Veruca slipped through the door, offering everyone a quick smile as they glanced at her. "Sorry I'm late, guys," she said, crossing to the overlarge armchair where Andrew sat and squishing into it with him.

"Hey, watch it!" the blonde muttered, rubbing his arm where she'd bumped it as he shifted over to make a bit more room. Veruca's mouth twisted into a half grin and she mussed his short hair, murmuring an unrepentant apology. When she looked expectantly to Wesley, she found a bemused smile on his face rather than the scowl that may have been there several months before. Since most of the students had graduated and the White Hats had moved meetings to his apartment (which he'd outfitted for training) he had loosened up considerably. If he was aware of just how little influence he had over the group, he covered it well and played the part of gracious host with only token outrage.

"There's a new nest off of Abbeyfield," Giles, the true leader of the meetings, was explaining. "Reports of demon activity near Faintree and more in Bryant Park. Those are our most pressing concerns." He frowned, glancing again at the map spread on the large table before them. It was a complicated affair with dozens of semi-transparent layers with all supernatural activity marked and color-coded (along with all of Sunnydale's take-out and delivery restaurants). It was the librarian's opinion that Jonathon could have found many other things to do with his free time over the summer, but even he had to admit that the documentation had proved useful.

"We'll need to split up," he continued, casting his eyes over the assembled group. "You three take Faintree," he said, sweeping his finger across Veruca and Andrew, sandwiched companionably in their shared chair, and Larry, who occupied the next seat. "Jesse, Hana, Jonathon, you have Bryant."

"Are you coming with us tonight?" Larry asked, his tone light but his eyes trained carefully on the librarian.

"Buffy will need backup with the nest," the older man answered, his attention fixed again on the map.

"Which I will provide," Wesley cut in. He exchanged a glance with the other Englishman, who after a moment nodded.

"Of course," Giles offered diplomatically. "I'll go with your lot, then, Larry."

"You just don't want me to catch you with your headset off," Jonathon teased, pushing up from where he sat at Hana's feet, then turning to offer his girlfriend a hand. She beamed up at him as she accepted his assistance, humor in her dark eyes. It was an old joke amongst them, Giles' aversion to technology and Jonathon's love of it. Jonathon had spent the summer outfitting the White Hats with a nearly flawless communications system; the only shortcoming, he often lamented, was the easy access to the on/off switch, and how often the librarian took advantage of it.

"C'mon, Wes," Dawn offered her watcher, grinning as she started toward the door. "You can watch from the car."

Wesley didn't watch from the car; he stood against it and fired careful crossbow shots at the vampire swarm as his slayer rushed into the thick of them. Even he, reluctant with praise, had to admit she had come far in the year they had been in Sunnydale. The slaying was harder on an open Hellmouth and though he (along with the rest of the Council) still had some reservations about the existence of the White Hats, Buffy seemed to be thriving, and the town with her. Despite her attachments she was focused, acceptably disciplined, and exhibited a growing interest in her work.

She had a certain flair, too, he considered as he watched her dust two of her attackers in one smooth motion. The rest fled and she did not hesitate in pursuing them.

"Shouldn't be long," came her voice over his headset, clipped and a little breathless but cheerful.

"Let me know if you need backup," Wesley answered, already reaching through the open window of his car for the thermos of tea.

Dawn didn't bother answering; her attention had shifted to the trio in front of her. She took care of the slowest with a swing of her sword and his companion with a thrown stake, but the third was unusually fast, even for a Hellmouth vampire. They had crossed into the next cemetery before she began to pay attention to the paranoid bit of herself that always suspected she was being led into a trap. After a moment's consideration she slowed to a stop, watching as the last vampire sped away, lost almost immediately in the maze of headstones.

She sighed, loosening her grip on her stake. They got away often enough, but it frustrated her deeply every time -- a physical sensation, a pull in her chest. It was her nature to hunt vampires; they ran, she caught them, she killed them.

But no, she reminded herself with a little jolt. That was Buffy's job, and she was Dawn. She was just waiting to go home, though she found herself forgetting that more and more often as time wore on. The crackle in her ear brought her back to the present, and she shied gratefully away from the fruitless speculation.

"I lost the third," she reported succinctly. "On my way back. Maybe," she added quickly as she caught a whisper of movement to her left, behind one of the old mausoleums. She lapsed into silence and readied her stake again, extending her senses as she crept forward.

"Kind of with the lack of sneaky, aren't you?"

The voice was soft, gentle with humor, and it hit Dawn like a wave, rocking her back and pressing the air from her lungs. She had missed them, of course she missed them, but the everyday ache had been nothing like this. Longing twisted around her heart and it was all she could do not to run. The woman stepped out from where she was hidden before the slayer could decide whether her desire was to run forward or back.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, her eyebrows lifted, her head tilted questioningly to one side. A shy little smile moved over her full mouth, turning up one of the corners as she swayed closer.

"Tara?" Dawn whispered, her voice stronger than she expected, louder and more sure. She wondered at that, her mind turning around and around the quality of her voice and the tightness in her throat, the tingle in her nose and the sting creeping over her eyes.

The woman's smile grew, her whole face brightening. "You know me?" she asked, stepping nearer again. "And I know you. You're Buffy, right? The slayer?"

For one wild moment Dawn wholly believed in a future where she would unburden herself to this world's Tara, where she would be folded in her warm arms. She would be safe and understood, and then the witch would send her home, where she belonged. Something deeper than her heart was telling her how wonderful it would be just to turn everything over to this woman now.

"I'm the slayer," she whispered, staring into the other woman's blue eyes.

"You're crying," Tara observed tenderly, reaching out and touching Dawn's face, her thumb sweeping a gentle arc beneath one of her eyes, catching the lone tear. Dawn registered the oddness of the sensation a moment before the other woman's eyes darkened and her mouth stretched into a full grin. Her fingers were cold, pale, and Tara had always been everything warm and full of light.

"I love it when they cry," Tara added, her fingers twisted in the slayer's brown hair, wrenching her head aside to bare her neck. With a snarl her face changed, her forehead wrinkling and her teeth glinting long and deadly in the dim light.

Dawn wrenched free, her fist slamming into the vampire's face. Rather than put out at losing an easy meal, Tara seemed satisfied as she crouched, waiting a moment for her next attack opportunity. Her first kick landed solidly and sent Dawn sprawling against a headstone, her eyes wide with the sudden pain and surprise. The slayer sprang back up, her stake lifted, but she hesitated.

"Get out of here," she said. "Leave this town and never come back. Please." Then she turned and sprinted off, running as hard as she could, willing her legs to work ever faster. She was quick enough that she could not have heard Tara's reply, if there had been one. With any luck she would never find out what became of the vampire.

Wesley saw his slayer tearing across the open field toward him and straightened up suddenly, fumbling his thermos closed and reaching for the crossbow he'd set on the hood of the car. "You found more?" he asked anxiously when she ground to an abrupt halt in front of him. "They're chasing you?"

"No," she answered, blinking, giving him that look -- the one that said he was being old or British or foolish, or (more often) all three. Then she looked away, circling around the car and climbing in, leaving her watcher to gather his things. He scooped them up quickly, setting them in the back seat and then climbing in the front and starting the car.

"Well?" he prompted, half turned in his seat to face her as the car coughed and idled.

"The last one got away," she said, lifting one shoulder in a little shrug. "I looked around but I couldn't find it."

Wesley, mistaking her brooding stare out the window, reached over to rest an awkward hand on her shoulder. "Buffy," he said gently, "sometimes they get away. You've done more than enough for tonight, and you shouldn't beat yourself up."

"Thanks," Dawn whispered, her eyes never leaving the window.

* * * * *

Olivia paused outside of the library, running a hand over her hair and ignoring the teenage boy halfway down the hall who had stopped to gawk. Even the principal had stared when she breezed past him, as if he'd never seen leather before. She rolled her eyes at the thought and pushed through the doors.

Giles, who had been stamping new books in the office, paused halfway between the ink pad and the next volume as he heard the tap of heels in the main room. He pushed his chair back, letting the wheels carry him the few feet to the door. When he caught sight of Olivia he stood quickly, running a hand back through his hair and stepping into the main room.

"Ripper," she observed, noting with veiled amusement the tightening of his mouth. For three months she had called him nothing but Ripper, and he still had not said anything about how it annoyed him. Not that it would have stopped her.

"Olivia, hello," he said. He glanced down and suddenly remembered that he was still holding the library stamp. He set it aside, giving her a little smile. "New book?" he asked, nodding toward the volume dangling casually from her hand.

"Yes," Olivia answered succinctly, plopping the book on the counter but watching his hand as it lifted to rub the back of his neck, watching his fingers curl and drift through the hair there; it was getting a little long, beginning to curl boyishly against the vulnerable nape -- "It has a bit more about ascension in it," she continued, her eyes refocusing on his face. "I didn't read it all, it's just as boring as the rest of the lot, but it may be useful."

"Yes, quite," he assured her, reaching for the book and flipping it open. His face had brightened and the smile lingered as he flipped through the pages, his strong fingers ghosting over the print, touching pictures, passages that caught his eye. He remembered himself after a moment and closed it politely. "This should be most useful. I'll give it to Daniel this evening."

"Why Daniel?" the sorceress asked, watching him closely. He, caught off-guard by the question (and, as always, her regard), blinked and touched the edge of his glasses.

"He's helping me with research."

"What about the rest of them?" she pushed. "What about Buffy? Doesn't she research?"

"Well, yes," he temporized, searching her eyes, trying to fathom the direction she was taking. "You know that. Everyone researches."

"Even me?" she added his unspoken thought, smirking. "Buffy's graduated now. A slayer isn't just fighting ability."

He frowned openly now, his arms folding across his chest. "I think I know quite well what a slayer is and isn't," he pointed out irritably. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm just saying she could use a little guidance now and again, a little credit," Olivia answered, her voice growing sharper. "She looks to you for it, not Wesley. Not that I should have expected you to notice." She pushed suddenly back from the counter and turned on her heel. She strode out, leaving the librarian blinking at the swinging door. She had been doing that for three months as well, and he'd yet to figure it out. He shook his head and grabbed the new book and the stamp, returning to his work.

* * * * *

Wesley had spared none of the Council's money in requisitioning books about ascension. A few he had sent over from England, though most he had taken from Giles' library. The older man put up with the thievery with ill but silent humor, though he put his foot down when the watcher began choosing volumes from his private collection. The rest were admittedly rightful property of the Council, and so weren't worth the effort to keep.

And, Giles reflected as he watched a cup slip from Andrew's hands and fall on one of Wesley's elegant Oriental rugs, it was nice to have the White Hats meet at the watcher's apartment. Very nice indeed.

"Sorry," Andrew said with a wince, glancing to the frowning watcher and half-heartedly mopping at the liquid he'd spilled.

"Oh, here, let me," Wesley said after a moment, snatching the paper towels from the blonde and crouching next to the mess to clean it properly.

"Here," Veruca said, passing a new cup off to Andrew and kneeling in his place, across from the dark-haired Englishman. She touched his wrist, stilling his ineffectual blotting. "You're going to grind it in," she pointed out quietly, her eyes lifting from beneath heavy lashes, her chin yet tipped down. "Do you have a towel or a rag or something?"

Across the room, Hana nudged the slayer and tilted her head subtly toward the stammering watcher and the werewolf across from him. Dawn watched them for a moment, then grinned and offered her friend a shrug. She pulled a book down from the shelf and squinted at the worn lettering on its cracking cover.

"I think this is it," she said, returning to the seat she'd claimed next to Giles and handing him the volume. He balanced it carefully on the arm of his chair and flipped it open, perusing the pages. Finally he stopped on one and read it twice before pushing his glasses hastily on and scanning it again.

"This confirms it, then," he said, loudly enough for the entire room to hear him. Andrew looked up from where he was reading over a slightly annoyed Larry's shoulder, Hana shifted guiltily in Jonathon's lap, handing a book back to him, and Daniel, Jesse, and Veruca broke off their low conference with Wesley.

"The ritual, as we know, requires the demon to consume a significant number of people to complete its transformation," Giles continued once the room was silent. "The Sunnydale bicentennial will take place this coming February, and plans for the celebration have been underway since last winter. I expect the mayor will attempt to ascend then. He needs to complete a number of rituals and acquire a number of items outlined in the Books of Ascension." He pointed to the stack of volumes on the end table next to his chair. "Among them is the Box of Gavroc, which will render him indestructible for one hundred days prior to his ascension."

"Indestructible?" Andrew cut in. "As in, we can't kill him?"

"Yes," Giles answered dryly. "We can only hope he doesn't already have the Box in his possession. Once he does, we have no way of defeating him."

"So we should do it now," Dawn said quietly. "He's not human."

"Unfortunately he is Sunnydale's mayor," Giles pointed out. "It will be most difficult to assassinate him." He lifted a hand to forestall the argument welling up in the group. "Of course we'll pursue this option, but we must keep researching. There may be a way to reverse the power of Gavroc or destroy it or some such."

"Can we get lunch now?" Andrew asked.

Veruca laughed quietly, nudging Wesley's arm. "Come on, watcher," she teased. "Feed your starving troops?"

"I may be able to find something in the kitchen," he said with an uncharacteristically broad grin. "Come along, you lot."

Dawn fell in behind the White Hats as they trooped toward the kitchen. Giles, who had remained seated, glanced up at her as she neared the door.

"Buffy?" he called softly. She glanced back at him; Daniel, who had also lingered near the back of the pack, gave her hand a quick squeeze and slipped out, leaving them alone.

"Yeah?" Dawn asked, turning fully back to him. He stood then, pulling his glasses off and staring down at them. He pushed them back on after a moment, looking to her.

"I wanted to, ah, thank you. For how hard you've been working lately," he said awkwardly.

"I'm the slayer," she answered automatically, a little shrug moving her shoulders. "A White Hat. It's what we do."

"I know," Giles said quietly. "I still imagine it's -- difficult for you." He stepped closer, glancing to the open door, his voice dropping again as he rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Thank you, Dawn." Their eyes locked for a moment and then he was gone, moving past her to the kitchen.

* * * * *

"Delivery for a Ms. Maclay," a voice called from the doorway.

Tara looked up from her latest distraction, a twenty-something redhead dangling by her delicate wrists from the chains attached high on the stone wall. "It's for me," Tara said, one side of her mouth lifting in a little smirk. She turned away from the girl's listless eyes and wove toward the doorway, brushing back the long sweep of her blonde hair.

"Bring it down," she commanded. At once there was a flurry of activity from the small clutch of vampires dallying in this lower room. They were newly-risen, she noted with veiled disgust. Siring new members for her cadre was a necessary evil; she preferred those she'd already trained and trusted. The rest had an annoying habit of trying to take on the White Hats and failing miserably. They were good for carrying things, however, and she smiled openly as they shifted the heavy, bulky delivery down the stairs to the center of the room.

Tara waited until they'd settled it carefully on the floor, then circled it slowly. It was an enormous rock, taller than she; all that was visible of the sword sunk into it was an ornate hilt. She reached out and slid her fingers along its cool gilding, admiring the gentle swirls of detail it depicted.

"It's perfect," she said to the waiting messenger.

"Excellent," he said with a smile. "Mayor Wilkins expects his books within two days. He is so hoping you aren't killed like the last two."

"Tell him not to worry," Tara said simply. When the full attention of her blue eyes turned at last to him he bowed quickly and started toward the exit. Though she watched him closely she let him go; only when his shadow darkened the doorway again did she glance to her expectant cadre.

"We must get this cleaned up," she said. "We'll have guests tomorrow night."

* * * * *

"Your first field observation," Giles prompted as he handed Wesley a second glass of brandy.

"Cheers," the watcher said, sipping the liquor and settling back, his slender fingers wrapped loosely around the glass. "It was a Si'ilx demon. Impressive-looking but - "

"Deeply stupid," the older man agreed, his eyes twinkling with humor. "Popular for first observations." He propped one ankle on the opposite knee, loosening the knot of his tie a bit more and scrubbing a hand back through his hair. The Englishmen had spent all day training and researching, and had finally retired to Giles' apartment to share a bottle of good brandy and stories from their earlier days with the Council.

"It started raining, and the poor beast got all turned around. Ended up milling about in the street, where it slipped on its own slime and got run over by a speeding motorist," Wesley explained, chuckling. "The slayer looked altogether put out."

Giles laughed aloud, shaking his head. "I should imagine."

A sudden, sharp scream from outside drew both men's attention. They stared at the door, still for a moment. When it was repeated they rose as one, gathering stakes and holy water and crosses. The sound had been disconcertingly thin and high, not a woman's but a child's. Other inhabitants of Sunnydale knew better than to answer their neighbors' sounds of distress, but the White Hats had an unspoken second scream policy.

Giles held up a hand to stop Wesley just beside the door, shielded yet by the wall. The sounds of the struggle were near; the screams were muffled, though now and again a frightened sob broke free. Rising over that was laughter, the gleeful, terrifying joy of two vampires. The librarian pulled the door open, sprinting up the few steps into the courtyard with the watcher hard on his heels.

They had not been visible from the window, but as soon as the door swung open at least a dozen vampires descended, swarming toward the two men. The men's path back was cut off and though their stakes and holy water marked more than one of the creatures, their weapons did little good after solid blows to the head. Giles saw Wesley fall, and joined him in darkness a moment later.

* * * * *

Dawn wondered absently if she had ever seen anyone so patently bored as Olivia, and she knew the moment would be burned forever in her brain. Any time she thought of boredom she would not remember endless hours of class and her fellow students snoring or endless hours of research. She would think instead of Olivia's face at that exact time, the utter lack of amusement in her half-glazed eyes, the frustration and anger lurking behind her still expression.

With Olivia's magical expertise and their combined athleticism they had snuck into the mayor's office, hoping to find out more about the Box of Gavroc and whether or not the mayor had it. Dawn wasn't altogether certain their presence was a secret, but for the past two hours no one had acknowledged it. They had been wedged uncomfortably in an air vent, watching and listening from high on the inner office wall.

Mayor Wilkins, Dawn had decided, was an exceedingly nice guy, especially for being a crazed demon bent on world destruction. He had gone about a great deal of boring city business all evening; the slayer had felt the sun set and yet they lingered, watching and waiting.

The next arrival in the office brought Dawn's attention quickly away from her meandering thoughts. She stiffened, and beside her the sorceress moved for the first time in twenty minutes, her eyes flicking over the slayer's face. The man who stepped in was a vampire, but they had already discovered the mayor had many undead associates.

"At last!" Wilkins exclaimed, grinning hugely and clapping his hands together. "I see my faith in your kind was not altogether misplaced after all."

The vampire smirked, shifting the bundle from beneath his arm and offering it to the politician. It was a stack of books. Olivia frowned as Dawn's fingers dug harder into her arm.

"Those are Giles' books," she hissed, the whisper barely enough to carry to the sorceress over the hum of the cooling system. "The ones we got from that demon at the bank." Olivia's face darkened and Dawn grabbed her arm again a moment before she began slithering back down the air vent.

"If something happened to him and we get caught here," Dawn warned, leaving unspoken the possibilities. Her heart twisted as her eyes locked with Olivia's, which were dark and luminous with anger in the lack-light.

"Not if," she growled, but would say no more as she started carefully back the way they had come.

* * * * *

She swam in and out of consciousness. It was better out, she had decided, but her mind had entirely slipped her grasp. She was at the mercy of it, of her body whose sharp pains often woke her from blissful non-awareness, of the blonde vampire and her penchant for cruelty. She had ceased trying to understand or escape or even exist and now she dangled from her shattered wrists, waiting and waiting for death.

The new voice slid again into her ears. He had spoken to her before, this man crumpled down the wall from her. Only she had blinked and he was no longer curled on the floor. He was upright, freer in his chains than she, and she wondered at that. Wondered at the concept of freedom in chains, of what she would do if her feet ever fully touched the ground again, if --

"Are you awake?" the man croaked. She blinked again and his chains rustled. As he drew nearer she swung her eyes to him and focused with some effort. Bruises were blooming over his pretty face, and beneath his half-open shirt she could see more bruising, along with the angry red marks of someone's nails.

"We've got to get out of here," he said. He had a pleasant voice, though it was hoarse now. "Rupert, can you hear me?"

"My name isn't Rupert," she said quietly. Her own voice surprised her, rough and small, unused for days, and she tried to clear her throat.

Wesley jumped, his attention swinging to the redheaded girl a few yards from him. Until that moment she had been catatonic, entirely unresponsive. He had given up on her and shifted his efforts instead to the librarian. He, too, hadn't responded for some time now. They were currently the only three occupants of a large stone room, if one didn't count the statue squatting near the center.

Giles was a little ways from the statue, tied to a chair which faced it. His back was to Wesley, and all the watcher could see was the strain in his shoulders and bound wrists, and the expanse of bare neck his bowed head revealed.

"Ooh, everyone's awake!" sang a merry voice from the door. "How lovely." Tara stood at the top of the stairs, surveying her captives with a smug little smile. Giles stirred then, his head lifting with some effort, his shoulders squaring. He drew in one deep breath, his eyes moving dully to hers.

The vampire stepped gracefully down to the main floor. As she passed the table near the bottom of the stairs she plucked up a dagger and two vials of clear liquid. Wesley shrank against the wall, fighting the urge to be sick again. He had already watched the vampire torture the librarian once; he had felt a strange obligation, as though by witnessing the man's pain he could somehow lessen it, or at the least stand later testament to his strength, his heroism.

"Do you know what holy water feels like for a vampire?" Tara asked, halting in front of the librarian. She reached out and caught his face in her small, smooth fingers, tilting it gently up. "How do I complete the ritual?"

"You can't," he whispered, his voice thin but defiant. "It's a myth, a fairy story. Completely untrue."

"I was going to let you have salt in your wounds, but maybe we'll skip straight to the acid," Tara growled, tossing one of the vials aside with an angry gesture. She pointed imperiously toward the statue facing the man. It was a large demon, its stone face impassive, a sword sunk into its hard grey chest. "I have Acathla. It's n-not a myth. Now tell me how to free him so we can have a party. I'll let you be the first to sample hell."

She paused a moment, then shifted toward him, the point of the knife angled against his thigh. Her hair had fallen forward and shadowed her face, her down-turned eyes, and her full mouth. Her eyes lifted to his again, her eyebrows rising in entreaty. "P-please? P-pretty please?" she asked, but there was an intensity to her gaze and he found himself caught in it. He wanted to tell her suddenly; she was so sweet and shy and --

"No," he gasped, and she pressed on the knife, forcing it into his thigh. He tensed and jerked with the pain, and behind him he heard a whisper of movement from Wesley, a low groan of horror. He closed his eyes and so he was unprepared when the blade slid across his stomach, first almost pleasantly warm and then the wrenching pain as the cut opened.

He had always known he would die sooner or later. Each birthday now was a surprise, each year an unexpected gift. He had been fighting so long on an open Hellmouth, battling against a night that was not stoppable. He knew they could not do it; he knew in the end they would not win, but the faith of the White Hats buoyed him up. Their enthusiasm and the clean, innocent purity of their hope let him believe that each day they pressed the darkness back was worth the sacrifice.

He also knew he would tell Tara. She had read him the passage (his one willing thought as his over-trained mind worked mechanically through the translation, wrestled against his will with the problem of it, was that by some mercy of fate Wesley did not know the language), and he knew the way of it. He knew how she could free the demon that would bring the world into hell, and sooner or later his mind and tongue would slip from him and he would tell her. Perhaps he would even want the end; perhaps he even wanted it now.

Her palm stung across his face and his eyes snapped open. "You aren't listening to me," she said accusingly, setting the long knife against his throat. "You have one last chance, then I'm going to start on your friend there. You may not care for yourself, but maybe you care for him. Will he forgive you before he dies?"

"I hope they all forgive me," he whispered. He had hit another brief period of clarity, his senses aching and sharp, everything crystal-clear, as it had been just after she broke his hands. Tara's gentle face turned a fraction away at the noise beyond the door and he took advantage of every bit of slack he'd worked from the ropes. He threw himself against the blade, against the sure set of her wrist.

He wasn't certain at first whether or not it had worked; the cut was so clean that it did not yet ache. What he felt was the discomfort of the chair's hard back digging awkwardly into his spine as he rocked back. Then he tasted blood at the back of his throat, and as he coughed and choked slowly on it his vision faded again.

That was the longest moment, the one just after realization. The moment of remembering.

Wesley had always been easy to read. Beneath the frequent annoyance that his eyes displayed was the glow of pride and further still a glimmer of insecurity Giles knew well. It was hard to be a watcher, harder than slayers ever knew. It shattered you inside to watch people throw themselves willingly up against the fight and fail. It was a slow death, to watch and wait, to be thought good for only that.

Buffy. Oh how he had hoped and despaired at once when she walked in his door. How he had let himself believe for one small moment in the possibility of final victory, of the rise of light. And then there had been Dawn, and each time he saw her he reflected on the irony of that. He had never once forgotten who she was, had never missed one of her searching, longing looks. But once one has been a watcher, one's heart can never fully change. He could not ruin her strength by needing it too much. He could not allow anyone to become soft, not in a place so hard as Sunnydale.

He had let none of the White Hats go soft, if he could help it. He had pressed them all by being distant and British. By watching. He could do nothing more for them, though they were the children of his heart. The only he would ever have, now. They were dimming, each of the faces that he called to his mind, his thoughts slipping away like water.

And then there was Olivia, who he had not expected. She was like this moment, exactly like it, he decided. He was soaring, expanding beyond his body, slipping loose from his narrow boundaries. She was the warm breath on the nape of his neck, the fingers loosening his hair, the pressure around his heart, his eyes sliding slowly open. Yes, he would remember her exactly like this moment. Incandescent.

* * * * *

Dawn's lungs burned and she welcomed the discomfort, focusing in on it, making her mind and concentration sharp against it. She felt Olivia next to her, a dark and seething presence; the sorceress used magic to augment her speed, to keep up with the slayer's relentless pace, deferring the abuse her body should have suffered. They ran silently, Dawn following the Englishwoman's sudden changes in direction, so they flocked through town like birds or fish, perfectly attuned.

When they reached the run-down old mansion Dawn hurled herself without a second thought into a clutch of a dozen waiting vampires. As she fought, marking their hearts with stakes or wrenching their heads off, she could hear Wesley howling in the back of her mind about the chances she was taking, about the stupidity of challenging so many at once. But she was beyond that, aware in a way that transcended vision and hearing. With Olivia blazing through her own share of the undead, her hands crackling with magic and greying with ashes, they were soon sprinting through the twisting halls of the building. Olivia moved unerringly through the corridors and when they at last reached the heavy door to the dungeon room, she threw it off its hinges with a short gesture.

Dawn pushed forward as the door fell in. The sorceress was flagging slightly, her eyes distant for a moment as she gathered more power, and so the slayer was the first to register the tableau below them: The grey blur of a statue punctuated by a flash of metal - the hilt of a sword. The blonde sheen of the vampire's hair as it swung, her head twisting to regard the intruders. The white of her delicate hands covered suddenly in blood. Wesley's broken scream.

The slayer ignored the flight of stairs leading down to the floor. She set her hand against the railing and leapt smoothly over it, hitting the ground in a tuck and rolling forward to break the momentum of her fall. By the time she had regained her feet the vampire had released the knife and was backing away. There was a moment of indecision, and then the base animal instinct toward survival had her fleeing. The moment she turned away she dropped from Dawn's mind, the slayer's world narrowing to the figure slumped in the chair, the alarming rush of blood soaking his open shirt.

"Giles," she called out, slipping as she skidded around his chair, her shoes finding uncertain purchase in the growing pool of blood. "We're here, Giles, we're here," she said, snapping the ropes binding him with a single pull. She dragged his body down, kicking the chair away so she could lay him flat on the floor, her hands pressing urgently against his throat. "Listen to me, Giles, we're here, we're going to take you to a hospital and you're going to be okay. She cut you a little but you're going to be okay."

A shadow fell across them and she looked up into Olivia's face, into her glassy black eyes. She could feel the change in the sorceress, who was suddenly perfectly still. Olivia turned mechanically away from the two, her gaze falling on the statue. She advanced on it and Dawn shuddered, watching as she reached forward to grasp the hilt of the sword. It began to glow, power snaking electric down the hilt and the blade; as the light and pressure grew so did Olivia's scream, ringing high and inhuman in the room. It broke only when the knot of power and light she had forced into the stone figure exploded, flying outward with a shower of grey stone fragments, leaving the sorceress holding the still-glowing blade. As she turned fire erupted in the room, heat rolling across the stone walls and floor, beginning to consume.

"We've got to go, Giles," Dawn whispered, lifting the man's body in her arms. As she started toward the stairs her eyes fell on Wesley, and she was aware suddenly that he had been shouting. His face was blotched, streaked with tears, and she felt a wrench in her distant heart. She shifted her burden carefully, freeing one hand to grasp her watcher's chains and rip them from the wall. Then she turned back to the stairs, hurrying toward them.

Olivia had already gone and Dawn could feel the sorceress' dark presence moving through the house, could hear far-off screams and imagine the fire blossoming in distant rooms, razing the ancient manor. She had to get Giles out, had to get him to safety, to a hospital. The corridors were a blurred maze that she somehow threaded without error, her speed increasing as the front door neared. She had stopped caring whether Wesley was behind her. She wanted only to run, to get free of the house and its dangers; she wanted to run until the man in her arms began breathing again.

Halfway across the long lawn she faltered, falling to her knees, and she could not find the strength to rise again. She crouched next to him, her fingers touching his torn throat, her hands gripping his shoulders to wake him, her eyes aching with tears. Wesley, with the red-haired girl limp but breathing in his arms, stumbled out the door just in time to see Dawn give up. Finally she gathered the broken body to her chest, her arms folded like wings around him. And all the long hours the remote mansion burned at their backs she held him, a priestess bent over her ancient, deathless god.