she’d been continually in since they’d arrived in the jungle. The heat and humidity made Red a cranky Wiica. "Shining Path, Sendero Luminoso in Spanish, are Peru’s foremost terrorist group. They’re Maoist in belief, calling themselves the Communist party of Peru, they’re really ruthless having attacked ordinary peasants, trade union organizers, popularly elected officials and the general civilian population. Since the arrest of their leader Abimael Guzman in ’92, they’ve only been spradoically active."

"If that’s true, why are we treking through the jungle with this monster?" snapped Kennedy.

Spike glanced over his shoulder and winked. "Thin line between love and hate, love."

Willow shot both he and Kenendy burning glowers. Spike looked up, grateful for the towering trees that ensured enough cover to mean there was little difference between day and night. "They’ve gotten some help. You remember the Initative, Spike?"

"Oh yeah," he grunted. He’d have to live another one hundred and twenty years to forget them buggers.

"They’ve got their hands on some of the serum Walsh used to make the Initative super-strong and have been injecting it into themselves," the Witch explained.

"Those drugs weren’t that good," he objected. "They didn’t make them much of a match for a vampire of any real age. And don’t they cause long-term damage?"

"More than a match for a policeman or a soldier though," Willow pointed out. "As for the long-term damage thing, they can, but these people are fanatics, they don’t care about such things."

"I guess this is a wipe out mission then?" Spike asked.

"No," Willow shook her head, eyes filling with alarm. "We get the serum and get out. That’s all."

"Right," Spike raised an eyebrow. Somehow he was sure things would get a lot messier than that.

* * *

Tennessee

Angel looked up from under his blanket at the terrible racket as their transport whizzed perilously through . "Xander, Xander, Xander," at his third hiss the one-eyed Watcher turned and looked towards him. "What is Faith singing?" Screeching was the more accurate but less diplomatic word. And he’d thought Cordy couldn’t sing.

"The theme tune to the Dukes Of Hazard," the Californian explained. Angel stared in confusion at the youth. "A TV program in the late seventies, early eighties about a hillbilly family foiling the corrupt Mayor and sheriff of Hazard County. Oh never mind, catch the Jessica Simpson remake next year."

"Jessica Simpson?" Angel asked, getting more and more confused.

"Oh," Angel winced at the sound of tyres screeching as the car spun haphazardly around a bend before eventually righting itself, the smell of burning rubber heavy in the air, "you’d like her," Faith said cheerfully. "Dumb blonde, just the sort you go for."

Angel stared desperately at the Watcher. "Shouldn’t you be driving?" he pleaded.

Xander grinned wryly. "You really want me to raise the issue with her?"

"Yo!" Faith snapped. "Still here, ya know!" Angel winced at the screech of brakes being slammed on. Faith turned around to face him, her gaze accusatory. "Ya wanna drive, Fang?" Angel opened his mouth to say he’d normally be happy to, but it was a little sunny for him, although probably still safer than the current designated driver. "Thought not!" Suddenly the car started off again.

"Word to wise," Xander said sagely. "Do not cast aspersions on Faith’s driving. I did once, walked twenty miles to the nearest truck stop."

"Right," Angel eyed the back of his protégé’s head warily. "Gotcha." Desperate for a change of subject and for something to take his mind off his rapidly approaching firey demise, he looked towards the one-eyed Watcher. "What’s the mission?"

"Yeah," the young man’s face darkened. "A Mythoia -."

"An influence demon?" Angel asked.

"Yeah," Xander nodded. "It appears the demon’s got quite high up in the local far-right movement, and is using its power to make sure that politicians, newspaper editors, and police officers turn a blind eye to its actions. If its spell goes on for much longer, the whole state will collapse into widespread rioting."

"And if it ignites one state, the whole South will go up." Angel paused grimly before bringing up an even more pressing question. "Does she know any other songs?"

"Sun or not, any more comments and you’re walking or in the trunk," the Slayer warned.

"Is it sound-proofed?" he muttered.

"Heard that."

* * *

Venice

"Okay," Wood whispered as he looked at his team of Connor, Rona, and Vi, the shadows of the grey-stoned warehouse in Venice’s industrial district they were crouched against engulfing them. "Here’s the plan. The Thesulacs will fortunately be harmless, the way they’ve been set up they’re only able to leach power into the water supply so to turn the entire city against itself, they can’t harm us. So I’ll deal with them. Rona, Vi, I want you two to deal with the six vampires. Connor," he looked towards the hybrid youth, "I want you to deal with Furia."

Connor nodded. "Thanks for that." The youth moved in front of the building’s wooden doors, raised his foot and kicked.

* * *

The door splintered and swung open with a satisfying impact. Connor stalked through into the shadowy building, his companions following hot on his heels. The warehouse was a cavernous chamber; two veiny-faced demons that had to be the Thesulacs were nailed to the wall, tubes stuck in them removing some sort of fluid from their bodies and into the vats beneath them. Even as they entered, the six vampires watching the process turned and charged them, fangs bared.

And then there was the Furia.

The demon stood around seven feet tall with a lithe, wiry build not unlike his own. Except he didn’t have a single blazing red eye, a fang-filled mouth on each cheek, a trio of two-inch spikes protruding from each fist, and furrowed ridges running up his back. At least he didn’t the last time he looked in the mirror. "Ahhhh!" the demon charged him, his back-handed slap lifting Connor off his feet and flinging him back out of the warehouse.

Hitting the road on his left shoulder, he rolled up instantly, wincing at the stinging pain in his left cheek, blood dripping down. "You wanna play?" Connor queried as he drew his double-bladed axe. "Lucky I bought toys!"

The demon leapt to meet him, spiked fists slicing through the air. Connor cart wheeled into the air, feet kicking out to smash into the two-mouthed creature’s face. "Ahhhhh!" the demon let out a roar before flying back into the warehouse.

"See," Connor landed in a crouch, dust spilling out around him. Straightening, he strode back into the warehouse, the sound of the Slayers’ on-going battle filling his ears. "This isn’t so ha-." He dropped into a crouch as the demon kicked at him, eyes widening as he belatedly noticed the three spikes on each of its feet. "Of course," he leaned back at the waist, allowing the foot to harmlessly impale the slightly stale air where his face had been a half-second before, "I could be wrong."

Leaping back into the air, he shot out his left leg in a thrust kick, grunting slightly as his foot smashed into the Furia’s shallow but shell-plated chest. Allowing the force to propel him backwards, he curled himself into a ball and somersaulted through the air, his eyes fixed on the stone wall behind. Once he judged himself in range, he kicked off.

His feet smashed into the wall, brick cracking beneath. Teeth gritted against the impact, he allowed the momentum to rocket him forward, swinging axe leading the way. "Ahhhh!" The demon howled when the stabbing point on the top of his axe tore into its shoulder as it attempted to pull away, viscera gushing forth. Connor landed with a smirk, raising his axe for another attack.

His head exploded in pain when the demon’s left fist rammed into his forehead, demonic spikes digging deep. Dazed, he stumbled backwards just in time to avoid a follow-up right. Seeking to follow up its advantage, the enraged Furia charged him.

"Shit!" Connor cursed as the creature grabbed him by the throat, spindly fingers digging deep like steel cables. Even as he raised his axe to chop off the offending hand, the demon threw him to the ground and raised a foot to stamp on him.

Connor thrust his axe up. "Ahhhh!" a shocked scream erupted from both of his opponent’s mouths as his weapon tore through the monster’s foot, the resulting visceral spray soaking him. Pulling his axe out, Connor rolled up to his knees before the demon and swung his axe directly up. "Gaaaaaa!" the demon’s blazing eye dulled as his axe flew up between its legs, cleaving deep into its groin, tearing through flesh, bone, and ligaments.

Connor’s eyes widened as the thrashing beast pitched forward. Not bothering to withdraw his axe, he flung himself to the side. "That has gotta hurt."

* * *

Peru

Spike stared down into the shadowy compound below, three guards patrolling its outer edge. He counted the ten tents, four lorries, and six fires, estimating there had to be about thirty people in the camp. Not enough to overthrow a government but more than enough to start a panic.

"Here’s what we’ll do," Willow began.

"I should go in alone," he interrupted. It would be simpler to deal with any guards who discovered him without any near-by Slayers.

"It’s too dangerous," Willow hissed.

"Please," Spike smirked as he peered out of the undergrowth, "I’m more likely to stake myself on a picket-fence than any of these gormless buggers are. I see better in the dark," he pointed out. "And I do sneaky better than anyone."

"Does he ever," muttered Kennedy.

"Okay," Willow conceded. "Bear in mind the serum is in the tent with the guard." Spike nodded as he zeroed in on the tent towards the back of the camp. "It’ll be in a fridge."

Spike crept through the darkness, sticking to the undergrowth as he crawled around the camp. Eventually he came to a stop parallel with the lorries, the stench of diesel in the air and muttered Spanish travelling to him on the surprisingly cool night air. Vampire vision allowed him to see two guards stood talking outside his target tent. Seconds stretched into minutes as the two talked, but then they exchanged cigarettes and one walked off back on his circuit.

Spike sprang out of the darkness, stalking into the dimly lit camp until he was by the side of the tent’s guard. "Right mate." Head turning, the custodian’s mouth started to open, eyes widening in alarm, but he stopped any cry for help with an elbow to the jaw. Eyes rolling back, the terrorist pitched backwards.

Spike leapt behind the man, catching him easily before dragging him over to the lorries and shoving him under one. Walking back to the tent, he cast a hurried look left or right before throwing aside the tent opening, his hearing already telling him the place was unoccupied. Entering, he found himself in what was clearly the supply tent, boxes of food intermingled with medical supplies, and ammo crates were stacked high. And in the corner a fridge. "Dog’s bollocks, mate," he muttered before walking over, grabbing the padlock secured to the door and yanking it off before opening the door.

The fridge light came on, illuminating a trio of shelves filled with test tubes. "Naughty, naughty," Spike shook his head. "What would Richard Ashcroft say?" Humming the tune of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ under his breath, Spike went to work doing what he did best.

Destroying stuff. Grabbing the test tube trays, he flung them to the ground before stamping on them, glass chinking underfoot. Once the last of the trays was shattered, he turned to the tent opening.

Just as a quintet of burly, swarthy-complexioned walked in complete with Pancho Villa moustaches and, more worryingly, mini-Uzis. Spike glanced down at his pasty white hands and grimaced. "I guess with this complexion you’re not going to believe I’m a native who took a wrong turn." He shrugged. "Bugger it."

He waited until the group’s leader, a short but barrel-chested man, took a step towards him, eyes hard and gun muzzle pointing belligerently. Then he lunged forward, snatching hold of the man’s fleshy neck, driving a foot into the man’s groin, rupturing testicles, and flung the man into his companions. Three of the men hit the ground in a heap.

Spike vamped out as he charged forward, bullet after bullet from the remaining two smashing into him. "That hurt!" he roared as he backhanded both men out of the fight. Sensing the other trio rising behind him, he twisted at the waist, grabbed a thirty pound crate and flung it overhead before completing his turn.

The crate smashed into two of the men at chest-level, knocking them out of the fight. The third, the group’s rapidly greying leader, attempted to raise his gun, but Spike snatched it from him, grabbed a handful of his shirt and flung him out of the tent and into a trio attempting to enter. "Plans," he growled as he leapt into the air, ripping through the tent as he flew out, "why do they always go wrong?"

* * *

Tennessee

Cletus yawned even as he passed the moonshine to Abe slouched against the newspaper’s office wall, his surly gaze warning any passer-by to keep on walking. Guard duty was always a pain in the ass, but Mr. P. was the number man in the state, and under him great things were happening, so protecting him was the number 1. priority.

"Hey hon, you’re with the Klan, right?"

"Well yeah, hon," Cletus’ mouth dried as he turned and leered at the curvy beauty stood to their right. She was maybe 5’6 at the most, with coal-black eyes and glossy raven-dark hair that contrasted violently with her milky-white skin.  The cupid-shaped lips, man the things he’d like to shove between them, he felt himself go hard at the thought.

But the body was where it was at.  Tits like a Playboy centrefold, a tiny waist that a guy could fit his hands round, a perfectly tight ass you could bounce a quarter off, and long slender legs that any man would love having wrapped round him, she was a porn director’s dream and all cased in figure-hugging, too tight to breathe, leather.  Cletus glanced across at Abe and Earl before turning back and nodding. "Yeah hon," he grinned, showing his yellowed teeth even as he flexed his biceps in his two sizes too-small top. "We’re in the Klan, real important men."

"Oh wicked," the brunette beauty husked. Hips swaying, she advanced on them. "I love the work you do."

"Oh yeah?" he joined the other three in peering down the brunette’s partially-unbuttoned shirt, marvelling at the deep cleavage and full tits. "You could show us your appreciation."

"I’m sorry," the girl sighed. "But I’m going to a Kayne West concert tonight."

"Wha-," he grunted as the girl’s fist and foot smashed simultaneously into him, sending crashing down to the ground. He watched through teary eyes as the bitch glided onto Abe, ducking under a right before butting his fellow Klan member in the face, blood and teeth spewing out, while at the same time leaping into the air and slamming both feet into Earl’s chest, knocking him on his ass.

A snarl bubbling through his lips, Cletus reached for his knife, eyes fixed on the beautiful woman. He was gonna mark the bitch up good, make sure no man ever looked at her again. "I’m sorry," he felt a hand on his shoulder, "that’s not allowed." Suddenly he was flipped round. He got a brief glimpse of an one-eyed man, then a fist smashed into his face and he was plunged into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Next time, you play decoy," Faith growled as she finished knocking out the third guard. "I feel like I need a bath after coming onto those in-bred hillbillies."

"Next time, are we going to the Playboy Mansion?" Xander asked. "Or the Swedish Women’s Beach Volleyball team? Because under those circumstances I’d love too, otherwise I really doubt it would work."

Faith shook her head, listening to her man goof off reminded her why she was crazy about him. "Jackass," she scolded before stepping into her man, grabbing around the back of his neck and pulling him into a long, hard kiss with plenty of tongue. Pulling away, she winked at her man. "Wonder how Angel’s getting on?"

Xander’s face took on an expression of mock-hurt. "You finish kissing me, and Deadboy’s the first thing you think about?"

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Tucker," Solomon’s blood froze as he looked up from his desk to see the unexpected intruder stood in the doorway of the back entrance. The uninvited guest was a pony-tailed white man, thin to the point of gauntness with cold, staring grey eyes and dressed in the finest tailored suit. "It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. I do so hope you can reconsider the story you was about to write?"

Solomon Tucker shook his head. "N….no," he replied after a lick of the lips at being confronted by the state’s Klan chief. "My father brought me up on tales of marching with Martin Luther King. You can’t scare me. I’m printing no matter what."

"Hurt you, threaten you," the Klan head’s face took on a mockingly hurt expression. "Why what do you take me? No, no, no," Mr. P. shook his head. "You’re far more use to me alive. All we have to do is come to an arrangement." Mr. P. smiled. "And I’m sure we can come to an accommodation."

"You know," Tucker shook his head at the Irish brogue from behind the Klan chief, for a second there he’d started to be drawn in by the racist’s calming tones, "I’m sure he can’t."

Tucker looked behind Mr. P. to see a tall, powerfully-built man with striking features, the paleness of his skin highlighted by the contrasting blackness of his clothes. Mr P. turned to face the second intruder. "Now sir, there’s no need -." The bigot’s voice trailed off. "What are you?"

The other intruder’s answering smile sent shivers up his back. "W&H’s former head of LA’s operations."

The racist reared back. "Angel!" he hissed.

"The same," the Irishman agreed. "Now, can we go forgo the threats part of the evening and move straight to the violence?"

"As you wish." Tucker gasped as Mr. P’s jacket began to tear, writhing muscles popping out everywhere, a curved horn spouting out of the top of his forehead.

"Oh boy," the Irishman looked up fearlessly at the now muscle-bound grey mammoth glaring down at him. "You’re a big one." Tucker gulped as the man’s handsome face changed into something horrible. "I’ve beaten bigger."

The beast charged the Irishman, a backhanded slap flinging him into the filing cabinets. The abomination threw a right, Angel ducked, the punch slammed into the filing cabinet where his head had been, leaving a caved in panel behind.

"Ahhhh!" The beast grabbed hold of the crouched man by his shoulders and flung him into a near-by desk, knocking the man, the desk and its contents, to the floor. Even as Angel rose the grey-skinned monster threw a right. Angel ducked under the punch, grabbed the creature’s wrist and attempted a throw only for the beast to pull his arm backwards, flinging the Irishman into a bookcase, burying him under a pile of assorted texts. "Okay," Tucker gasped again when the man exploded out of the literary heap brandishing a gleaming sword. "To quote a good friend of mine ‘time to go old-school on your ass’."

The monster roared before charging at the Irishman, his speed astonishing for a beast of its colossal proportions. One second the Irishman was in front of the gargantuan, the next to its left, his sword flashing up. Tucker didn’t see the attack hit home but the beast’s building-shaking howl and the viscera that spurted out of its chest proved it had. Before the monster had chance to turn to face its attacker, Angel bent his knees and powered up, slashing at the creature’s neck.

Blood spurted out, showering the ceiling as the monster’s head crashed into the ground. Angel hit the floor in a crouch and turned to him. "We have to talk."

Tucker’s legs buckled underneath him as he slumped into a chair. "Don’t hurt me," he begged.

"I’m not going to hurt you," the man’s deformed features smoothed out into his more human face. "Got a mirror?" He reached into his drawer and wordlessly passed the hand mirror he used to check himself before going out for an important interview. "Thanks." He gasped when the man held it up to show he had no reflection. "Got a cross or a bible?"

"Here," he pulled out the bible he kept in his drawer for reference.

"Here’s the thing," he gasped as the man picked up the bible and winced as smoke started to whiff up from his hand. "I’m a vampire. Fortunately for you, one of only two in the world who won’t rip your head off. And that," the demon dropped the book onto the desk before looking towards the dissolving mess, "was an influence demon. Now, he was partially right, you can’t publish the story."

"But!" he half-rose out of his chair.

The vampire shoved him back into his seat. "The people you have on record taking bribes from the KKK over the last six months – the judges, the police officers, the politicians. They all did it. Problem is, most of them didn’t do it willingly, they had no control over their actions. These same people will regain their control and be horrified by what they did. They won’t understand it, but believe me when I tell you they’ll go after the KKK twice as hard. If on the other hand you publish your article a lot of innocent people will be ruined."

"O…okay." Tucker nodded dazedly. "I won’t publish."

"And you can’t publish anything about the supernatural either." He closed his mouth at Angel’s raised hand. "Here’s the reasons. 1) Do and your career’s over, no one but the nuts will believe you. 2) Those who do believe you, some of them will get it into their heads to try and hunt vampires. Do you really want their deaths on your conscience?"

Tucker nodded. "No, but I’ve been working so hard on the story. I have nothing left."

"Wrong," Angel shook his head. "You have your life. They’ll be other scoops, right?" Finally he nodded. "Good man," the vampire rose. "Be careful out there."

Tel Aviv

"We’ve managed to stop the first three targets on the list…" Kate’s voice trailed off as she registered Justine staring listlessly out of their third-floor window overlooking the city’s busy night. "Is something wrong?"

"Redemption."

"Sorry?" Kate’s brow furrowed at her colleague’s strange answer. The red-head was fiery, prickly character but also brave, loyal, and knowledgeable about demons. They weren’t exactly friends, Kate sensed that neither of them made friends easily, but she respected Justine a lot. If Justine was in pain, she wanted to help.

"Do you think there’s some sins you can’t redeem yourself for? Some wrongs that can’t be paid for?" the red-head replied.

Kate was shocked by the haunted look in her fellow Watcher’s eyes. After a second she managed to fumble out an answer. "I’m not big on religion," in fact she’d given up all thoughts of god after her mother’s death, "but the Bible’s very enthusiastic on the idea of forgiveness and redemption."

"Forgiveness?" the red-head’s chuckle had a jagged edge to it. "How do you earn forgiveness for kidnapping a child from his doting father, then framing the father for killing the only man the boy had ever loved, and then helping the boy punish his innocent dad, listened to his father tell the boy he loved him even as he -."

Kate stared at Justine with mouth agape. She was aware of Justine’s past, had read the reports of her actions. It had been part of the reason she’d agreed to allow Justine to join her team. Angel had helped save her, maybe she could somehow repay the debt by saving Justine.

But she and Justine had never spoken of this before, only of the sister whose death had propelled her into this twilight world. And to hear the bald facts was shocking to say the least. Finally she found her voice. "Angel’s done far worse."

"With a soul?" Justine asked.

Kate’s mouth opened and closed. She knew about Angel’s involvement in the massacre of W&H’s top employees. But to her mind those who’d died had been untouchable by the law in ways that Mafia dons only dreamed of and responsible for the sort of human misery that would make Nazi war criminals shudder. What Angel did might not have been pretty, but it was the only way to deal with W&H. It might not have been legal, but having the demons they’d brought to LA to wreck chaos kill them was poetic justice. "If Angel believes he can be redeemed, I believe you can," she evaded.

"Thanks," her fellow Watcher smiled weakly. The red-head looked towards the papers on her desk. "What’s the next -."

BOOOM ! BOOOM!

Shooting her companion a worried look, Kate rose, pulling her Beretta out of her desk, ramming in a magazine of fifteen explosive-tipped rounds in and hurried towards the door. "The wards should have held -."

"I know," she interrupted, "unless the witches who placed them are dead. Or the demon’s really, really powerful."

"Two cheerful options," Justine snatched her hatchet off the desk.

As they reached the door it crashed open, and one of their Slayers burst through, a terrified look on her face. "M….misss-."

"Calm down child," Kate snapped. "What is it?"

"A….a demon," the young girl stuttered, tears in her eyes. "It’s killing them all."

* * *

Montreal, Canada

Pike watched as his fellow Watcher worked on the reports by lamp-light. Suddenly she looked up at him. "You could help you know?"

"What and hurt my head with all those big words?" he grinned. "I’m the muscle, I leave the writing to the brains-trust." He knew someone once had hurt Harriet and hurt her badly, deceived her about being part demon or something. He didn’t know the facts, they weren’t close like that. Friends but not confidantes.

But sometimes, watching her profile, seeing her eyes sparkle or listening to her voice grow excited, he wished they were. Rising, he started towards the coffee machine. "Want a drink?"

"Love one, thanks," Harriet replied, her nose stuck firmly back in the reports.

Pike started to the coffee table by the window. His eyes narrowed as he saw someone pressing something to the wall. "What’s that-." Suddenly the world disappeared in a ball of fire, smoke, and pain.

* * *

Brisbane, Australia

"Get the girls out!" Robson snarled as he stared towards the thumping door.

"We can’t leave without you!" his head Slayer cried.

"I am your Watcher!" he turned towards the young woman. "My ankle is broken," twisted actually but there was no way he was slowing the Slayers down, "I’ll never manage the fire escape. Now get a move on."

"But…"

"Go, damn it!" he roared, pulling himself to his feet by the desk, feigning more effort than it actually took.

"Yes, sir."

"A Watcher always protects his Slayer," he muttered as the last of the three surviving Slayers climbed through the window. Rupert had taught him that.

It had fallen apart with brutal quickness. They’d been sitting down to evening supper of cooked rabbit and potatoes when the alarm had sounded. What had followed had been a kaleidoscope of blood, guts, and terror. They’d fought through the invading demon hordes, but at a terrible price, two dead Watchers and five killed Slayers.

But they wouldn’t get the rest of his charges. Not while he had a breath left in his body.

Suddenly the door flew open and a hulking monster stepped through it. Raising his double-bladed axe in his suddenly clammy hands, he stared up defiantly. "I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Andrew Robson of the Watcher’s Council at your service."

* * *

Cairo, Egypt

Groo gasped as he shouldered the ajar door open and stalked into the darkened building. He scowled as he noticed the blood splattered on the lobby’s walls and the torn apart demon on the ground. He turned to the two girls he’d been out patrolling with and drew his sword. "Stay close together and be quiet," he warned.

The two wide-eyed teens, he was suddenly reminded of their youth, nodded and drew their own weapons. They started through the reception area. "Ooooh."

Groo shot one of the Slayers a warning look as she let out a piteous moan at the sight of the receptionist’s decapitated head on the counter, the top half of her head caved in. "I said quiet," he admonished, ignoring his own queasiness. "Now no more. Let’s head upstairs, see if there’s any survivors." He grabbed the arm of one of the Slayers as she started to the lift. Shaking his head, he pointed to the spiral stairwell, hardly the ideal way to traverse a potentially dangerous building but safer by far than using an elevator that could easily be booby-trapped.

The search passed with nerve-wracking slowness, every room of the four storey building thoroughly investigated. They failed to find any-one alive, but plenty evidence of the desperate battle that had taken place. Demon bodies lay strewn through the corridor, together with the shredded corpses of Slayers and Watchers Groo and the girls had worked with. Their feet squelched on the blood sodden carpet as they crept through the darkened corridors, jumping at every sudden shadow. Groo smiled reassuringly at his two companions, their faces now pale and tear-strained from all the death they had seen. "You’ve done well," he praised in a whisper before looking ahead to the last door on the fourth floor, "just one room to check and then we’ll go and get some hel-."

"Dra."

Groo’s heart skipped a beat at the noise, an unearthly groan, that escaped from the room in question.. Swallowing his inclination to back out, instead he hefted his sword. "You two flank me."

Pushing the door open with his foot, he stepped inside the darkened office. Bile rose in his throat at the sight that greeted him, filing cabinets mangled horribly and flung to the ground, the desk sliced in half, the man whose office it was lying upon its shattered remains. The man’s body was likewise mangled beyond repair, one arm seemingly hanging on by the scarcest ligament or tendon, blood dripping from a myriad of wounds, and his head hanging at an impossible angle, the man’s usually dark complexion now grey with pain.

"Sammuel!" In a second, Groo had strode across the room to kneel beside his friend. "Sammuel, we’ll get a -."

He was interrupted by a gurgling chuckle. "Don’t bother lying to me, lad. I know when I’m on my way out." Tears welled in the veteran Watcher’s eyes. "Didn’t expect it to hurt quite so much though.." The man raised his ‘good’ arm, the one that was merely broken rather than just hanging on, and grabbed his shoulder, a serious look on his face. "Tell her, tell her I’m sorry."

"Tell who my friend?"

The dying black man’s mouth opened in a grimace, blood dribbling out of the corner. "Kendra-."

"Yes," Groo nodded. "And how may I contact her?" Realising his friend and mentor had died, he closed the man’s eyes and gently lowered him to the carpet. Looking up, he forced a smile for the two weeping Slayers in the doorway. "There will be time for tears later," he gently reproved. "Our concern now must be escape."

"W….who’s Kendra?" muttered one of the girls.

"I do not know, some daughter or other I imagine. There would doubtless be some mention of this Kendra in Council Records." Groo rose. "Quickly now, we must flee before whatever forces of evil that committed this atrocity realises we live."

"W…where shall we go?" asked one of the Slayers.

Groo missed a step, that point having not yet occurred to him. "England," he decided.

* * *

Munich

Vi smiled as Connor’s mouth opened to laugh at the end of the story she’d just been telling. Her blood chilled at the dangerous flicker that entered her new friend’s eyes. Before she had time to react, the teen was leaping across the table at her. Her hands came up to block, but she was unable to prevent him crashing into her, flinging both he and her over the back of her chair and to the ground. Anger quickly replacing shock, she raised her fist to crash a punch into the hybrid’s mouth.

And then the window exploded inwards, two men crashing through on lines, their sub-machine guns tattooing the walls level with where they had been sat. Before anyone else had chance to react, Connor was up and between the two intruders. His hands shot out to either side and grabbed each intruder under his chin before yanking their heads together with a sickening, skull-cracking crack. Vi gasped as the supernatural man turned to her, a glacial look in his eyes. "How?"

"I smelt demon," the youth explained. "My instincts took over."

"They’re," Vi forced her eyes to the two corpses hanging on their lines like dead fish, "human."

"Yeah," her companion scooped up his sword. "They are. That means the demons must be coming at the headquarters from a different direction."

"Rona!" Vi’s heart missed a beat at the thought of her best friend and lover.

"Yeah," Connor picked up her sword and flung it to her.

She scooped the weapon out of mid-air. "Let’s move!"

"Oh good lord," the phone fell from his nerveless hand, unable to believe what he’d just heard. He started slightly at a knock on his door. "H…hello?" he hated the quaver in his voice, but he felt as if he’d aged 20 years in the course of one phone call.

"It’s Gunn, Mr. Giles," the African-American’s deep voice came through the doorway, "you wanted me to report once I’d held my first training session. But if you’re busy-."

"No, no," Giles shook his head. A gentleman kept his appointments. And he so did not want to be alone at this moment. "Please, come in."

"Thanks," the door swung open and the black man strode in. "Yeah, the girls are high-spirited but that’s to be-," the demon-hunter’s voice trailed off, his eyes widening as he took in Giles’ doubtless haggard appearance. "You like death warmed up."

Giles chuckled hoarsely. The young man was closer than he realised. "But not my own, always someone else’s."

"Mr. Giles," the young demon-hunter sat down in the seat opposite, "what’s wrong?"

"Many of our allies have been butchered." It was an effort but he managed to stop his hands from trembling. "Throughout the world, demons, sentient life-forms, witches, and humans allied to us have been massacred. Some remain, The Last Norse in Sweden, The Samurai Way in Japan, and the Aboriginal Dreamers in Australia weren’t attacked. And the Slavic werewolves and the gargoyles of southern France all managed to escape their attackers, but the rest…."

* * *

Gunn gasped as the building shook and he was flung to the ground, pain flaring through his wound. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"I don’t know," the Englishman stood over him, offering him his hand. After a second he took it. "I suspect nothing good. I suggest we endeavour to find out. Shall we?"

"Yeah," Gunn grabbed a double-bladed axe off the martially-decorated office’s wall as the Englishman took a broadsword. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

"You best not speak to me like that again!"

"Impudent child!"

"Thank the lord," Roger muttered as he pulled up outside his destination. Two hours in the car with Dana and Illyria would test the patience of a saint. And god knew if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was saintly. Still, he looked towards their destination, heart beginning to beat just a little faster, he had to admit he was excited. To be the first Watcher to ever enter the Deeper Well was an unimaginable honour and thrill.

Rupert had asked him to take Illyria to the Deeper Well in the hope that her knowledge and experience of the place would somehow help them to harness the place’s power. When Dana had learnt he was going out, she’d pleaded to join them. And as usual these days he’d given in.

Although he was convinced this trip was a wild goose chase concocted by Rupert to get Illyria out of his hair for a few hours. Roger smiled reluctantly. Rupert was a trickier bugger than his appearance suggested.

"Come," the car nearly flipped over when Illyria climbed out and slammed the door shut behind her, "I grow tired of listening to her. Let us get this journey over with."

"Man," Dana pouted, "who stuck a stick up her ass?"

Roger’s lips pulled up in a half smile. He didn’t have to guess who’d taught the emotionally-damaged child that particular saying. "Language, Dana."

"Sorry, Uncle Rog."

* * *

Gunn followed the Council head into the corridor, a combination of wood-panelled walls and stone-paved floors. Usually the building, with its mounted animal and demon heads and lavishly illustrated paintings of England’s imperial history, stunk of money, but right now it reeked of pant-wetting fear. The Englishman slid to a halt just ahead of him. Giles turned towards him, eyes demanding. "Can you hear that?"

Gunn strained his ears and nodded. "Screaming."

"Just so," the grim-faced Watcher hefted his sword before starting down the passageway to the left. And once again coming to a screeching halt. "Oh bugger."

Gunn peered over his shoulder to see a group of grey-cowled lean figures gliding towards them, their spindly arms ending in gleaming scythes, the air seeming to decay and putrefy as they passed through it. After a second he managed to croak a question. "What are they?"

The Englishman’s one-word answer chilled him to his core. "Reapers."

* * *

The way down into The Deeper Well was via a dusty, seemingly endless stairway, its stone walls callused with age. Finally they reached a circular room before a narrow bridge over an unsettlingly deep chasm. The bridge was encircled by a wall containing dozens upon dozens of apparently ancient tombs.

"The Old Ones," there was a note of infinite smugness in Illyria’s voice. "They remain encased in their prisons while I roam free."

Roger’s eyes widened as Dana started across the bridge. "Dana," he began.

"I wanna look!" the child shouted before rushing off.

"That girl needs disciplining," Illyria coolly stated, eyes disdainful. "A spirit that bright offends-."

"What she needs is love and care," Roger interrupted through gritted teeth, fists clenched. Two hours of Illyria’s disdainful arrogance had brought him to the end of his tether.

"Ha," the Old One sneered at him. "I have the memories of the host, it seems to me your own son experienced little of this care when he was alive."

That last comment sent him racing over the edge of sanity and into the realm of blistering rage. "Now see here, you bloody slapper!" he barked. "How about you shut your cake-hole about matters that you don’t bloody understand? And I’ll re-pay the favour by not laying a nut on you!"

"Moderate your tone, insect!" The Old One didn’t look frightened or even offended, merely confused. "What is this language you speak in?"

"Oh for the love of-," Roger shook his head. He finally worked up the nerve to tell the Old One what he thought of her, and she didn’t understand a word he said. Bloody typical.

"Uncle Roger! Uncle Roger!" His train of thought disintegrated at Dana’s alarmed shout. A second later and the Slayer-child burst into view, a terrified look on her face as she raced across the bridge. "Demons!"

* * *

"How do we kill them?" Gunn demanded, hands slicking with sweat as he clung onto his axe, eyes fixed on the approaching menace.

"Kill them?" the Watcher’s voice trembled.

"Giles!" he snapped, ignoring his own fear. "The Slayers!"

"Quite right old chap." The Watcher blinked, colour returning to his face. "Chop their bloody scythes off! But don’t let them cut you, one touch no matter how minor will kill instantly!"

"Good enough!" Gunn barrelled forward, ducking under a swing from the leading Reaper on the right side, thrusting the point at the top of his axe into the demon’s side.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAW!"

The creature’s screech set his nerves on end and his heart pounding even faster than before. Ignoring that, he ducked under the creature’s wildly-swinging scythes as he dragged his weapon loose. Once his axe was free, he quickly slashed left then right, each blow taking a scythe at the wrist. Another screech and the demon’s suddenly incorporeal corpse floated to the stone paved floor.

Gunn grinned as the next demon flew at him. They no longer held any fear for him. He could kill them, that was all he needed to know.

* * *

"Oh bugger," Roger swallowed as he looked at the six hulking, six-tentacled grey blobs following the Slayer, their mouths uncomfortably full of teeth, their only other noticeable feature their lack of eyes in favour of a pair of antenna sticking out of the top of their heads. He glanced towards Illyria without much hope. "Other guardians?"

"These creatures are Tengobs, foul creatures. I will kill them and show them that Illyria is master of all."

"Very well," Roger smiled as he drew his sword. Suddenly he felt thirty-five again, fighting alongside his own Slayer in his halcyon years, just before Wesley’s birth. He smiled at Dana as she came up beside him and drew her own weapon. "You’ll do fine, love."

And then the monsters were on them, tentacles slashing through the dark air, sharp teeth ripping through the space. But as formidable as the creatures appeared to be, they were as naught beside Illyria.

The goddess dived amongst them, their tentacles bouncing off her as she slammed blow after blow into them. With every punch a fissure would open up in their grey hide. When one had suffered enough damage, they would simply disintegrate.

And then one of them got through. "I’ll save you Uncle Rog!"

Roger’s eyes widened in horror. "No, Dana! Stay here!"

Too late. The Slayer bounded forward, moving at her kind’s usual awesome speed. But as quick as the tragic beauty was, the monster was even quicker. Even so, it seemed to Roger’s horrified eyes that the demon was moving in slow-motion. He saw the creature’s tentacle snap back, piston forward, and then collide with the on-rushing warrior. He saw her body shudder with the impact, the weapon rip through her and then be yanked out. He saw the blood explode from her body and her legs buckle.

And then he was standing over her, sword raised as he glared at the monster, daring it to attack again.

The monster lurched towards him, antenna triumphantly twitching. And then the beast hit the ground, Illyria on top of it as the Old One punched it into oblivion.

"Please Uncle Roger, I don’t want to die."

Roger’s eyes blurred at the young woman\child’s sobs. This wasn’t right, all the pain she’d suffered to die like this, but it was inevitable, the beast’s thorned tentacle had ripped a hole in her stomach and side that not even a Slayer could heal, her life-blood spurting out of her. If she wasn’t a Slayer, the shock would have killed her already.

"There is a cure in the Deeper Well." His gaze snapped up to the watching Old One. "A potion that the Well’s last champion used to prolong his life centuries past its natural span-."

"Get it!" he hissed.

"But there is a price to pay," Illyria’s eyes chilled him to the bone. "Should she use it, she will be bound to this place forever, forced to serve as its guardian."

He looked up to the blue-haired goddess imperiously stood over them, hating her for her impassivity. "Do it," he begged.

"Very well," Illyria nodded before marching off.

A forced smile on his face, he turned back to the wounded girl and gently stroked her hair. "You just hold on, alright," he pleaded "I know I don’t ask you to be brave because Faith told me that you’re the only girl braver than her in the entire world."

Dana half-smiled at the mention of her idol. "Faith said that?"

"Of course she did. She told me you were a born fighter," Roger replied as he squeezed the girl’s hand. "You’ll be up and about in no time, just you see." Noting how the Slayer’s eyes were dimming, he looked around desperately, trying but failing to pierce the surrounding darkness. "Illyria!"

"I am here," the goddess announced. "Remove your hand from the wound," she instructed, "otherwise you will suffer the same fate." Roger quickly obeyed, wincing at the sticky hotness dripping down his arm. His eyes widened as he saw the goblet in the Old One’s hand, recognising it as the most sought after artefact in the world, the Holy Grail. And then the blue-haired woman was tipping the goblet, a glowing water gushing over its silvery rim to splatter onto the Slayer’s gaping wound.

"So colddddddd!" Dana’s half-closed eyes shot open as she threw her head and screamed, lithe body writhing helplessly. Roger stepped forward to somehow assist the Slayer, shocked by her reaction.

And stopped dead when she slumped back to the ground, the mortal wound in her side healing before his eyes, the colour returning to her face and arms. "A miracle," he muttered. Kneeling down, he stroked the girl’s hair. A second later, Dana’s eyes opened, filled with renewed life.

"I will stay with the child," Roger stared at Illyria, shocked by the Old One’s words. "The world outside is no longer fit for one as powerful as me. This is the closest thing to home, I am still first," a sudden sneer flickered across the former Texan’s face, "amongst the Old Ones. And the child," the Old One’s face softened a smidgen, "you and the other Watcher have shown me someone should look after the young."

"Y….you can’t leave me!" Dana wailed.

"I wish with all of my might I didn’t have to." Ignoring creaking bones, he crouched down and looked at the young woman. "But if you left here, you’d die. The medicine that Illyira gave you to make you better was magical and would wear off as soon as you left here, opening up your wound again and killing you. But this place," he looked around, "is one of the most magical places in the world, and it needs a hero to protect it. A hero like you." Roger smiled as inspiration struck. "A hero like Faith. You have to stay here and become a hero, you’ll do that for me won’t you?"

After a second the woman\child nodded. "You’ll come back to visit, Uncle Roger?"

Roger almost broke at the Slayer’s piteous moan. "Of course I will dear," he forced a smile as he peered down into the beautiful young woman’s eyes. "And I will make sure Rupert, Faith, and the others come to see you too, alright?" The girl rubbed at her eyes before nodding. "Good girl," tears almost spilling from him, he leaned forward and gently kissed the girl on her forehead. "Be brave, sweet child."

* * *

"You did well today," Gunn’s eyes widened appreciatively when he passed the younger man a glass of rather fine Malt. "I can see why Angel puts such store -." He sighed when the phone rang. "Excuse me," he apologised. "It appears," he lifted the phone, "duty calls. Hello? Oh god, no!" Giles’ eyes widened as he heard the report, his legs buckling beneath him.

Hell

Satan hissed at the most unsatisfactory report. His minion pulled back, terrified by display of anger. Satan calmed himself. "It is time that we put the back-up plan into action-."

"You mean-," his subordinate gasped.

"I mean, this dimension will be mine, and no one, no paltry Watchers’ Council will stop me," Satan hissed. "Have the orders given. If the doors between our dimension and theirs can’t be beaten down, then they’ll have to be unlocked."

* * *

Rome

Ciro Dante glared at the 4^th floor apartment that he and his three fashionably dressed companions were watching, the early-morning winds whistling around the courtyard they were in, hiding in its shadows. A senior Watcher and a team of well-trained Slayers wasted in a discreet surveillance on somebody who had deserted their calling. In his and many others’ opinions such a ‘pollo’ regardless of her past was unworthy of such protection. Unfortunately the majority opinion meant little to Rupert Giles, a man he held in high regard and no little trepidation, and as a result he found himself out the apartment of one of Italy’s most unsavoury characters awaiting the long-overdue departure of Miss Summers and her sister.

Shaking his head, he stepped back into the wall. Noting the Slayers hadn’t spoken in quite some time, he turned to commend them for their discipline and quiet.

His heart missed a beat when he realised the three teens were stood statue-still; their mouths open in silent screams of horror. "H…how?"

"A modification of your own Cruicatmen drug, my own little spell, and viola as the French would say," he spun back around to see an elderly looking man dressed in the sort of garb he would expect a gardener or labourer to wear, "three mortified Slayers. Like your Cruicatmen, the effects will wear off in 48 hours, but of course as their brains won’t have received oxygen…." The man sighed and shrugged. "Dealing with you is far more mundane." Ciro looked down at a pinprick on his hand. "Just a snake venom that you should be feeling," Ciro gasped as the man blurred, "right about now."

* * *

"Ah bella! Bella! Am I not fortunate indeed to have two such beautiful house-guests?" Dawn rolled her eyes as the Immortal gushed and her sister ate up all the praise. Clearly the brain damage from excessive hair dye use was even worse than she thought if Buffy couldn’t see through this slime-ball. "And how are you two enjoying your breakfast?"

Dawn went for a teenage shrug. She paled as her shoulders failed to move, some strange paralysis afflicting her. Sweat appeared on her forehead as she tried and failed to move, not even able to speak. Looking across the table, she saw a stunned and frightened look on her sister’s face that she was sure was reflected on her own.

"Ah, it’s always good when a chef receives no complaints," the Immortal leisurely stood and walked into the kitchen. Dawn’s breath caught when the man returned a seeming lifetime later carrying a gleaming broadsword. "For months I have had to put up with your inane prattle about things that no sane or intelligent man would find of the least interest. For week upon week I have to stifle my natural inclination to throw you out and get a real woman, a woman with intelligence and grace. The sacrifices I make in the service of my master," the Italian Playboy smiled. "But at least he granted me this one request."

Dawn wasn’t even able to give her sister the dignity of a farewell scream as the Immortal’s sword slid through the older girl’s neck, ripping her head from her shoulders, and showering the table, the wall behind the decapitated blonde, and her in blood. "Ahhhh," the Immortal groaned as if coming down from a drug high. "That was good!"

The Italian playboy spun around at the sound of a door opening. "Ah, Miguel, I judge from your presence the Slayer’s watchdogs are dead?"

"As you say master," the newcomer was an aged man with kindly eyes. "All dead. And the Slayer herself?"

"The stupid girl is dead," Dawn wished she could flinch as the Immortal reached out a long finger and stroked a strand of her hair. "We have the prize though."

"Truly we are blessed," the old man briefly bowed his head, "our master will be most generous if we-."

"When we succeed," the Immortal corrected. "Our master will not tolerate our failure."

The old man bowed lower. "As you say."

"The others are here?" The Immortal asked. The old man nodded. "Excellent, have them move her into the van. And remember, not a drop of her blood is to be spilt. Not a drop."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Wolfram & Hart Offices, Rome

"Have this done! And we will speak of it no more!" Ilona Costa Bianchi beamed as her subordinate ran off. It was so uplifting to have such power, a drug she’d never tire of, not if she lived to be another hundred years. Hearing the elevator door slide open, she glanced towards it. There was always someone interesting visiting her offices.

Her mouth dropped open as she recognised the leader of the group who stepped out through the walnut double-doors. HE dared come here? "Security!" she screamed like the fish-wife her mother had always been as she stepped forward and spat at the intruder’s feet. "What do you think-."

The Immortal’s gloved backhand slap to the face knocked her to the ground. A casually delivered kick to the ribs kept her crumpled on the carpet. "Foolish woman," the Immortal laughed. "Did you ever think to wonder why I have lived so long, why there is no record of whatever spell or ritual I underwent to live as long as I have?"

Ilona paled under her tan. "You serve our master?" she stared up fearfully at the man, conscious that her security was watching but not daring to approach the man.

"I serve our master," the Immortal confirmed with a smirk. "But.," Ilona bit back a scream when the man reached down and sunk his fingers into her shoulders, bruising the tender flesh before dragging her to her feet, pushing her against the wall, "at a much higher level." The man’s smirk widened at the whimper that escaped her mouth. "Serve me well, and there might be a position for you when our master arrives." Her blood ran cold at the man’s smile. "Fail me and you’ll scream for death."

"A….anything you want," she shivered and trembled. She wanted to call him a liar, but there was a coldness in his eyes that dared her to do just that and something that told her doing so would cause her the torments of the damned.

"Excellent," she shuddered as the Immortal tousled her hair, his touch strangely reptilian. "I see our relationship improving already." The Immortal’s face sobered. The man looked over his shoulder to a stock-still teen stood there, flanked by two of his companions, alligator-faced bipeds with the physiques of gorillas. "Do you recognise her?"

"It is," she gasped as she recognised the lithesome teen, "the sister of the Slayer, Buffy Summers!"

"The sister of the deceased Buffy Summers," the Immortal corrected. Ilona gasped. "It was a simple thing to kill," the Immortal laughed, "such a simple thing." Again the Immortal sobered. "I want you to increase security, no-one gets in or out of this building-."

"But our clients-," Ilona gulped at the Immortal’s raised eyebrow. "It will be done. We will speak of it no more."

The Immortal nodded. "You seem to be a slower learner than I hoped, never mind. I want a private room for her," the Immortal glanced at the frozen teen.

"You can have my private quarters," she instantly volunteered.

Her words were rewarded by an instant gleaming smile. "That’s better," the Immortal slapped her butt and chuckled at her blushing, "lead the way my dear."

"Yes sir," her cheeks burnt as she registered the number of her juniors watching her humiliation. Even if by some miracle she overthrew the Immortal, her position would never be the same.

Deciding to turn her mind from such thoughts, she led the Immortal and his entourage through the office’s spacious corridors. "If I might ask, why have you kidnapped Miss. Summers?"

"You are of course aware of her past as the Key?" she nodded mutely. "When the goddess Glory died, it was believed that Miss. Summers’ existence as the Key was over. That was incorrect, our master has discovered an extremely dangerous ritual that will turn her back to the key, and enable her energy to be used to unlock the door to our master’s dimension."

Ilona felt her mouth dry. Her master here, her soul quailed at the thought, even as a foul dirty part rejoiced. "How?" asked Ilona.

"It’s complex, but it involves bleeding her of all her blood, thus leaving nothing behind but the energy that powered the key, but it has to be done in a controlled manner, otherwise the gates to ALL the dimensions will be opened. So the bleeding takes time."

"How long?"

The Immortal smiled. "Five days, one day for each litre in her body. Then hell will come to earth."

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