"Cardinal! Cardinal!"

Cardinal Alex Kane turned at the shout, irritated that the haughty building’s silence had been shattered. "Please Father Denya," he made a show of looking around the vaunted corridors. "Have a little decorum."

The Russian priest’s round face fell at his scolding. "Yes sir, sorry sir," the East European’s eyes brightened. "But have you heard the news?"

Kane raised a greying eyebrow. "The news?"

"The world’s magicians and witches dead!" the priest’s eyes danced with excitement. "A considerable strike against Satan!"

"Quite," Kane said even as he stared at the jubilant man stood before him. It frequently disappointed him as head of the Papal Occult Offensive Department the sort of men the Vatican sent him as underlings. It was as if his superiors felt that by sending him incompetents they were downplaying the horror of what they faced. To his thinking all of mankind was touched by the devil but free will meant that each person could chose to be good or evil. Of course a magician was a greater threat if they turned evil, but until such a point and in fact even beyond, they were god’s children.

Still, those were the sort of thought that if voiced would get him labelled a heretic and excommunicated. "And what do we know of the force that has done this great deed?" he asked.

"Sir?" Father Denya looked confused.

Kane sighed inwardly. The man was an idiot, it was an unchristian thought, but nonetheless true. "Do we know what that the force is? Given their power and ruthlessness they could be a great ally or a fearsome -." His voice trailed off as he glanced out of the outer window, distracted by shouts. Bemused, he stepped to the window and looked out.

Normally at this time the courtyard would be filled with the Swiss Guards that made up the Vatican’s security flawlessly drilling. But today it was filled with screaming men dying as ungodly creatures tore into them. "Oh Mary," he muttered. "Mother of God."

"Sir," he glanced across at his pale-faced subordinate. "We must flee."

"Of course," he nodded dazedly. "But what-."

Both corridors’ doors smashed open. His blood froze when he looked left and right to see both escape routes blocked by four foot tall, thickly built one-eyed monsters with scaly green hides, razor sharp talons, and drooling fangs. Limbs shaking, he dropped to knees, took his crucifix in his hands, and began to pray.

* * *

A Chateau In The French Alps

"And our candidate for the post of new BND chief?"

"Has been accepted sir."

Kiefer Erickson nodded in satisfaction. Not that he was surprised; it was a brave or foolish man who dared oppose him. Heads of states, tycoons, industrialist, award-winning scientists, and high-ranking public servants all hurried to obey him. In his time he’d served as deputy chief of the CIA, ambassador to London and the UN, and a special advisor to no less than three presidents. But all those exalted posts faded into insignificance to the one he now held.

He was now the defacto head of the Bilderberg Group, the informal and international association of power-brokers that orchestrated relations between Europe and North America. And as such he was one of the most powerful men in the world. He smiled as he looked around the spacious board-room, nodding at the three dozen group members sat there. The fruits of success tasted very sweet indeed.

His gaze snapped towards the room’s entrance when the door crashed open, splintering at the hinges at it fell onto the ground. The unexpected intruder was a towering seven tall and rail-thin with a grey skull-like face and jagged, curved talons hanging off its ropey arms. "W….what are you?" he breathed.

"Your death," a rattling voice over his left shoulder explained. Erickson’s heart froze when he looked up to a huge, bat-like creature with the distorted face of a man grinning down at him. He opened his mouth to scream.

And then the beast was on him.

* * *

A Fortress In The Bavarian Alps

"Some more information on the Vatican harbouring Jewish gold?" Baron Fredich Von Kruger shook his head impatiently at his minion’s report. As head of the Bavarian Illuminti it was his duty to prove the untruth of one supreme being and the hypocrisy of the world’s religions. And decades old scandals weren’t enough. "Surely there’s something more recent?"

His subordinate glanced down at his notes. "Some statistics on how the Church’s approach is actually helping not hindering the spread of AIDS in Africa."

"That’s something," Von Kruger took a sip of his Château Margaux 2000 before continuing. "And the others?" he grimaced. Just hinting at the world’s religions gave his otherwise delicious wine a sour taste.

"We have a report linking a Lutheran arch-bishop to an abuse scandal in an orphanage he worked at in the late 70s. There’s no evidence he was involved but," his underling, a scrawny, pale-skinned man in his early sixties, smirked, "facts can be slanted. An investigative reporter had linked a prominent American Rabbi to a homophobic organisation and a London cleric to a charity funding Islamic terror groups."

"Excellent." Von Kruger nodded, that was more like it. More proof of the corruption that lived and breathed through ever pore of every religion, that science was the only truth. "Have all this leaked through our media sources."

His minion nodded. "At once sir," his minion hurried towards the door.

Kruger gaped when the door crashed open and a bulky, grey-skinned monster with one eye stepped into his office. After tearing his subordinate’s head off, his blood splattering his bookcase filled with first editions, the grinning beast leapt across to land on him.

His last thought was if there were demons maybe there was a god. And then death claimed him.

* * *

Bangkok, Thailand

Chow Pan wiped at his had. It was the middle of the day and outside it was thundering and lightning. Yet despite that, the day was oppressively hot, perhaps a hundred degrees in the shade.

After loosening his tie and taking a sip of his iced water, he looked around his compatriots. Like him they were all middle-aged greying men dressed in business suits. And like him, their banality hid their ruthless natures and the fact they were the leaders of Oriental organised crime. The Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Tongs, and the representatives of the gangs that ruled Vietnam, Korea, and Thailand were all seated around the long table. Between them, they ran criminal activity throughout Asia and the vast majority of heroin in the entire world.

All that made him and his companions very wealthy men indeed. And as members of the Golden Dragons, the cartel that ran Asia, very powerful ones.

He rose and started to speak. "Honoured friends, it is good to see you -." He was interrupted by the sound of gunfire and screams in the street outside. "The pol-."

His voice trailed off when the door crashed open and a horde of beasts that could only be described as nightmarish rushed in, attacking him and his companions.

In his youth he’d worked as a torturer for one of the Hong Kong Triads and considered himself an expert in pain. But now, as a spindly six-armed creature tore into him he discovered what true agony was.

* * *

The Gobi Desert, The Knights Of Byzantium

Knight-Commander Arnold nodded smugly, briefly allowing himself the sin of pride, as he watched his troops flawlessly drill. It was the middle of the day and baking hot, but despite that, his troops were unfaltering in their diligence.

It had been a hard three years since Glorificous had annihilated their Order. But he’d done it, rebuilt the Order to the point there were thirty score of them, more then there’d been since their halcyon days of the 12^th and 13^th centuries.

Knight-Commander Arnold’s mood darkened as he considered the urgent need for the need for the recent increase of troops. All the portents said the end of days were fast approaching. And it was their duty to face it. Their last leader had been an arrogant fool, the way he’d alienated their potentially greatest ally in the Council. Now, thanks to him they stood alone. But they would not fail this time, he would not allow it.

A long shadow was suddenly cast over the drill ground. Puzzled, he looked up, shading his eyes. His heart dropped at the sight that greeted him.

The sky was filled for as far as the eye could see with gargoyles, hideous, muscled monsters with huge wings and glaring eyes. "My lord Jesu," he whispered. Gathering himself, he drew his sword and turned to his troops. "Formation!" If they couldn’t be there for the final battle, they could at least strike a final blow for good.

* * *

Washington DC.

Colonel Glenn Archer stretched as he stood, his middle-aged body creaking back into position. He shook his head ruefully. "Getting old," he commented. It hadn’t been like this a few years ago, even two years ago when he’d just finished his twenty years as a US. Ranger officer, having served his country for the past ten of those in black bag operations. He’d been looking forward to his retirement when he’d been approached by a suited man who’d told him his nation, his world still needed him. He hadn’t been interested at the time, he’d given enough.

And then the man had revealed the truth about the Sunnydale sinkhole and his world had changed forever.

For the past two years he’d worked tirelessly to recruit an army of special forces troops to protect his nation, nine teams of twelve so far, and another three teams in the planning. He knew about the Slayers, but leaving the world in the hands of adolescent girls rankled.

Looking around his well-ordered office, he nodded. Everything was in order, decades of army training had regimented his mind, ensuring he detested messiness. Satisfied, he turned to the door and grabbed the door handle.

The moment he pulled it down, he heard a beep. His eyes started to widen. And then the door exploded in a ball of fire, the force of the explosion lifting him off his feet and flinging him across the office. His head smashed like a melon against the far wall.

* * *

"Is it done?"

Drazus nodded before kneeling before his master. "Yes my lord, the behind the scenes organisations that ran the political, industrial, and crime world have been decimated. Confusion and fear reigns."

"Excellent. Next…."

"The Council, sire?"

Satan smiled, almost blinding him with the brilliance of the fangs in his seven mouths. "Soon, oh very soon," his master hissed.

The East End Of London

Charles Rogers hurried through the crowded market, the stalls’ ridiculously-priced goods and the clamour of the stall-holders and customers bartering, passing him by as he searched for the demonspawn he’d been sent to kill. He was one of his organisation’s finest killers, his quarry having taken out the first two men they’d sent after him.

But not him.

Charles smirked as he saw the fugitive ducking between two stalls. Picking up the pace, he raced through the crowd, heedlessly bowling over those who got in his way, ignoring their shocked protests. By the time he got to the space where he’d seen his quarry, he’d disappeared. Muttering curses under his breath, he rushed through a gap between two stalls and looked left and right.

Seeing his target running around a corner to his right, he continued his pursuit, chasing the man into an alley, its walls littered with fading and peeling fly-posters. Rogers stopped, his forehead creasing in puzzlement as he searched the alley’s shadows for his quarry.

The target darted out of the shadows at the far end of the alley. Snarling victoriously, he reached into his jacket for his pocket and started forward. Hearing a footfall to his right, he started to turn.

He gasped as pain seared through his throat as his unseen assailant thrust a switchblade into the right side of his neck and dragged it across his throat. Legs suddenly weak, he slumped against the left wall, his world spinning and his .38 clattering to the ground.

His eyes widened in disbelief when his quarry stepped out of the shadows opposite him. "How?" he gurgled, bloody foam bubbling up in his mouth.

"Dear chap," the older man sneered, "I hardly think that’s important." He reached for his dropped gun but his adversary kicked the weapon away, sending it rattling across the cobbles. "Naughty, naughty," his opponent placed a hand over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air. He struggled desperately but his weakening body was no match for his rival and soon death beckoned.

* * *

"Enter my parlour said the spider to the fly," he recited as he let go of the corpse. "Pathetic, truly pathetic." He stared down at the body at his feet, quickly stepping back to evade being splattered by the blood pooling out of the would-be assassin’s neck. Didn’t want blood on his shoes, at two hundred and fifty quid a pair they were far too expensive to be ruined.

Realising he had to get out of the alley before somebody saw him, he quickly strode away. Finding the nearest greasy spoon, he shoved its door open and walked in, making his way to the counter. "What it’ll be mate?"

He forced a smile. Cuisine de la Cockney, how positively delightful. "Why, I’ll have a chocolate éclair and a cup of your tea, my good man."

The balding man stood behind the counter nodded. "That’ll be four quid, mate."

He grimaced. Bloody hell, he could remember when he could get pissed on that much. He handed over a crumpled fiver. "Keep the change," he instructed before making his way over to a corner table, the sounds of some boy-band or other blaring out of the jukebox, polluting the otherwise unhealthily smoky atmosphere.

He shuddered as he took a tentative sip of his tepid tea. "Bugger, that’s foul," he muttered. He idly stirred at the offending cup, considering his opponents. It had been a simple matter to cast a confusion spell, making his rival follow a hallucination-induced doppelganger of him. "Magic always works better on the simple-minded," he chuckled.

His smile disappeared at the sound of nearing police sirens. Obviously the corpse had been discovered. Which brought him back to his original problem, namely his hunters. Individually they were no match for a man of his intelligence and resources, but collectively he was out-gunned. He needed help and the only solution was….

"Oh bugger," he groaned. "Ripper." His elation of having survived dissipating, he gulped down his tea, rose, and strode out of the café

* * *

"Oh, damnation!" Giles rubbed at his forehead as he read through the reports Riley had written. He knew there was a reason he’d hadn’t seriously considered a career in the military – bloody paperwork.

Still, it did appear Riley and his team were fitting in very well. As was Lorne much to his surprise, the green-skinned demon having somehow strong-armed him into turning one of the storerooms into a rec-area where he’d entertain them all every night with a mind-boggling variety of songs ranging from show tunes, country, pop, ballads, rock, and soul. The only thing he refused to sing was hip hop. But then, he smirked, who would?

Giles’ mood darkened when he considered the one black spot on the horizon – Roger ‘stick up his arse’ Whyndham-Pryce. Every soddin’ day the bugger would have to come into his office with a different complaint. Sometimes it was about Riley’s changes to the building. Other times it would be Lorne’s presence. Other times it would be about him and Willow concealing the Slayer line’s true origins. "Talk about flogging a dead horse," he muttered.

He looked up at a knock on the door before glancing down at his watch. It was rather too early for it to be Roger; it usually took him a few hours to build up a head of steam. "Hello?"

"It’s me."

Ah, Giles grimaced. There was another problem, a slight issue compared to the other more pressing ones, but still a problem. "Do come in." He watched with concern as Willow entered, noting the red-head’s unnatural paleness and the dimness of her usually lively eyes. "Please," he gestured to the leather upholstered seat at the other side of the desk. "Have a seat."

"Thanks," the world’s most powerful witch smiled wanly before complying.

He stared at the red-head for a long second. "And how are you, Willow?"

"The Council’s library is incredibly extensive," the witch reported. "And the Watchers you gave us are a great help. The only trouble is we don’t really know what we’re looking for, let alone what we’re looking for."

"Oh," Giles winced. That was less than encouraging. Returning to his original concern, he pressed. "I didn’t ask you how research was going. I asked how you are. Since your return I’ve noticed you’ve not been yourself. What’s wrong?" the witch looked down at the ground. "Willow?"

"It’s Xander," Giles groaned inwardly. When either of the two Sunnydale natives was upset, the other was usually to blame. They loved one another fiercely but when they fought it was with equal passion. "H….he found out that I’d told Amy to watch out for him no matter what. Now he’s mad at me. He blames me for her dying and not trusting him."

Giles felt his heart drop at Willow’s words. In truth, he had considerable sympathy with both viewpoints. Willow was only doing what she thought was right to protect her oldest friend. Which was all very admirable but Giles knew how Xander had chafed under the mantle of being the ‘weak one’. He also knew that the young man had secretly loved the opportunity to spread his wings, to be his own man. But now Willow had taken that away from him. And Willow’s actions, however well-intentioned, had indirectly lead to Amy’s death. "I understand your concern, Willow, and that you acted for the best of reasons," he carefully began. "But Xander is a full-grown adult." Now there was a word he’d never thought he’d use in relation to Xander. "And as such deserves the right to stand and fall by his decisions. You can’t hold his hand forever."

"Bu-."

"Giles!" They broke off from their conversation to look towards the doorway as Dawn charged in, a distressed look on her face. "I know what’s causing this!"

"Really?" Giles felt his academic interest quicken. "Please, by all means."

"It was the amulet that Wolfram & Hart gave Angel for Buffy," the teen brunette began pacing the floor.

"It wasn’t meant to close the Hellmouth?" Willow guessed.

Dawn shook her head. "Oh yes it was. In its original form at least." Giles’ heart dropped. Original form? That did not sound good. "Wolfram & Hart didn’t want the First Evil to win anymore than we did. It was serious competition for them. But they added an interesting twist, put on a curse that delivered the wearer’s soul to them."

"Why the interest in Spike?" Giles asked in confusion.

Dawn smiled painfully. "It wasn’t meant for him. They didn’t figure on Buffy’s feelings for Spike." Giles rolled his eyes. Please, bile rose in his throat at just the thought of that swaggering prat. Love is blind? It’d have to be deaf and lacking sanity for someone to fall for him. "It was meant for Buffy or Faith, the true champions at the Sunnydale battle. Best case they got Buffy to use to blackmail Angel with. If they got Faith," Dawn shrugged. "I guess they got an opportunity to get revenge for her not killing Angel."

"And Spike?"

"Although Spike’s soul closed the Hellmouth, his demon warped the amulet’s magic, causing rips in the dimensional fabric." Dawn’s eyes darkened. "Evil is leaking in from hell."

"Oh bugger," Giles muttered. Could things get any worse?

"Sir?" He looked up to see Robson leading in a scruffy but familiar looking figure. Giles groaned. Question answered.

Lips parting in a snarl, he leapt to his feet, raced across the room, and drove a solid right into their unwelcome guest’s stomach. The man grunted, doubled up, and fell wheezing to his knees. "What the bloody," he slammed a foot into his fellow country-man’s right side, knocking down onto his left, "hell are you doing here, you bastard!"

"Please," the man gasped, an evil smirk twisting his mouth, "watch your language. No swearing in front of the ladies."

Giles glanced behind him. Noting Willow and Dawn’s pale faces, he forced himself to relax. Next, he looked towards Robson. His ire returned as he noticed the tell-tale glaze in his fellow Watcher’s eyes. Glamour," he muttered before grabbing his former friend by the hair at the back of his head and dragged him to his feet. "You’ve got some bloody nerve, Ethan!" he growled.

"This isn’t the sort of welcome I’d hoped for, Ripper," his friend retorted.

"Welcome this!" Giles slammed his palms into his former friend’s chest. Taken by surprise, Ethan staggered backwards, the back of his legs hitting the table directly behind him. Before Ethan had chance to right himself, Giles punched him in the face.

Blood flew from the Chaos Mage’s mouth as he fell onto the table, knocking both him and the table to the carpet. Grinning viciously, he stepped towards the moaning man. "Stop!"

He glared at the obstacle stood in his path. "Out of my bloody way!" he ordered.

Dawn glared back at him with all the pig-headedness of her sister. "No."

"Dawn," Willow broke in, her voice colder than he ever remembered it. "Move."

After a second, the younger Summers sister sulkily stepped aside. By now, Ethan had sat up against the wall, and was gingerly holding his ribs, eyeing him warily. "Miss Rosenberg," Ethan greeted with all the false cheer of an used car salesman. "I see you’ve begun to utilise your potential."

"And I see," the Wicca’s tone sounded like treading over chipped ice. "You continue to abuse yours. Three decades now! Will you never learn!"

Ethan laughed then winced. "You can talk! I heard about ’02, most enterprising. A little overkill perhaps-."

"Overkill."

"Willow, please." Ethan’s exchange with Willow had given Giles the time to calm down slightly, which was probably what the crafty bastard had intended. "Why are you here, Ethan?" he demanded. "You should have known you’d get a less than congenial welcome." His fellow country-man’s mouth opened. Giles shook his head as he thought of something. "No, wait. Dawn, get Lorne."

Ethan grinned at him as Dawn left, closing the door behind her. "Dawn Summers, uh? Just as nubile as her -."

His former friend shrieked, eyes rolling back in his head, when Giles drove his foot into his groin. "Shut your damn hole!" he snarled at the moaning man. "Another word like that and I’ll cut your bollocks off!"

"Giles," he forced himself to relax at Willow’s now slightly trembling voice, "calm down. He’s just trying to-."

"Wind me up," Giles finished before nodding, it was the bastard’s favourite sport. He bet as a lad Ethan had picked the legs off insects, now his hobby was annoying people. "I know, it’s what he does." He looked up from his inspection of the now grey-faced Chaos Mage at the sound of the door opening. "Thank you, Dawn. Lorne," he nodded towards the green-skinned demon as immaculately dressed as always. He idly wondered if the Pylean could give Xander some fashion tips. Returning to the matter in hand, he looked towards Ethan, eyes hardening once more. "Sorry to disturb you old chap, but I want you to," reaching down, he grabbed two handfuls of Ethan’s denim jacket and dragged him to his feet, "read this piece of shit!"

"Am I sensing hostility Watcher Guy?" queried the horned Pylean.

"Perceptive fellow aren’t you?" Ethan examined Lorne with interest. "And what, pray tell are you?"

"Lorne reads people when they sing," Giles explained with a significant look at his former friend. "It’s up to him if you should be allowed stay."

A smirk slowly wound itself across his fellow country-man’s face. "It would appear that only one song is suitable for this weighty occasion." His compatriot took a breath before starting.

Once he’d finished, Giles shook his head in disgust. "Should I stay or should I go? Everything’s a bloody joke to you, isn’t it?" he demanded.

"Keeps me young," Ethan agreed with a grin.

Still shaking his head, Giles turned to Lorne. "Well?"

"He’s got the aura of a W&H lawyer," Lorne replied, the distaste etched on his face. Giles grinned, that meant he got to beat on the sleazy bugger for a while longer before having him thrown in the council dungeon. "But he also needs to here."

"Oh bugger," Giles muttered before turning to the smirking Chaos worshipper. "Why are you here anyway?"

All hint of hilarity fled from Ethan’s face. "The Witchguard."

"Oh bollocks," he cursed. "It never just rains, it has to bloody pour."

"The Witchguard?" queried Dawn.

"An age-old cult dedicated to the annihilation of all witches and wizards. They’ve been in existence since records began. They influenced the Druidic massacre by the Romans, the Chelmsford Witch trials, and the butchering of the Knight Templars. They even put Pope Paul IV, a Cardinal involved in the torture of witches on the Papal Seat, and were behind the creation of the Witchfinder General. In addition they caused the trial of Joan of Arc-."

"Oooh! Was she a -."

Giles stared at the witch, exasperated by the interruption. "Yes, Willow before you ask, she was a Witch-."

"Even worse, she was a lesbian, what a waste of a good wom-," Ethan gulped at Willow’s glare. "Never mind."

Giles rolled his eyes. He could just see Ethan was going to be a pain in the arse. "And were behind the Salem Witch Trials."

"Just how old is this most feared order Mr. Giles?"

"There’s been rumours of their existence as far back as Tutankahem," Ethan answered Andrew’s query. "Legend has it the boy pharaoh dabbled in the arcane arts, and a cabal of his advisors got together and murdered him. That act was the inception of the Witchguard, the pharaoh their first victim."

"Quite so," Giles nodded, hiding his irritation at Ethan’s interrupting his lecture and the fact his oldest friend had wasted such a fine brain in the pursuit of small-minded chaos. "Amongst the famed Witch Hunters that were members of their dread order were Bernardino of Siena, Pierre de Lancre, Henri Boguet, Nicolau Eymeric, Cardinal Richelieu, and even King James Stuart VI."

"But he was a Jock, can one expect different?" muttered Ethan.

"Maybe they killed the Devon Coven?" Willow suggested.

Giles considered the idea for a few seconds before shaking his head. "No," he decided. "There was a demonic signature at the cottage," bile rose in his throat as he remembered the slaughter, "and demonic languages daubed in blood on the walls of the cottage. The Witchguard wouldn’t lower themselves," he smiled apologetically at Lorne, "to working with demons." He glared at Ethan. "And what pray did you do to piss them off?"

His former running mate shrugged. "Nothing. It appears," Ethan reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled was of papers, and glanced significantly at Willow, "I’m on a list."

"A list?" Giles took the list and began to leaf through ten sheets of single-spaced typing. It was a list of names, perhaps 150 to a sheet, some names crossed out, some he vaguely recognised. Finally he looked up. "What is this?"

"A list of people marked for death," Ethan shrugged again. "Some evil, some good. Some grey."

"Mages?" asked Dawn, her voice a taut whisper.

"Not just mages." His former fellow Chaos Mage shook his head. "Seers, psychics, empaths. People with paranormal talent. If you look on the back page, there’s a colour code to the differing inks."

"Where did you get this list?" demanded Willow a half-second before he could.

Ethan smiled Wryly. "The Withchguard have been persistent in their advances. I took it off one of their after killing him." Rayne’s expression grew puzzled. "What I don’t understand is why they are now so powerful and bold?"

Any explanation Giles could have given was interrupted by his study door crashing open. "Giles!" Riley’s voice trailed off, the soldier’s eyes narrowing as he registered Ethan’s presence. "How in the hell did he get here?"

"Ah, US. Military prisons, not what they once were," Ethan sneered only to pale when Riley advanced on him. "A simple glamour spell convinced my guards to release me," Ethan babbled before looking pleadingly at him. "Ripper!"

Giles sighed. It was truly tempting to leave the arrogant bugger to get his just desserts but Lorne said he was needed. "Please Colonel Finn," he was careful to use the American’s rank, subtly reminding him of his duties. "It appears for now ourselves and Rayne share a common foe. You have some news?"

"Yes." After a last glance at the battered mage, Riley turned to him. "Lord Alfred Norton, Baron Fredrich Von Kruger, and Keifer Erickson have all been reported murdered. In addition, the Vatican and Cardinal Alex Kane has been murdered."

"Good god," Giles breathed, his legs suddenly unsteady. Glancing at his former friend, he saw Ethan’s face grey.

"Giles," Dawn’s worried voice broke into his shock. "Who are they?"

Giles glanced at Willow. "Willow, please power that," he stared distastefully at his computer, "thing up." He turned back to Dawn. "Norton was the head of the Free-Masons, Kruger led the Illuminati, Erickson runs the Bilderberg group, and Kane is the head of the Catholic Church’s Occult Department."

"Your computer’s ready, Giles."

Giles nodded at Willow’s shout. "Thank you, dear." He strode over to the Wicca, noting that the others, including Ethan, followed him over to the desk. "Please run the icon marked ‘1,000’."

"What is it Giles?" Willow asked after she’d pressed on the icon. Tricky thing the mouse, he remembered the days one dealt with them by putting cheese in a trap.

"Andrew wrote me a computer application. It tracks the world’s 1,000 most powerful people – secret society leaders, business tycoons, politicians, religious leaders, law enforcement officers, and criminals. It searches the internet for recent reports on them all." Giles paused for a second. "Please click on the ‘deceased’ option." After a few seconds the screen cleared to give a result. "Good lord," he gasped. "One hundred and twenty-seven dead in the past week."

For a long while there was a hushed silence. Inevitably it was Ethan who broke it. "Well that answers one of my questions."

"Really?" Giles looked at his former partner in crime. "Do share with the rest of us?"

"Why you and Miss Rosenberg weren’t on the Witchguard hit-list," Ethan glanced at the wad of papers he’d given to Giles. "You’re being saved for later."

Angel forced himself to relax. As much as he disliked organised crime thugs, they weren’t really his concern. Even if he did what he wanted and tore the scumbags’ throats out it would only mean that Petrov’s club was destroyed by their replacements the moment he left.

Quelling his distaste at his unused to helplessness, he nodded to their host as the man rose and waddled towards the quartet of thugs. "Dad."

He looked towards Connor and shook his head. "I know son, but there’s not much we can do-."

"No dad, them."

He cursed when he looked over his shoulder to see another quartet of hoods entering the club, Uzis in hands. "Hit the ground!" he roared, knocking the table, he dropped to the dusty ground. Obviously the strippers doubled as the cleaners.

"We haven’t got any weapons!" Connor bellowed over the sound of gunfire and people screaming.

"Yes we have," he corrected. Conscious of the patrons and exotic dancers’ screams as the bullets ripped through them, their blood splattering throughout the club, making him momentarily vamp out, he reached for the shattered bottles Connor and Groo had been drinking from. "Stay down!" he ordered.

"Believe me when I say, not going anywhere!" Connor yelled over the shooting.

At the first lull in firing, Angel leapt to his feet and began flinging shards into the throats of the underworld minions. "Ah hell!" he grunted as bullets from the last two shooters thudding into him. Fighting against the pain, he hurdled over the table and landed between the two killers some fifteen feet away. "Hi comrades!" he smiled before reaching out to grab the thugs’ throats and squeezing until they broke. "Bye comrades!"

Dropping the two corpses, he fell to one knee, his body overcome with weariness and pain. "Dad! Are you okay!"

He allowed himself a half-second to luxuriate in his son’s concern before raising his head and nodding. "I’m okay," he lied. "Just give me a minute."

"Shall we get the book, Angel?" Groom queried.

"Good idea," he agreed. As his companions hurried across the dance floor, shattered glass clinking underfoot, Angel inspected his surroundings. Where just minutes before people had been having a good time, there was only destruction and pain. Corpses and groaning, bleeding bodies littered the floor, blood mixing with cordite in the air.

Sickened by his demon’s rejoicing, he stumbled to his feet and dragged his wounded body into the office. "Found it?" he asked, voice filled with weary pain.

Connor looked up, his son’s face creased with worry. "We have," the human\vampire hybrid confirmed. "Are you okay?"

"No," he admitted with a shake of his head. "But I will be once I’ve fed."

"Maybe you could-." His son’s voice trailed off as he peered over his shoulder towards the carnage.

"No," Angel shook his head at his son’s suggestion. "I don’t feed from humans. I can hold on until we get back to the hotel."

* * *

Oz looked up as Xander crept into the bedroom that he and Wood were sharing with the founding Scooby. "Hey, Xander."

His friend started at the former principal’s voice. "Oh, sorry guys," the younger man turned on the light. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"We weren’t sleeping." Wood reassured the native Sunnydaler. "We thought we’d wait up, make sure everything went alright."

"It went fine." Xander grinned. "We can roll tomorrow."

"Great," Wood replied before pausing. Oz groaned inwardly, he hated it when he saw these metaphorical car crashes coming but couldn’t do anything to get out of the way. "Look, about Faith."

Xander’s eye hardened. "I told you yesterday. You want to get back into her pants, go for your life. But I’m not some pawn in your chess game."

Wood’s jaw tightened. "This isn’t about me and Faith," the bald African-American protested. "This is about you treating a great girl like crap."

"Kinda like she treated me," Xander shot back. "Look, you wanna trust her. Have some idealised picture of her, your neck," Xander winced at that. "But I know that’s bullshit. I know her for the bitch she really is."

"Now hold on!" Wood rose, eyes flaring. "You’ve got some problem with Willow, that’s your affair. But don’t be -."

"Not. Another. Word," Oz broke in. He hated having to get involved, but calling in the Slayers to separate them as they wrestled on the ground wasn’t a real option either. It was pathetic, it really was. As a werewolf he could smell the jealousy coming off both men. Xander was jealous of Wood’s relationship with Faith while Wood was jealous that Xander had got there first.

Both crazy in love with the same woman and both unable to admit. Shaking his head, Oz continued. "This isn’t a playground where you can pull each other’s hai-," his voice trailed off when he glanced at the bald black man. "Anyway. You’re our leaders," he turned off the light. "Lead."

* * *

The Amazon

"F-U-C-K!" Faith looked around the leafy jungle surrounding them. She’d never seen so much green in her life. "It is hot!" Her outfit of khaki shorts and tied off canvas shirt were sticking to her like a second skin. As a city gal she had to admit all this wildlife, the sounds, sights, and smells were more than a little intimidating. And being forced to travel without a guide because no one dared to come into the territory was just the icing on the freaking cake.

"Wait." She turned to see Rona some way down the dirt packed road, hopping around on one foot. "I’ve got a stone in my shoe!"

Faith exchanged an amused look with Kennedy. "A stone in your shoe? You’re a freakin’ sissy!" she accused.

Rona glared at her as she struggled to take her boot off. "This from the woman who was screaming about a snake two hours back."

"I was not screaming," Faith loftily replied. "I was warning ya all of a threat."

"Sounded like screaming to us," Vi put in. "And a threat? From a six inch worm?"

"I won’t be warning any of you in the future," Faith huffed.

"Gee, I guess we’ll have to watch out for a possible teddy bear attack on our lonesome," Rona scoffed.

Faith scowled at the African-American. "Gee, I don’t remember you being this funny back in Sunnydale. Annoying sure."

"Oh, Faith."

Faith glanced at Kennedy. Her glare at being interrupted turned to a grin when she registered the spear-wielding jungle natives surrounding them. "Well it’s about time you guys got here," she scolded. "Five freakin’ days. Well what are ya waiting for? Take us to your leader." Her beaming smile widened. She’d always wanted to say that.

* * *

Kennedy stared at first the ten tribesmen and then her calmly waiting leader. "Are you mad?" Kennedy hissed. "We can take them."

"Yup," Faith appeared unfazed by her anger. "But those reports we’ve got say the Trident’s guardians are local tribesmen. I figure we get them to lead us to their village rather than us waste our time trying to find it."

"And if you’re wrong?" she demanded while watching the surrounding loin-clothed men, ugh just one look under them reminded herself why she was a lesbian. "They might be cannibals!"

"Wouldn’t be the first bunch of guys who’ve wanted to eat me," Faith cheerfully replied. "Kinda reminds me of this biker club back in ’97."

Kennedy wrinkled her nose. "You’re disgusting."

Faith winked. "You say the nicest things."

* * *

"Oh heck!" Buffy cheerfully exclaimed as Mashiro led the Slayer legend and her companions into his inner sanctum – his well-stocked library. "And I don’t speak Japanese. Looks like you’ll have to research without me."

"Actually Miss Summers," Masahiro politely corrected, none of the pride he felt in his bland tone. "The texts contained in here," he looked around the quiet chamber, "are in a variety of languages. Including English." He chose to ignore the tiny blonde’s utterance of an unladylike word in favour of bowing slightly. "I will return with some of our researchers," he promised.

"Oh goody," muttered the blonde, sulkily pouting.

Once he’d returned, he took a book and began reading, keeping one eye on Miss. Summers. What he observed was more than a little disappointing. Given what he’d read of Miss Summers’ exploits, he’d expected a commanding warrior woman. Instead he was confronted with a western pretty the like of which were working in cocktail bars all over the city. "Disappointing," he muttered. Comforting himself that perhaps her true face came out in battle he began to read. And it could have been worse; he could have been confronted with the Lehane geisha.

"I’ve found something," Masahiro looked up at the excited brunette. He remembered her name was Michelle. He shook his head at her unnecessary display of emotion. "Directions."

The Immortal smiled, now there was a man of substance. "May I?" the Slayer passed the Italian the leather-bound book. "Thank you," the European Watcher buried his head in the book for a few minutes before looking up, his smile broader than ever. "I know where it is."

* * *

Gwen’s eyes widened as the door to her hotel room burst open. Rising, she watched with concern as her friends stumbled into the room, Angel supported by the other two. "You’re hurt!" she exclaimed.

"No, really?" the demon winced as he was lowered onto his bed. "Thanks for the newsflash, I hadn’t noticed." The vampire looked towards the room’s fridge. "Some blood?"

"Sure." Gwen hurried over to the fridge. "Cow’s blood okay?"

"Yeah." After nodding his thanks, the vampire tore open the packet and began hungrily drinking.

Anxious to look at anything but the feeding demon, Gwen turned towards Connor. Noticing the kid was busily inspecting a hefty tome, she stepped towards him. "That the book?"

Connor glanced up at her. "Yeah, I’m trying to work out what it says." The youth began reading from the book, his words alien and arcane. Gwen saw Groo’s eyes widen in horror and heard Angel yell in alarm.

And then nothing.

* * *

"Here’s the plan." Xander looked around the railway station café they were occupying in an attempt to avoid any possible bugs or surveillance. "Katrina, Martina, and Petra will be going in undercover as chamber-maids. Katrina," he nodded towards the former street waif, "will unlock the fire escape here." He pointed at the hotel plan. "Allowing June, Tea, Neelam, Salma, and Milla to get in. Martina and Petra will be dealing with the Order’s internal security. Meanwhile Ruby and I will be signing in as a honeymoon couple-."

"It’s my dream come true," Ruby cooed breathlessly. "And I want wedding presents!"

Xander rolled his eye at the giggles that ran through the girls. "Slayers," he muttered before raising his voice. "Shannon, Alex, and Natasha will be outside the front door with Robin playing his girls," he allowed himself a smirk, "to his pimp-daddy."

"Still say it’s racial stereo-typing," the former principal grunted.

"This is all going to cause a big disturbance," Salma, a curvy, olive-skinned Brazilian in her late teens, pointed out.

"Yep," Xander nodded. "That’s why Werewolf Oz will be running amok through downtown Prague. Now," he leaned forward, towards his audience, "any questions?"

* * *

"Shit," Faith grumbled. "You’d think they’d at least fasten us to their poles and carry us in."

Her fellow Slayers stared at her in disbelief. After a second, Kennedy spoke. "You’re joking right?"

"Hey, this is my first time captured by a tribe of cannibals," Faith looked around her tropical surroundings. "I’m kinda jonesing for the full experience."

"You’re nuts," Rona commented.

"I resent that!" Faith exclaimed. "My prison shrink told me I was making great strides to mental health!"

"Uh, uh," Kennedy sounded unconvinced. "Was this before or after you beat his ass?"

"I’m insulted," Faith protested. "I just broke his thumb, and that was the first shrink on his first visit when he tried to touch my ass."

"Makes all the difference," Kennedy scoffed.

"Bite me," Faith shot back.

"Faith," Vi had a pained expression. "Cannibals remember. Try not to encourage them."

"What?" Faith smirked at the tribesmen flanking them. "They seem like a friendly bunch. And," she winked lewdly at her friends, "from what I’ve seen under their loin-cloths I might come back for a holiday. A whole tribe to myself, oh the possibilities."

"You’re disgusting," Kennedy accused.

"Yep," Faith cheerfully agreed. "But at least I ain’t boring." Faith fell silent as they entered the village, noting the crowds watching them, looks of curiosity on the onlookers’ faces, and the cone-shaped mud and twig huts. And the cauldrons in the centre of the village, which was a little worrying. "Damn," she muttered. Maybe this had been a mistake.

* * *

Chamuska looked up from his reciting of the tribal folklore, conscious of the excitement crackling in the air. "Precious ones," he smiled at the tribe’s children sat at his feet, waiting expectantly for him to continue. Instead he rose, old joints creaking. "I have other matters to attend to." His smile widened at the chorus of disappointment that greeted his words. "Now then little warriors and little women. I’ll be back soon," he promised.

His pulse quickened as he entered the village meeting place and saw the four foreign beauties corralled there by the tribe’s excited-looking warriors. All of them had the sleek build of athletes but while three of them warily watched the spearmen surrounding them, the fourth stood with an uncaring air.

"Could it be," he croaked through suddenly drying lips as he recognised the quartet. Gathering his courage, he pushed through the crowd of warriors. "Faith!" he bellowed the young woman’s name.

The woman turned towards him, a quizzical expression on her face. "That’s me, hon. And how in the hell do you speak English?"

Chamuska smiled mysteriously. "I don’t," he turned to the hunting party leader. "Untie them," he ordered.

The hunter’s face blanched at being ordered by his tribal shaman but shook his head. "They are healthy women, will bear the tribe many fine children!"

"No!" he shouted back. "They have a far greater purpose!"

"What ya talking about?"

Chamuska turned back to Faith, surprised that she would dare to interrupt men. Deciding her culture must be very different to his, he pointed at the bonds around the beauty’s wrists. "I was telling them to unfasten you."

"Oh." His eyes widened when the raven-haired woman forced her wrists apart, snapping the ropes. "Is that all?" Even as he gaped in awe at the young woman’s power, the tribe’s warriors hurried forward, their spears probing. "You want me to shove that spear up your ass, boy?" Faith drawled.

"No! Wait!" Chamuska hurried forward to stand beside Faith. "They are the Chosen!" The tribesmen immediately dropped to their knees, their faces pressing into the grass.

"Well finally!" Faith exulted before glancing at her three fellow amazons. "I told ya all that once they noticed my hotness they’d be on their knees. Although usually I don’t mean literally."

Chamuska stared at the brunette. He understood the words but not the gibberish she was saying. Deciding the language must have changed since the days of the prophecy, he grabbed the Chosen’s forearm. "Come with me!" he ordered.

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Damn!" she growled. "Don’t think I’m not grateful. But your wrinkly ass ain’t dragging me to no cave. You dig?"

Again Chamuska was more than a little confused by the young woman’s words. "The reason why you are here is over here!"

The young woman exchanged looks with her companions. "In that case, lead on MacDuff."

"My name is Chamuska not MacDuff," he stiffly corrected.

Faith snorted. "My mistake. Lead on, Chamuska."

After a nod to his fellow tribesmen, he guided the four foreign amazons through the suddenly hushed village and to the caves situated at the rear. The Chosen followed him inside the caves only to stop dead. "Oh my god!" exclaimed the red-head.

"I…it’s," Faith reached up to stroke one of the four portraits decorating the cave walls. "Us."

"Really?" he commented. "I hadn’t noticed." Swallowing slightly under the Chosen’s collective glare, he continued. "Many centuries ago, legend has it a wizened old woman came here and told us that three warriors of the light would come here, led by another woman, once evil, but now a champion of good, named Faith. She did a spell that would allow us to understand your language when you came and put your likeness on the walls here," he glanced at their surroundings, "and ensure that the pictures would never fade, serving as a reminder of our duty. Since that time, my tribe has guarded this." He reached into the darkness. The book the witch had placed there centuries ago appeared in his hand. "And now it is yours."

Faith stared at the book for a long moment before taking the leather-bound volume. "This witch, what was her name?" the brunette warrior asked.

"She called herself Willow."

"What!" The other three girls screamed, in contrast Faith just nodded.

"Kinda figured it had to be. That much power." The girl glanced at him. "Thanks wise guy." Chamuska nodded before heading towards the entrance. "You not staying?"

Chamuska turned back to the Chosen. "No," he replied. "Willow left instructions that the book should only be read in the presence of the four." He smiled as he remembered something else. "The wise woman also said to believe in yourself and him."

The brunette looked confused. "What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "That’s all she said."

* * *

Faith stared after the wizened man for a second, mulling over his words before shaking her head reaching for the back. She turned to Kennedy when the other Slayer grabbed her wrist. "Yeah?"

Red’s girl-friend bit her bottom lip at Faith’s tone but to her credit held steady. "What if it’s a trap? I mean, Willow here?"

"Look at the portraits," she pointed at the cavern paintings. "Red knew we were gonna be here. She trusted us. Time to trust her." Opening the book, she began to read from it, the arcane words printed there for some reason making sense. Suddenly a bright light enveloped her.

* * *

"Take a right here," the Immortal instructed.

Buffy looked around their surroundings, a deserted subway tunnel, the stench of oil heavy in the air. "What I don’t understand," she commented as she entered an unused workmen’s tunnel. "How can these directions," she ducked beneath an over-hanging pipe, perspiring slightly at the scalding heat. "Be so accurate?"

Her Watcher and lover shrugged. "The prophecy perhaps?"

"What if it’s a trap?" Michelle queried.

Buffy chuckled. "Then if they’re really lucky they’ll live to regret it."

"We’re here," the Immortal announced.

Buffy looked around. They were in a dead end. "Where’s here?"

"According to this," Buffy’s eyes widened when her boy-friend took a breath and reached into the brick wall and pulled out a book, "the next piece of the puzzle." The Italian opened the book, and shook his head. "I can’t read this." He passed her the book. "See if you can."

Taking a breath, she opened the book, and squinted. For some reason, the words inside made a strange sense. Somehow compelled, she began to read. Suddenly the world exploded in light.

Oz glanced at his watch, his lycanthrope enhanced senses allowing him to see through the shadows of the alley and read its face. Fifteen minutes until Xander’s plan called for him to go into action.

"Following a Harris plan," he shook his head and chuckled. "Neighbourhood’s gone to hell." Smiling to himself, he settled down to wait.

* * *

Katrina joined her fellow Czech Slayers in hurriedly changing into their chambermaid outfits in the female locker room, the room’s starkness a startling contrast to the hotel’s luxurious public face. Her heart dropped when the dressing room door swung open to reveal a thickly-built, formidable-looking woman in her late forties wearing a supervisor’s uniform. The hotel employee’s eyes widened. "Who are you girls!" she shrilled. "You’re not staf-!"

"Hell!" Katrina cursed as the middle-aged woman backed away from them. Leaping over a bench, she grabbed a hold of the woman around her collar and yanked her back in, looping her arm around the supervisor’s in a chokehold and squeezing until the woman passed out, slumping into her arms.

"What are we going to do with her?" Petra hissed, the blonde’s ocean blue eyes fixed on the unconscious woman.

Katrina looked around, momentarily at a loss and conscious that precious seconds were ticking away. She grinned as inspiration struck. "In the lockers," she replied. "Here," she passed the unconscious body to Martina, "hold her." She crouched by the nearest locker, squinting as she stared at the door’s lock. She smiled as she realised how it worked. A few seconds later and the door swung open. "Here," she nodded to Martina, "put her in there."

Martina looked from her to the narrow locker space and back again. "She’ll never fit in there," her fellow Slayer hissed.

Pushing away her own misgivings, the older woman had some heft, Katrina grabbed hold of the supervisor’s meaty arms. "Yes, she will," she argued even as she struggled to stuff the body into the locker, thanking the powers that be for her Slayer strength. "See," she wiped away at the sweat beading from her forehead. "Easy."

"Great," Martina commented archly. "And how do we lock it again?"

Katrina groaned. Putting her back against the door, she forced the over-stuffed locker shut. "Lock it," she ordered. Once the supervisor was imprisoned, she looked expectantly at her companions. "Are you ready?" her two fellow Slayers nodded. "Let’s go and good luck."

* * *

"What do you mean you have no record of our booking?"

Hannah’s practiced smile slipped. The one-eyed man’s anger as he glared at her from the other side of the reception desk was intimidating to say the least. There was something dangerous about the man that made her very glad when the diminutive red-head accompanying the enraged visitor tugged on his arm. "Calm down Alex," the red-head pleaded.

"Calm down," Hannah heaved a relieved sigh when Alex’s glare switched from her to her companion. "This is our honeymoon!" the man growled. "It’s supposed to be special!"

The red-head’s green eyes turned stony. "Being here with me isn’t special is it?"

"Honey," Hannah hid a triumphant smirk at the man’s sudden paling, "that’s not what I meant!" Alex raised his hands in a placating gesture.

Relieved that the couple’s attention had turned on one another, Hannah took a second to shake her head. "Americans," she muttered.

* * *

Katrina watched from behind a white-washed pillar as a porter entered the third floor elevator, the door soundlessly sliding shut behind the hotel worker. Satisfied the coast was clear, she hurried over to the fire escape, forced the door open, and ushered her fellow Slayers inside. That accomplished, she sent Xander a page indicating her first part of the mission was completed before turning to her companions. "Stage two, now."

* * *

"But, dear," Xander broke off from his staged argument at the tell-tale vibration of his pager. After a discreet look and sending of a receipt page to Katrina, and another page to Wood, he continued with his ever more heated conversation.

* * *

Wood groaned as Xander’s page went off. He glanced in the window of the dress shop opposite and winced at his attire of Panama hat, gaudy shirt that looked like he’d vomited on himself, skin-tight leather pants, multiple medallions around his neck, and a glittering ring on every finger. For a man who preferred conservative dress, his disguise was a nightmare. He was definitely going to kill Harris for this. Whoever told Harris he had a sense of humour had a lot to answer for.

Not that, he looked towards his trio of uncomfortable companions, the Slayers had got off any lighter. Dressed in black minis so short they were better described as belts, two sizes too small crop tops that had them shivering in Prague’s cold night air, and caked in make-up, there could be no doubt as to their supposed trade. "Let’s go."

Once across the busy main street, Wood led his ‘girls’ across the busy street and approached The Grand’s gleaming entrance and its bullet-headed, barn-sized doorman. "Hey man!" Wood whooped even as he felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. "Open the doors ‘cause Ramrod Robbie!" the name was Xander’s invention of course, "and his girls are here and ready to P-A-R-T-Y!"

After a distasteful look at him and a lingering, lustful, one at the three Slayers, the tuxedoed doorman shook his head. "I’m afraid you can’t come in sir."

Wood threw his hands out to the side. "Is it ‘cause I is black?" he queried angrily. Might as well put all those torturous hours forced to watch Ali G repeats with Faith to good use.

* * *

Petra took a breath as she and Martina stopped outside the hotel room holding the concealed entrance to the Orders Headquarters. According to Council Intelligence the room was permanently occupied by a trio of vampires.

Three vampires, Petra shoved the laundry cart forward. It sounded easy enough, but Council intelligence had been wrong before. And the pressure of working with one of the Scoobies weighed heavy, she didn’t want to foul up, disappoint one of the Council legends. "Are we ready?" she nodded at Martina’s question. Her friend knocked on the door. "Laundry service!"

"Come in!" barked a Afrikaans voice. After a quick exchange of nervous looks, they obeyed.

The room they entered was a simple but comfortable-looking affair. Its most telling feature were its securely shut drapes, cutting out any possibility of light. The room’s three vampires were a pair of hard-faced men and an attractive but haughty-looking woman. "Laundry service was here just a hour ago," the woman commented.

"Yes," Petra nodded, watching out of the corner of the eye as her fellow Slayer moved to flank the cart. "But this is," she smiled as she reached under the cart and pulled out a crossbow. "A special delivery."

The vampires’ eyes all widened. Petra sent a bolt through the nearest vampire’s heart, but before she could re-aim, the female was on her.

Petra grunted when the demon’s fist smashed into her nose, splattering it into her face, the knowledge that Slayer healing would soon fix the problem scant comfort against the pain. Forcing herself to ignore the blood pumping down her face, she ducked the vampire’s follow-up right to slam a crossbow bolt home.

"Are you alright Petra?" Martina queried.

Petra nodded. Already the blood loss was slowing, her Slayer healing kicking in. "I’m fine," she pulled out her pager with a beaming flourish. They’d done it, they’d secured the entrance.

* * *

Xander nodded as Petra’s page came in, just seconds after Katrina’s second confirming her team had dealt with the hotel’s normal, human, internal security. After sending a quick acknowledgment, he fired off successive pages to Wood and Oz.

* * *

Feeling the vibration of his pager, Wood stepped into the arguing doorman’s space and smiled apologetically. "Sorry about this," he drove a hard knee into the muscleman’s groin.

The man’s eyes crossed and he began to double up only to be grabbed around his gorilla-thick neck and quickly choked into unconsciousness by one of Wood’s Slayers. The girl looked up at him as she eased the man to the slick-wet pavement, an anticipatory gleam in her eyes. "It’s time?"

"It’s time," Wood confirmed, resisting temptation to shake his head. He just loved it when Slayers fought his battles for him. Made him feel like an extra in a Spice Girls’ video.

* * *

Oz’s eyebrow arched at his page. "Showtime." He sighed as he realised it meant losing yet another set of clothes. "Wonder if Council employment comes with a clothes allowance?" he chuckled to himself. He would have to talk to his union rep.

For a few seconds he just stood there, shivering in the cold air. Then he felt it begin. The savage fury pumped through his veins, his muscles contorting, swelling from its primal call. He growled as golden brown hair began sprouting all over his body and he began to feel himself fill with an unimaginable power, his five senses suddenly far sharper than they were just seconds ago.

He burst out of the alley with an earth-shaking roar, tearing into the centre of down-town Prague. Ripping a street lamp out of the pavement, fragments of flags hitting him as he did so, he flung his makeshift over the cars racing past and through the window of the clothes shop opposite.

His diversion had begun.

* * *

"Harris!"

Xander glanced towards the hotel entrance. Even in this stressful moment he couldn’t resist a snigger at Wood’s shout. "Let’s go."

Angel blinked his way to consciousness. His stomach constricted with fear as he remembered his son and their companions only to relax when a quick glance confirmed that they were likewise battling their way awake.

The next thing he noticed was their surroundings. Somehow they’d been transported to a lush, green forest a million miles away from chilly, dreary Moscow. It was a puzzling although definite improvement. "Where are we?" Groo demanded.

"Well Toto," Gwen put in, "we’re not in Kansas anymore that’s for damn sure!"

Groo stared at Gwen, his broad brow creasing in confusion. "My name isn’t Toto. I thought we were in Moscow, not Kansas."

"It’s an Earth saying," Angel explained. "But the question’s a good one. Where are we?"

"Oh yeah?" he glanced at his very worried looking son. "I’ve got a better one. How was the spell book we used to get here turned to this?" Connor held up a sheet of paper.

In a second he was at his son’s side. "What is that?" he demanded.

"Gee pop," his son sarcastically drawled. "If it looks like a map, reads like a map, guess what? I’m going with map. The question is to where? I can’t read it."

Angel glared at Connor. "Where did you get your sense of humour?"

"Not from you, that’s for sure."

Angel chose to ignore Gwen’s muttered comment. Instead he snatched the map from Connor. Waving away his son’s protests he falteringly attempted to read the map. "It’s a mixture of Latin, Mayan, Sumerian, and Greek," he said, a combination of Liam’s tutoring and two and a half centuries’ spent researching and reading ancient texts enabling him to read the long-dead languages. "According to this, we’re heading for…." His voice trailed off. Unable to believe what he was translating, he re-read it. "It can’t be…" he whispered.

"Can’t be what dad?" his son queried.

He stared at the teen for a second, stunned by what he’d read. Shaking his head clear, he spoke. "The map," he looked at it again, " "it says it leads to Atlantis."

* * *

Faith groaned as she awoke, her head thumping. "Okay, which asshole slipped a Mickey in my drink?" Blinking her eyes clear, she looked around. The first thing she noticed was her friends crumpled around her, thankfully slowly awakening. "If I ever get my hands on that half-pint Ewok wannabe I’ll rip his fucking spleen out."

"You know what a Ewok is?"

Faith shot a stunned looking Rona an irritated glance. "Shit girl, child of the eighties remember? I know Star Wars." ‘Sides, Andy had dragged them all to a showing of eps 4 -6, some sort of bonding shit. She’d gone practically kicking and screaming but once there, she’d watched secretly enthralled by a fairy tale in space.

‘Course that was something no-body would ever find out. Or at least find out and live to tell anyone else her dark secret.

Returning her attention to their current predicament, Faith looked around. Her eyes widened as she realised the steaming jungle they had been in had been replaced by a leafy forest. "Where the fuck have you sent us, Red?"

"I….I," Faith glanced towards a wide-eyed, pale-faced Kennedy, "t…think I know."

"Oh yeah?" Faith arched a wary eyebrow. This did not look good. "Ya wanna share with the rest of the class?"

"The spell book turned to a map. A map that leads to Camelot."

Faith ignored the other girls’ gasps and her own shock to cover it with a joke. "Comealot uh? Sounds like a dirty movie I made back in the day."

Faith concealed a smirk at the others’ disgust. Best they all think of her as the ass-kicking, tough-talking trailer trash rather than discover the truth of the scared kid who used to steal books about mythical heroes and monsters from the local library while dreaming of her own white knight to rescue her from her own very real demons. There were some things about her past that nobody needed to know.

But a part of her, the scared little dreamer she’d once been, was wicked excited at the thought of seeing the legendary Arthurian castle. "So how do we get there?" she queried, unable to deny the slight note of eagerness in her otherwise nonchalant voice.

* * *

"Brrr," Buffy shivered as she looked around the icy tundra she and her companions had been teleported to. "I’m from California!" she protested through bluing lips. "The weather here isn’t natural!" She broke off in her rant to look at her companions, including her boyfriend who was staring boggle-eyed at what appeared to be a map. "What’s up?"

The Immortal looked up, his face as white as the snow surrounding them. "We’re in Midgard."

Buffy blinked. "Okay." She’d heard the word before, but for the life of her couldn’t think where. "Is that somewhere in South America?" she asked hopefully. She’d always wanted to go there. Although the snow made it unlikely.

"No," she turned to see Michelle shaking her head in apparent exasperation. "It was the realm of mankind in Norse mythology."

"Okay," Buffy said slowly. Now that hadn’t been on her list of places to visit. "Any idea how we got here?" Her question was met with shaking head and shrugging shoulder. Yeah, that was what she expected. Buffy squared her shoulders. "Right. First we find the Trident, then we worry about getting home."

* * *

"That’s not possible!" Gwen blurted out, eyes wide.

"Do you read Sumerian?" the thief just glared at him. "Guess you’ll have to take my -. Hey!" Angel scowled at his son when he snatched the map away.

As usual Connor ignored him. Instead his son stared at the map. "You’ve got to be wrong."

Angel sighed mockingly. "A son doubting his father. Oh, the pain."

Connor briefly looked up from the map to glower at him. Darla’s son opened his mouth but was beaten to it by a puzzled-sounding Groo. "What is this Atlantis?"

Angel dredged through his memories for an answer. "Atlantis is an earth legend. A lost civilisation theorised by an ancient philosopher called Plato. He said that 11,000 years ago there existed an island nation populated by a noble and powerful race reputed to be more advanced than even we are today. It ruled much of the known world but eventually its people were corrupted by their power. Angered by this, the gods sent a massive tidal wave and the island was swallowed up, its location, and history lost forever."

"Ah," understanding dawned in the Pylean champion’s eyes. "Like the City States of Tygra?" Not having a clue what Groo was talking about, but guessing it had to amount to more or less the same thing, Angel nodded. "We have such mighty legends in Pylea." The hybrid looked troubled. "But how do we find the Trident? And how do we return to your dimension?"

Angel groaned. Two very good questions, and questions he didn’t have a clue how to answer. Suddenly Connor spoke, his son’s voice taut. "Oh I’d say we’ve got bigger problems."

Angel looked around. "Oh boy, oh boy." Somehow he thought the natives weren’t friendly.

* * *

Buffy gritted her teeth against the whipping winds as she resolutely climbed up a craggy mountain-side. Her once smooth hands had been cut to ribbons by the razor-sharp rocks she clung to while it felt as if she was being flayed alive by the cold. "All in all, I don’t think I was cut out to be a Viking warrior queen," she muttered. "Shame, I bet I’d look really hot in all that fur."

Shoving aside her colossal fashion disappointment, Buffy glanced across at the man climbing beside her. "How are you doing?"

Her boyfriend shot her a strained smile. "This is far from the first mountain I’ve climbed, ma belle."

Buffy noticed that that reply didn’t come close to answering her question but let it lie. After all, it must be hard for her boyfriend, being the non-powered one.

Eventually, she reached the top, climbing over the edge. Reaching down, she grabbed hold of the Immortal’s Armani collar and lifted him onto the top. Next, she looked around. Her nose wrinkled at the sight that greeted her. The barren landscape looked exactly the same as the winter wasteland they’d just left behind. "Hardly worth the effort."

Buffy climbed off the ground, brushing the snow off her jeans as she did so. Boy was she glad she’d decided on jeans and sweatshirt rather than mini and crop-top. "Everybody okay?" Satisfied by the others’ nods, Buffy started across the tundra.

And stopped dead when two monstrous shapes erupted out of the snow in front of her. "Oh, not good."

* * *

His eyes shot open as something incredible hit his consciousness. Shrugging off his sleepiness, he struggled out of bed and hurriedly dressed, his heart thumping with the echo of what he’d just felt.

Once dressed, he made his way out of his quarters and down the spiral stairwell to the tiny courtyard beneath. He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him, throat filling with pride as it always did when he saw it. He could live to be a thousand and never tire of seeing it.

In the courtyard, a lithe girl moved through a complex series of sword positions that none of the many renowned warriors he knew could match. At his entry, the young woman stopped and curtseyed. "Greetings, Master."

He inclined his head slightly. "Greetings, Bronwyn. Your form is as immaculate as ever."

His charge’s cheeks reddened. "Thank you sir. Do you thing one of the knights might consent to train with me?"

He chuckled and tugged as his flowing, white beard, amused as always by the warrior-maiden’s enthusiasm. She was the third of these girls he’d had the honour of guiding. The first had lasted two years, the second three and a half, but by the grace of god, and with his brethren’s help Bronwyn would last much, much longer. "No promises my sweet child, but we’ll see." His expression sobered as he remembered the reason he was up at such an ungodly hour. "Keep on with your training," he instructed. "I must go and meet with our liege."

"Ah," Bronwyn nodded sagely. "I had wondered what disaster had dragged my learned teacher out of his bed at such an unlikely hour."

Shaking his head, he walked away with a chuckle. Such spirit, it was just a shame it was tempered with impudence. He guessed the best of the warrior-maidens would have that spirit. Somehow he found himself hoping that was so. "Good-bye."

A familiar sense of awe engulfed him as he entered his liege’s vast hall. The chamber’s high walls were adorned with weapons and the colourful banners of all the famed warriors that his master had drawn to him. Those celebrated knights themselves sat at the room’s table, champions all.

But none of them could match their leader, a mighty-thewed man with granite features, coal black eyes, and thunderous eyebrows. At his entrance, the king rose. "Greetings, Mage," the monarch rumbled.

He dropped to one knee. "Mi’ Lord. I have grave news. Something disturbing has entered our realm."

"You have sensed this?" the legendary king began to pace at his nod. Finally the ruler turned and looked at the assembled knights. "It seems that evil has dared to strike at the heart of Christendom! Knights of the Round Table, take to your horses and hunt it down!"

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