Ma'at

Two nights ago, there were reports of bodies found in one of the motels. Three bodies found, one person missing. I’ve managed to get into the morgue now, and find that I knew the three dead men. They were friends of Riley. Giles has established that Riley is the one missing. I have a dreadful feeling I know who did this. And I might know where he is. I remember Parker. When Angelus was…disciplining…me, just before my leap from the tower, he brought me a present. Something else to teach me not to be unfaithful to him. Parker’s balls and dick. If he did that to someone who turned out to be a one-night stand, what will he do to Riley? I have to deal with this.

It’s the height of the afternoon, we have hours of sunlight to come, so I’m on my way to the mansion with Xander. I want Xander to stay outside while I look around, but he absolutely refuses. I’m worried for his safety, but if Riley is there, someone will need to get him out while I tackle Angel. Angelus. I shouldn’t need to remind myself who he is.

There isn’t a problem walking in – everyone seems to be sleeping, and the door isn’t locked. He’s so arrogant. One day, someone will just walk in and torch the place. Serve him right. I’ve thought about where to look. I think I really know the answer, but I try somewhere more pleasant first. Our – his – rooms.

They are empty. I’m turning to go when I see Xander staring at something on the bed. He’s gone as white as a sheet. One of my sheets, that is, not these blood red ones that my demon prefers. When I get there, I can see why. It’s a leather folder in which Angelus keeps his drawings. I’ve seen some of them before – innocent ones, not like the ones he baited us with when he first came back. But I’ve never seen anything like these. Xander moves to close the folder but I stop him. I sit down on the bed – my legs don’t seem quite so steady any more. There are dozens of drawings of the spate of deaths we’ve had recently, demon and human both. They are grotesque depictions of torn-off body parts, bodies with guts hanging out, heads with frozen expressions of agony and fear. And a great deal more.

They may be superb drawings, but they are very, very bad. The demon that did this, that *drew* what he had done, seems to be something entirely different than even the demon that tortured me only a few weeks ago. But there is worse. Much worse.

The top three drawings, the ones that caught Xander’s eye, are of me. Me, lying naked on a heap of body parts. The body parts were my friends. In one, I’m doing something appallingly personal; in another I’m welcoming someone outside the picture, someone who’s clearly looking at the picture. They are bad enough, but the third almost makes me puke. I’m rutting with Angelus on that heap of death, ecstasy all over my face. My hair is caught up in what seems to be Willow’s half-clenched fist, and Xander’s almost severed hand seems to be trying to caress my breast.

They are unbearably sick. Is this what he sees in his head? Is this what *Angel* used to see in his head? How could he bear it? No wonder he sometimes turned into Mr Broody Guy.

But Angelus has been tender with me, has been gentle. And until he found me with Spike, hasn’t actually tried to do me harm in a very long time. I’m almost sure that he wasn’t drawing like this before. Is he going back to the mad creature that terrorised us when Angel was first…lost? No. When Angel had his soul ripped out by me. I thought that level of insanity was gone for good, but it looks like here it is again. And I’m babbling in my head, because I don’t want to look at Xander, I don’t want to look at these drawings, and I definitely don’t want to look at the monstrosity that drew them.

Riley. I must focus on Riley. I bet he’s in one of the basements. This place has good, spacious basements. All the better for torturing people, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps, with luck, *he* won’t be there, only Riley. No, I never have that kind of luck. If he isn’t with Riley, he would be here, in these rooms. And I think that’s why I came here first. I wanted to see him. That was then.

*************

I have soldier boy chained to my wall. Unusually, I haven’t done that much with him yet. I’m still trying to decide. Oh, we’ve had a few games, some of which he sort of enjoyed, although he tried not to. He’s a virgin in one particular respect, I can vouch for that. He was, rather. Not any more.

I never thought he had much in the way of ba so so I’ve looked to remedying that. They’re a bit larger now. Well, swollen would perhaps be a better description. Stretched is good as well. He’s tried to tell himself he’s hated everything that I’ve done to him in that respect, but I’m too good at this. He may have hated it in his head – which was the whole purpose, really – but his body has been more… shall we say ambivalent? The more I hurt him, the more I can make him love it.

And he really did love-hate the times I’ve drunk from him. He’s got a lot of fang marks, some in his more delicate places. A few bruises here and there, such pretty colours. Again, I can see more colours in them than you can. But it’s really just been games so far. Games to get inside his head. I’ve got plenty of time with him. I’m not in a rush. He killed my minion in a way that was quite beyond the pale. Worse, he’s had his hands on my woman.

He never understood what she saw in Angel. Just occasionally, he couldn’t get it out of his head that she was a necrophiliac, screwing an animated corpse. It turned him on a bit, you know, but he never understood it. He’s understanding it now. I’m tempted to keep him with me for the long haul, spend years teaching him how pleasurable pain can be. It’s his pain and my pleasure now, but I can see by the crumbs of ecstasy I’ve given him that he’ll be an apt pupil. And just maybe, when I have the Slayer back where I want her, in my bed, I’ll need something – or someone – on whom I can vent all those things I won’t want to vent on her.

But could I keep him as my dirty little secret? No, I couldn’t. Not in this house. She would find out, and then there would be hell to pay. Somewhere else, perhaps? That might work. Somewhere well away from here.

Whilst I mull over whether to keep him or kill him, and how best to make him suffer for all his offences, I’m looking at one of the staves that he brought to town. It’s a very nasty, very cunning piece of work. It feels as if part of the mechanism is magic. That sort of greasy feel to it. As I’m trying to see how it works I hear someone coming down the stairs. I don’t need to ask who it is. I don’t need to look. It’s *her*. And the Harris stripling. When I turn around, she has a sword in her hand. He has a crossbow. He aims it at me – not that he’s fast enough to actually hit me – but she stops him. Her eyes are on Riley, and she’s curling her lip in disdain.

“Get Riley out of here and into the daylight – you might need the crossbow. I’ll take care of…other things.”

What does she mean ‘other things’? Am I just ‘other things’ now? And does she think that she can just waltz into here and take *my* plaything? Apparently yes. As I move to stop Harris, she lands a backhander to my jaw, and battle is joined. I throw the staff into a corner, though – I prefer that not to be part of the mix.

There’s a flurry of kicks and punches, and I’m definitely getting more than I’m giving. Seeing her again, I just want to hold her, feel her warmth next to me, take her up to our rooms and rediscover what we had before. I don’t want to hurt her – I’ve done enough of that already. Except in a good way, of course. I only want to contain her until she tires herself out, although that won’t be such an easy thing; she’s always had plenty of stamina. And she has the sword. There are a whole host of weapons down here, but I would almost certainly damage her badly if I used one. I w do do that.

She doesn’t seem to have quite the same scruples. I already have several dgashgashes to my arms as I try to fend off the sword. She is really, really serious about this. Her face is hard, her expression frozen, and she is radiating anger like the heat from a small nova. I have to get the sword off her. Maybe, if we are just down to normal hand-to-hand stuff, I can make her see sense. Make her *feel* sense. Okay, make her senses feel. She looks really, really hot, when she’s white with anger. And the scent of her is delicious. Rage, and lavender and contempt and Slayer and arousal.

I think it was the scent of her that distracted me. Either that, or the sight of Harris and soldier boy standing on the stairs, Harris trying to get a shot in with the crossbow, hampered by having to help soldier boy to stay upright. But I’m going with the scent. Because I suddenly feel the chill of cold steel sliding between my ribs. She has thrust so fiercely that the point of the sword is stuck fast in the wall behind me. The hilt is standing proud of my chest, just below my heart, and agonising pain rips through me, but I must get it out. I cannot move until I do. I throw myself forward, and feel the point free itself, but the pain that results is unspeakable. You won’t have any idea what it feels like to be impaled. It’s something I thought I was becoming rather too familiar with, but at this point, I don’t know what is to come.

She spots the staff in the corner of the room, just as I fall to my knees from the force of my effort to get the sword out of the wall. I grasp the hilt and brace myself to pull it out, but I’m not quick enough. She has snatched up the staff and goes for the kill. I can see it in her face, as the staff is thrust down with all her considerable strength, straight towards my heart, that most vulnerable organ that will now be the end of me. I suppose it was the end of me from the moment I laid eyes on the Slayer and loved her.

I wish a lot of things, and what I most wish right now is that, just once more, I’d got her into my bed. Just one more time to feel her rubbing that silken skin against me, like a cat in heat, to breathe in her perfume of desire, and to taste her sweetness. To make her happy.

They say your life passes in front of your eyes at the moment of death, and there certainly seems to be plenty of time to remember that first sight of her at Hemery High, when she bounced down the steps sucking a lollipop. The Soul and I were both lost that day, although it took me longer than him to admit it. When I went to fetch her back from the Underworld, I had to choose – my life or hers. It was never in question that I would choose to save her. What would there be left for me, here on Earth, without her? And then I was permitted to go free, to leave with her. Perhaps it was only ever to be for a short time. Perhaps that time is now up. No matter. I would do it all again. Having once seen her, I would love her all over again. Although perhaps I would try not to hurt her so much. Then we might have a future together.

And still the staff is descending, and I remember Dale, and how he died, and I bend over backwards a little to give her a quick, clean kill, and at the last moment she pulls her punch. She can’t do it, and the staff slides into me like a hot knife through butter, just below the sword.

Then I start to truly know the meaning of pain.

I *feel* the elongated claws break out of the body of the staff and tear through everything in their way. Then I *feel* what I couldn’t see when I watched Dale die. The claws don’t just close together. They do it by spiralling around the staff, like a screw. They shred everything they come into contact with – lungs, spleen, liver, stomach. And they are closing in on my heart.

I can think of nothing except the tearing, burning ogre of pain in my upper body. I cannot stop the howl that rips from my throat. The scream that stops her in her tracks as she runs to join the two men on the stairs. She has heard me scream before – we’ve been through a lot together, after all – but she has never heard me scream like this. *I* have never heard me scream like this.

She turns, uncertain. She has impaled me on a sword and a staff, both of which she expects will cause me agony and piss me off, but neither of which should cause my death. But there was death in that scream, and she knows it. And still the screw turns, the two sets of claws drawing closer and closer, my heart in the centre of them. Under that onslaught of pain, the haze of madness fades a little more, and I feel a new clarity. Things need to be said: things that should not be said before onlookers; things that I am in no condition to say – or even to think – now. I must do my best, for I have only a minute or two, and it can only get worse.

“Buffy…please. I’m sorry for everything.”

Another scream rips out of me, and I’m sure my throat muscles have torn with the force of it. No matter, so long as I can finish. What I have to say is life and death for her.

“You will need to go to…”

llowllow it down. Get the words out. There is no time for screaming like a woman. But I can’t stop it. Precious moments are wasted.

“…Aurelius. He will help you. After I’m… Go…Aurelius. Estevan will…take you.”

And truly, even for her, I can manage no more. She stands for a moment, confused, then kneels by me, her hand on my cheek. Just the touch of her, and the madness seems to completely drain from me, as if a festering wound has been lanced. Too late, it’s all too late. She looks back at the men on the stairs. My sight is coloured with the red haze of final death as those rings of claws move closer and closer. But I see the look of undisguised triumph on Riley’s face. She sees it too. And I see her run back to him, her hand grasping his arm tight enough to leave bruises. More bruises, overlaying some of those I’ve already given him. And the odd fang mark.

“What have you done?”

Her voice is harsh with fear, but he mistakes it, I think.

“I’ve done you a favour. I’ve done what you couldn’t do, and killed him.”

She doesn’t understand, but she needs to. Suddenly, despite the discrepancy in their height, her arm is shoved against his throat, pressing him hard against the wall, choking him. Xander tries to pull her off, but fear has lent her strength. Even in my extremity, I can smell it. Not for much longer.

“What have you done? Tell me. NOW.”

His answer is almost lost in my new howl of anh.
h.

“The staff will make sure he dies.”

She races back to the pile of staves by the wall and picks one up. In a moment of desperation she hits the point of the staff hard against the floor. The claws extend and start to rotate. She is horror-stricken. The can cannot contain their satisfaction.

I am curled around my pain now, praying for death to come quicker. I don’t know why I am still alive. Unalive. Whatever word you want to use… She kneels by my side and grasps the staff, ready to pull. I offer a prayer of thanks, although I’m not sure who I’m thanking, and wait for death to give me peace. But she realises what will happen, that pulling the staff will simply sink the claws into my heart and dust me. So she pulls out the sword instead, and I realise why death has been slow. The blade of the sword had caught the rotating spikes, and prevented them from closing. Now they are free, and moving.

Desperation gives her both strength and ingenuity. Xander has come down the stairs, and is trying to pull her away from me. She pushes him off, hard, and then casts wildly around the basement, looking for something. She finds what she needs just over my head. Chains. She unknots them, and drags me up to my knees. I cannot hold back either the tears of pain or the new scream. And in the middle of it all, I smell the lavender, that soothing, calming herb, wrapped around the scent of her terror. The lavender she uses will forever make me think of her, even when I am in whatever hell I have earned through my love for her. And I can smell her tears, hot and salt and frantic.

She rips my shirt off, raises my hands above my head, then clasps the manacles around my wrists, and I can make no sense of her intentions. It has to be said, though, that I am quite beyond sense now, other than the burning, ripping, killing agony. It’s about to get worse.

“Kneel up! GET UP ONTO YOUR KNEES!”

Her voice brooks no disobedience, and I try. I really do. In the few heartbeats during which I manage to remain upright, she grasps the chains above her head and lifts herself off the floor. Then she places her legs one on either side of me, and stamps down on the staff. She must have gauged her thrust carefully, because the staff doesn’t snap. My ribs do, though, and the staff sinks a little lower. I thought I might be finished with screaming, but I’m wronTherThere’s noise, hot and urgent, and now *more* pain, as I draw breath to scream, because of broken ribs mangling lung tissue that the claws have missed.

She stamps down again, and more ribs go. I feel something wet streaming down my arms, and I smell a new source of blood. The manacles are deep in my flesh, and I can’t even feel it for the horror of the pain in my chest.

And again. This time it’s my breastbone that goes, as she angles her kick to take the staff further from my heart. I can only see now in shades and shapes of black and red and another crashing tidal waf hof hot agony overtakes me.

And again. But she has a problem. She has broken through bone, but my flesh isn’t tearing. The muscle and skin is elastic, and will not allow the staff to break free of my rib cage. The staff has no sharp edge to cut through. By now, I don’t care who’s watching. As she picks up the sword, I beg her.

“KILL ME. NOW! PLEASE… FINISH IT…”

The last word trails off into another incoherent scream. But she won’t. She thrusts the sword back in – she needs to manipulate it because it catches in the moving claws – unleashing a torrent of sobs and curses from me this time. Now she’s hanging from the chains again, stamping a bloody path down my body as the sword cuts through skin and muscle and fat and whatever of the viscera is left to cut. And then she kicks the staff down that same bloody trail. When she is satisfied that it is low enough that the claws cannot reach my heart, she comes down from the chains, grasps the end of the staff firmly and yanks it out.

Demons are built to withstand pain. There are a number of ways to make us unconscious, but not through pain. Kneeling on the floor of that basement, seeing her yank out the staff, the splintered remains of the claws hung with ragged pieces of my liver and lungs, my stomach and my intestines, *feeling* my lacerated body being eviscerated in this way, I set a precedent. Although I am screaming still, I sink into the blessed darkness of oblivion.

I rouse briefly some time later. I don’t know how long. I’m chained to a table, and I can still smell lavender, although that must be in my head. It is a second or so before the absoluteness of the pain hits me, time in which I see Ixolon standing by me, his hands and arms red with blood, and Estevan and Silene reconstructing the rings of claws from the bloody fragments that Ixolon has extracted, trying to see whether they have all the pieces out. There are others behind me, but I cannot see them. Silene turns to Ixolon and shakes her head. Ixolon plunges his hands back into me, his fingers groping. I cannot control myself. I feel my face change, my fangs and claws drop, as another scream bursts from me, and I bunch my muscles just *so*, and the chains snap. Ixolon doesn’t move, btherthers do. Shapes rush from behind me, positioning themselves at my arms and legs, ready to hold me down. But they look at someone else still behind me, and then fall back, out of my sight.

The scent of lavender grows stronger. Has Thomaso started using that? One of the minions? I hadn’t noticed. Then it is mingled with the sharp odour of fear and the salt of tears, as two tiny, warm hands grasp my shoulders from behind, and a commanding voice penetrates my agony.

“Angelus! Stop it. Ixolon needs to do this. Stop making such a fuss!”

And I do. Though mainly because I pass out again, it has to be said.

I remember other brief moments of awareness, but in each of them, the pain is so crippling, the suffering so beyond comprehension, that I decide, on the whole, to leave the entire business of consciousness to those who are actually alive. But each time, before I fade back into oblivion, there is the scent of lavender and Slayer, and the feel of warm hands on my naked and bloody shoulders. And, once, the gentle splash of hot tears.

I find afterwards that it took four hours to find the splinters, during which time they had to force open my ribcage and manhandle every piece of viscera within a twelve-inch radius of the entry wound. Even then, they missed some and had to phone Willow and Tara to get a spell to call the splinters out. Will my debt to the witches never end? But that’s a small price to pay. There is a bigger one when I rouse for the next time.

I am in my bed, without chains, but with the kind of agony that could only result from having been torn apart by wild horses. And she is gone. Of the two hurts, that is perhaps the worst. Thomaso is sitting by me, dozing a little, but he is instantly awake. I cannot move – not that I really want to, when I remember that movement might make the agony even worse. I don’t know how it could possibly be worse, but I definitely don’t want to find out. Thomaso pulls down the top sheet a little, and I see that I bear a strong resemblance to a mummy, so tightly am I wrapped. Thomaso opens a thermos flask. He brings some blood over and helps me to drink.

It’s Slayer’s blood, my mate’s heart’s-blood, and it’s still warm. Why he hasn’t drunk it, I don’t know, but he has already proven himself to me. His standing has just risen again. It might have been fear of me that safeguarded her gift, but his face tells me that wasn’t the only reason.

I know that I must drink, or I shall never heal, but I can’t imagine what structures are left for this precious blood to pass through. Perhaps just bathing the tissues in it will be enough? It might have to be. And then I’m too tired to worry, and I give myself back up to the darkness.

*************

I don’t understand mysany any more. Or perhaps I just never did. After everything that I have suffered from that demon, I couldn’t kill him. Even after seeing those terrible drawings, I couldn’t do it. I meant to. When I saw Riley, I really meant to. And it seemed to me that Angelus asked for it. The sword would hurt badly, I know, but when I picked up the staff he simply leaned back to give me the best shot at his heart. And I couldn’t. I thought he must have known that.

Then when I saw what happened with the staff, I knew why he gave me a clear shot, and I stopped thinking and just acted, as if my own life depended on his. Xander is disgusted, and thinks I’m mad. Riley is disgusted and thinks I’m betraying everything I should stand for. I can’t disagree with either of them, but it doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t kill him.

After I had sent Xander and Riley away, and after I had found Ixolon – and the others – by the simple expedient of standing at the top of the basement stairs and yelling at the top of my voice, we managed to get him up into the kitchen, and chained him down so that Ixolon could work. We’d got no anaesthetics, you see, and what would we get at such short notice that would work on a vampire anyway? After we’d looked at the staffs, we decided that every scrap of wood had to come out, or they might work their way into his heart. It doesn’t take much wood to kill a vampire, and this weapon was spelled. We both knew it.

I stayed, and I’m glad I did. He came round part way through and snapped the chains. He would have killed Ixolon, but I managed to calm him, somehow. And then he kept rousing, and the look in his eyes… I can’t go back. I can never go back, but he has saved my life so many times that I guess I owed him that one.

There’s something he said though. Well, two things. He said he was sorry for everything. People don’t lie when they are dying, not even demons. It doesn’t change anything, but at least he said it.

And he told me to go to Aurelius. Why would he say that? I asked Estevan and Thomaso, and I asked Ixolon, but I just got a wall of silence. I think they know, but they aren’t saying. Why? What are they hiding? Well, perhaps not Thomaso. He’s maybe too young, but the others? I think they know. I’ve told Giles everything. If I didn’t, Riley or Xander would, but I suppose it’s right that he should know anyway. He pursed his lips in disapproval in that very English way that he has, then he polished his glasses rather too hard. And then he went to try and find out why I should have gone to Aurelius if Angelus had died.

ethiething has changed between Giles and Angelus, and it happened after the fight with Glory. Before that Giles hated him, and was very open about doing so. Now, when Angelus is mentioned, which isn’t often, he gets a very shuttered look, as if I might read something in his face that he doesn’t want me to see. After I came back from the mansion, I thought that Giles might have been the one who called Riley, who brought him here. But I don’t think that’s right. I think Riley just followed the bodies. No, it’s something else that Giles doesn’t want me to know. That means I have to find out what it is. As well as understanding what Angelus was trying to tell me.

It’s been over a week now, and I haven’t been back to the mansion. However, Estevan and Thomaso make sure that one or the other catches me somewhere on patrol each night, in case I want to ask how he is. I never do. Ask, that is. I want to, though, every time. I’m sure they know it.

I’ve got a lot to think about tonight. I’ve just left Giles. He’s called in some favours, and thinks he’s found what Angelus meant when he told me to go to Aurelius.

In those very rare instances where vampires have mated humans, there are one or two cases recorded where the vampire has died first. The human hasn’t lasted long afterwards. He thinks that there may be some element of magic involved in the bonding process, something that fuels the grief of the surviving human and simply eats away their will to live. Aurelius is head of the clan. Perhaps he knows how to avoid that. Angelus has never said much about him, but I got the impression that he hated him.

So, he thought he was going to die, and his last wish seems to have been to find a way to save my life by getting help from his enemy.

And then there’s Willow. She caught up with me on my way out to patrol tonight. She’s been following up all the Sunnydale bodies. Apart from Riley’s unit, Angelus seems to have been taking out all the crooks, the drug dealers, the gangsters, the racketeers and the general lowlifes. He’s been, in his extremely terminal and very messy way, cleaning the town up. I can’t approve – after all, a lot of the people he’s killed were humans, and there are *rules* for dealing with human criminals, most of which don’t involve the death penalty – but it isn’t quite the mass murder of innocents that it seemed to be at first. Are there other things that aren’t exactly what they seem?

And now there’s Faith. Someone saw us in the cemetery. There’s only a vague description of Angelus and me, but they have an identikit picture of Faith and it’s pretty good. And I can’t find her to tell her. She’s still here, I’m sure – sometimes I think I can feel her. But she always gives me the slip. Perhaps I’ll have better luck tonight. At least I don’t have to worry about Riley any more. He’s gone back to wherever he was before he tried to do my job for me. I’ve warned him not to come back. I think that Angelus might make sure he kills him next time. I really don’t understand why he hadn’t done more damage to him. I’m just grateful that he didn’t. But I’ll make my own displeasure felt to Riley if he comes back with more of those staves. When I kill Angelus, it will be quick and clean. I can still hear his screams when I sleep, and when I wake up, I’ve been crying.

But I still won’t go to see him. It has to end.

***********

I am very concerned for Buffy. She has told me about the rescue of Riley. She’s also told me about the heinous drawings that she found at the mansion. After her discovery of those, I am more than surprised that she not only didn’t kill Angelus, but that she actually went on to save him. I disapprove of Riley’s methods in general – kills should be quick and clean, otherwise we are no better than those we hunt – but I can’t find it in me to disapprove of his methods in this one particular. I wish that the vampire had suffered even more pain for the harm that he has done me, despite the fact that he later tried to get Jenny back for me. I can still see her corpse in my bed. I had to get a new one you know. I could never sleep in that again.

But for one reason I’m glad Buffy didn’t kill him – yet. I don’t know how deeply they have mated. She hasn’t talked to me about that. But they *have* mated, she tells me. At least, they’ve exchanged blood and vows, so I expect that’s the same. I’ve managed to get information from someone who owes me in a big way. Information that’s come from the Watchers’ most secret archive, that only the most senior members of the Council have access to. Stupidity. The people who need this information are those of us out on the front line.

In this case, the information relates to a human who has been mated by a vampire, and where the vampire dies before the human. There aren’t many cases, but there are some. I have told her the gist. But not all of it. Where they are mated for a lifetime, the human, no matter how strong, seems to simply pine away.

But, there is one case of two human lovers, centuries ago. The woman was turned by a vampire, but would not abandon her human soulmate. To try to protect him from her new clan, she bonded with him in a vow of eternal mating – the only such human/vampire mating that we know about. Shortly afterwards, she was killed by the Slayer, and he disappeared. No one knew where or why. People tried scrying for him, but they never found anything.

The Watchers have researched this ever since. They have even tried to duplicate the event, but could never force the vampire subject to initiate the eternal bond. However, the general consensus is that the magic that binds eternal mates sends the human partner, body and soul, to follow their lover to whichever hell demons go to. Have they bonded in that way? Dear God in heaven, let that not be it. I could not allow that to be the ending for her. If the vampire dies first, I must kill her immediately. Only in that way does it seem she might be able to escape eternal damnation. I won’t tell her, but I *must* now research a way to break the bond between them. I *must*.

*************

I’ve healed as well as I’m going to heal in two weeks, and so here I am, on the appointed day, in Cairo. Aurelius’ palace is two streets away. None of his family has accosted me since I arrived in Egypt. I know the way, and I’m coming of my own free will. They don’t need to fetch me. But I’ve felt them watching me. It’s that larger bubble of personal space, you know. All of my senses reach further than yours, including the hairs on the back of my neck. I won’t insult them by noticing their presence, though.

I had hoped to be in much better condition than I actually am for the ordeal that is to come. I’m pretty much healed, although I’m still in some pain and the scar hasn’t quite faded. I’m not back to full strength, though. Not quite. It was a while before the blood had any real effect. Until my stomach healed – rebuilt itself, rather - it simply pooled in my abdomen, and Ixolon had to aspirate it out several times. He’s turning out to be a very useful acquisition, in more ways than one.

Still, it’s probably all moot now. Even on the very top of my game, I really don’t think I could take Aurelius. Now, when I’m at about 90%? What do you think? I’d never live down the sneers and sniggers if I backed off, though. So I won’t.

The doorkeeper knows to expect me, and I am shown straight into Aurelius’ presence. Just like last time. Nothing else seems to have changed, either. Aurelius is holding court in a very informal way. All of his childer are here, and half a dozen vamps I don’t know. Representatives of the major families that are no longer headed by a childe of the clan master, perhaps? I’m sure I’ll find out eventually. If I live so long.

“Angelus!” He comes towards me, smiling warmly and holding out his hand in greeting. He’s never been one for the bear hug approach. Sekhmet strolls over and rubs her cheek against my hip. And you think *you* have a problem with cat hair?

“Let me introduce you.” And he does. I’m right. The half dozen that I don’t know represent families with major territories in Britain, Eastern Europe, France, Afghanistan, and China. Oh, and Florida. Like the others, they are here to welcome the new clan master, or congratulate the ongoing one, and watch the loser’s remains being swept out of the hall. There are other families not under the direct control of one of his childer, and not represented here, but they are smaller. These are the big ones. The contest is tomorrow night. Meanwhile, we will all wear this civilised veneer, and drink Aurelius’ rather fine Australian wine. He used to drink French, but never let it be said that he isn’t adaptable to new developments.

When I understand what the sleeping arrangements are, I almost shift into game face. Remember what I wished for when I thought my own final end had come? Well, he seems intent on getting his version of it. Arrogant son of ach! ch! I could just stake him in his sleep. I won’t, though, and he knows it. Believe it or not, there is honour amongst demons.

And damn me if I don’t have the nightmare again today, when he finally lets me sleep. I am a ghost, ashes of a dead man, trying to pull the werewolf out of her, to stop it devouring her as it is born, and as I feel its fangs on my incorporeal arm, I wake to the echo of my own screaming, to find that Aurelius is holding me close, whispering soothing nonsense words into my ear, and Sekhmet has jumped up onto this huge bed, and is gently patting my face with her paw.

When I can get over the horror of it I find a whole new horror to worry about: their concern and sympathy. This is so embarrassing. Really. They both have to die.

****************

I have friends who live not many miles from Sunnydale. They aren’t part of the Watcher’s Council – they have more affiliation to the group called The Coven. These fri are are responsible for…acquiring…many of the rarest books that I have. They have stayed close so long as Buffy and I are here, although we rarely meet or talk. It’s best for them if they appear to be only what they are – dealers in rare books and incunabula – rather than people who know the current Slayer’s Watcher.

They have just been in touch, though. There is trouble that they fear may be coming our way. Big trouble. Some extremely powerful demon-fiend-godling, they don’t know exactly what, that came out of the portal. The portal that Buffy closed when she died… I do know now that Angelus killed something that looked like a dragon, something that also came out of the portal – Willow can’t keep that sort of secret, even for fear of Angelus – but it seemed that wasn’t the worst. The creature in the north is gathering power, and they suggest that we try to deal with it before it acquires too much. Before it feels ready to come to the Hellmouth.

Buffy will go with Xander. I want to go with her, but we don’t know what we are facing, and all my research resources are here. I need to stay. Logically that is the best choice, the only sensible choice. Besides, someone needs to look after Dawn. But I have a bad feeling. I have tried to locate Faith, but cannot. I don’t think she’s left town. There are some police reports that I’m very afraid are about her. But if a slayer doesn’t want to be found…

Even worse, I find that I am unable to get away from the thought that Angelus, her mate, is nearby if things go badly. *Why* should I find that a comfort, when I know what he has done to her; when I know what evil he is capable of? Perhaps it’s because I know how much he loves her. I’ve experienced it, don’t forget, when I rode as a passenger in his mind. The memory of that still haunts me. I *want* to break the bond between them. Why should I think of leaning on it Ha Has he made me as mad, as schizophrenic, as he is? Or, perish the thought, has being in his mind created some sort of bond between him and me? That could be the worst of all. I will keep thinking of Jenny. That will help me.

************

The civilities are over now, and we are ready for the contest. It’s held here, in the main hall of Aurelius’ palace, and it’s to the death. All vampire clans have that in common. Never leave a fallen enemy behind you, when it comes to challenges for the leadership. It’s so important that it’s part of the code. It’s also in the interests of a beaten clan leader to work to a code that leaves him or her dead. The alternative, to be kept alive at the successful challenger’s pleasure – and *for* the successful challenger’s pleasure – is unthinkable, even for a demon.

The room has been cleared of all furniture, not only to make the fight less destructive, but also to remove absolutely anything that might be used as a weapon. Bare hands only. This goes back to our most primitive selves. For the same reason, we fight naked. Nowhere to hide a stake, a poisoned ring, some magical powder. Nothing, except muscle and bone, fang and claw.

The observers are all on the balconies, behind the ornate screens that form part of the normal architecture in Cairene houses, no doubt crowding for the best view. Only two other beings are here, in this room. Sekhmet and the Keeper.

Sekhmet is here as the progenitor of our entire clan. If it isn’t a clean fight, if there is any attempt at cheating, she will kill the offender. Even if it’s Aurelius. Her cushion has been placed on Aurelius’ throne, and she will sit there during the proceedings.

And the Keeper? Most clans have one. An elder vampire, outside the power hierarchy, who keeps the annals of the clan, who interprets clan laws, and who officiates at events like this. He’s the referee and master of ceremonies, if you like. Most clans need a Keeper, to maintain continuity and tradition. As older vampires die, their knowledge is lost with them. The line of Keepers maintains that continuity outside the power structure. Not that being Keeper isn’t a position of power. It’s just a neutral power, and is recognised as such. It’s a bit like the old storytellers used to be in ancient human cultures.

The Keeper is a much less necessary role in this clan – we still have Aurelius, you see, to remember the history and interpret laws. He made all of them, after all. The Keeper is his eldest childe, Japheth.

Stripped, I am conscious of the angry, knotted scar that still trails across my ribcage and down my belly. There’s a matching one down my back, but I’ve never seen that, of course. Another few days and they will be gone. But not yet, and the flesh still pulls. I’ve had my fill of premium human blood, though – fresh from the source this evening – and they’re healing at least as well as can be expected. Damn Riley. This morning, in his rooms, Aurelius wanted to know about the scars. He can tell a liar a mile away, so I told him the truth. He was silent, but I could see that he was worried. No doubt anxious about how widespread these new weapons are, and how to combat them. He’s always taken clan leadership very seriously.

I’ve left some letters in my bag. For Aurelius, for Ezrafel and Ixolon and Estevan. For Buffy. You need to come to a contest like this on top of your game and full of confidence, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

Now Japheth is speaking the words that will start this contest, and retiring to stand beside Sekhmet. He may be the referee, but he needs to be out of harm’s way.

You will never have seen a contest like this, between two powerful vampires. If you were here, you still wouldn’t be able to see that much. It’s fast: faster than the human eye can generally follow. And the two of us are powerful enough to use all the surfaces. Floor, walls, ceiling. We can’t defy gravity; we just make proper use of the laws of motion.

We start by circling each other, looking for the first opening. I see one, and land a backhand blow to his jaw. That was an error – he *left* that opening for me. He ripostes instantly with a blow of such power that I think for a moment he’s crushed my skull. I crash into the wall, but there is no time to check for broken bones, and I just manage to push myself up and off the wall before he can pin me to it. His claws graze my shoulder as I do so, and he has drawn first blood.

I manage to keep out of his reach for a few moments, until my head has stopped spinning, but that’s all the respite I get, and then we are trading blows again. And it isn’t just blows. This fight is tooth and claw. And anything else that will do damage. A kick in the side cracks one of my ribs, but my elbow in his face snaps his nose. Second blood to me.

**************

I’ve come in search of B’s vampire. Don’t ask me why. Cops have almost caught me at least three times this week. The last time, I had to beat several of them up to get away. It wasn’t hard, but they’ll come better prepared next time. My choices are fairly simple. I can give up the Hellmouth and just leave. I can give myself up to the Watchers for whatever sort of terminal retraining they dole out to murderers like me. I can give myself up to the cops for a lifetime stretch in the company of a prisonful of skanky women. If B gets herself killed, I’ll probably be the one and only Slayer, and I’ll be locked up. Or I can give myself up to Angelus. No matter what I’ve done, I’m still a Slayer. That pretty much rules out options one to three. I thought maybe I’d try the vamp. See what B saw in him. Maybe still sees in him.

And there’s this damned mark on my neck. It itches whenever I think of him, which is often.

So, I’m here, in broad daylight, entering the mansion. Not everyone is asleep. A demon is coming to greet me. He looks human, but he isn’t. My Slayer sense tells me that much. He looks friendly, though. Well, at least he’s smiling. And he isn’t showing his teeth.

“Slayer. I am Ixolon. Angelus said that we should expect you.”

Sonofabitch! Did he indeed?

“I want to see him. You gonna wake him, or shall I?”

I think I see amusement in his eyes. Do demons feel amused? Well, Angelus does, I gather, so I guess others do, too. I’ve never really thought of any of them as being more than animals. That’s not true, though, is it? I get that now.

“Neither of us would dare do that, Slayer. But the question is moot. Angelus is not here. We have a room prepared for you, though. If you follow me, I’ll show you.”

And just like that, he does. This feels *really* weird, buy, iy, if I’m getting free board and lodgings that’s a plus, right? And the vamps are real handy for when I come to stake them. I ask him where Angelus is, but he either can’t or won’t say.

He shows me round, and the place seems pretty well organised. And, surprise, surprise, there are no grisly bodies hanging in the larder, just neat stacks of blood bags in the very large fridge. Is this big bad master vamp all mouth and no trousers? Surely not? I heard enough from my Watcher about Angelus, when the Council found out he’d surfaced again and was on the Hellmouth. At the time, I was young enough to have nightmares that I might have to face this vamp, and crazy enough to want to smack down with him, mano a mano, to prove I was better. Here I am now, in his lair – does he call it a lair? – and who’d a thunk it? But if I want to save B and me from him, where better to do it than from the belly of the beast, so to speak? And what if I don’t want to save us? Same goes, I guess. I don’t seem to have much choice anyway, except door number four.

Perhaps I’ll have different nightmares here. Not the one I’ve had every night for weeks. The one where I feel my stake slide into vampire flesh, only it isn’t. It’s alive and warm and human and the body flops over and the face is just a guy. And I don’t know how to save myself. I doubt the answer’s here, but I don’t know where else to look.

***************
Continued in chapter 5