Pride

Pride


Nobody can find Buffy or Spike, and it’s been over 24 hours since either of them was seen. I’m less worried about Spike. He can look after himself, and even if he can’t, it wouldn’t cause me to lose any sleep. But I’m worried about Buffy, as her Watcher and as her friend. As her Watcher, I must wonder, does Glory have her? We really can’t afford to lose the Slayer with a demented goddess running around. As her friend, her surrogate father, I’m frantic.

The rest of our little band? They’re here and worried too. You see, Willow has just got back from Los Angeles, and she has told us how Angel’s so-called friends murdered him. Had they lost their minds? How could they release Angelus? And even worse, how could they lose Angel’s soul? Willow has done her very best. More than her best, but she has failed. And Cordelia lies in a coma. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Apparently, the apocalyptic events they faced there seem to have had some connection to Angelus. Some fiend that he had a bargain with, sometime or another – Willow couldn’t make head or tail of it, so neither can I – is now raining fiery destruction onto Los Angeles – or was until the day before yesterday. Angelus somehow managed to stop Angel from accessing those memories, they think, and so they came up with this cockeyed folly of stripping out Angel’s soul, storing it, finding out what Angelus knew – and how they hoped to make him tell that, I really can’t imagine – and then just popping his soul back! Angelus got free of their cages and their chains, and had to be tempted into a trap, with live bait. They drew lots, and it turned out to be Cordelia. She took some designer drug or another – I think Willow actually knows which one, but she’s pretending she doesn’t – that they hoped would incapacitate the demon when he drank from Cordelia.

They set themselves up in their pride – gods, I sound like some old-time Bible thumper, but it’s true – and then came the destruction and the fall. Angelus drank from Cordelia, and was slightly incapacitated. Cordelia had taken so much, she’s now lying in a coma. She’s had some sort of brain seizure. And Willow, brave little Willow, tried to do the spell to restore his soul. She worked for years to get it, until she found a hidden file in the library computers. Jenny had put it there for safekeeping. It was a first draft, not quite complete, but Willow managed to finish the job. And, so far as we can tell, it was without the happiness clause.

But the spell didn’t work. Oh, they thought it had. And it should have. The soul came out of its little magical jar, and disappeared, just as it should. Angelus pretended – not the first time, apparently – that Angel was safely back. And the blithering idiots fell for it.

I’ve been in touch with some friends of mine, The Coven, who are very powerful witches indeed. They don’t know for sure what has happened – after all, popping souls in and out of their bodies isn’t a common recreational activity – but their hasty researches suggest that perhaps there are a finite number of times such soul magic can be performed on any individual. Three times. Three times, and that’s your lot. Three times in and three times o If If they are right, Angel is dead, and is never coming back. Ever. I think that is probably for the best. He can rest in peace now, and we can deal with his murderer. His original murderer, that is, not that bunch of lunatics in Los Angeles. I’ll deal with them myself, later.

But for now, Angelus is loose; I’m told he isn’t in his sanest mood after his years of imprisonment. And Buffy and Spike are missing; have been missing since last night. We’ll wait until daylight, and go to the mansion. It has to be the best place to look. But by then they’ll have been missing for 36 hours. A lot can happen in that time.

Dear God, Xander is on the telephone now. There’s been some sort of break-in at Buffy’s house. Joyce is badly hurt, and in critical condition. And Dawn is missing, too. Well, at least I’m damn sure who’s got her. Glory. Can things possibly get worse? We have to get Buffy back.

***********

My hands have stopped shaking. Almost. My mind hasn’t though.

It’s been nearly 36 hours. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t seem to string two thoughts together, and whatever I want to do, I can’t settle to it for more than a few moments. And I need to drink all the time. That blonde bimbo by the bed? The minions fetched her on my instructions, and I’ve drained her dry, now. I’ve had two others since then, but I can’t seem to get any benefit from their blood. I feel weak, and confused, and I *cannot get it together*. Damn that trollop and my fornicating childe. What have they done to me?

I know how to make it stop.

She’s still hanging in the chains. I’ve expressed my dominance quite a few times in the traditional way, my position as master of this pride. Blood, sex and power. Those are the important things to a vampire. We’ve been through all three. The first few times, I made no effort to let her accommodate me. Those were punishment, pure and simple, as were the times I took her in the ass. Pain is a very good teacher. And a demonstration of my power.

After that? Well, let’s just say she’s coming in her own blood, now. Her slayer healing abilities can’t compensate quickly enough to heal her. She just can’t keep up with me. And I don’t intend her to, not just yet. It may be a long time before I allow that. And yet, she can’t deny the way I can play her body, make her sing to my tune.

This blood-sex has been something else again, for a vampire, let me tell you. You can have no possible conception of what a turn-on it is, how it feeds the deepest, darkest parts of me. Particularly after the long period of celibacy that the Soul made us endure.

And I’ve taken more of her blood in the traditional way. She’s covered in bite marks - *my* bite marks, not his – her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. And other places. I’ve been quite thorough. She’ll heal from those, when I let her. The only mark of mine that she keeps permanently is the one on her arm, from that night in the park, when I first made sure that she was mine. Mine to do with as I please. Always, and only, mine. She should have remembered that. So should he.

But those punishments have only taken up a small fraction of the hours she’s been here. Most of the time, I’ve simply watched her, from my position on our – NO! – *my* bed, drinking down the lives of girls who resemble her. Although none truly do. Watching her, because I dare not do more. Not until I have some control of myself, because otherwise her punishment would be over too quickly. I want it to last a lifetime. I think.

I am so fucked up.

She thinks that she is at the end of her stamina. Her head is drooping, her hair a sweaty curtain over her face. She’s still gritty with his ashes. Sackcloth and ashes, but without the sackcloth. Mourning, the old-fashioned way. I’ll allow her some mourning, of a sort, although exactly what and who she’ll mourn I’ve yet to clarify.

But we have only just started. She has a lifetime of regret to come. Or an eternity.

And the others? Oh, yes, I could smell others on her, apart from Spike. Very faint, very old, but only I, her mate, can wipe them away entirely. All these months, these years, she’s ied ied on her scent a reminder of those who’ve had her. I’ve already hunted one of them down. Parker, his companions called him, before I cut him out of the herd. His death was… appropriate. Painful. Piece by piece. I’ll do that with all of them. His entire body was an offence to me, although he made an adequate meal at the end, but some bits offended me more than others. Those parts are at her feet now, torn from his still-living body. She was almost sick when I told her what they were, but she managed to hold it back. Gotta give her credit for that.

I know; displacement activity. I need to deal with her, but I haven’t been able to make up my mind how. That stops now.

Ah, this is what I have been looking for. My old whip. The one I’ve used on Dru and … him … when necessary. Or even when not necessary. Often when not necessary. It’s an old, still-supple bullwhip, and it can do significant damage. Not like Aurelius’ whip – and I *will* take that from him some day; use him as he used me – but good enough for what I have in mind.

As I stand in front of her, the coils of the whip held in my hand, she raises her head to look at me, to determine what I mean to do next. She sees the whip, and her eyes are huge in her face, a face that is as pale as mine. She has never dreamt that it would come to this. I move behind her, and reach up to adjust the chains a little, make sure that they are taut. I want her body taut for what will come next. And it is. I avoid actually touching her, feeling her warmth. I must be detached, for what I have in mind. Detached. What an appropriate word…

When I am facing her again, I gauge the distance. It looks just right. But is my hand still shaking too much? The whip strikes out, swift as a snake, and just the very tip catches her, a red thread on her skin immediately behind her left nipple. Exactly right. She hasn’t screamed – good girl – but she has bitten her lip in her effort to remain silent. More red.

I draw the lash through my fist, coiling it just so. Her eyes still gaze at me, calm, accepting. And the whip strikes out again, the tip catching her in the very same place. This time, there is just the hiss of breath from her.

I can do this all night. I *have* done this all night. The last time was a long time ago, but I remember it well. The girl was very comfortably proportioned. Ample. It took me all night to cut through.

On a thought, I put the whip down on the bed and walk over to her. Her huge eyes follow me. I crouch down in front of her and place just my fingertips on her instep and trace the outlines of her foot. My fingers travel around her ankle, feeling each bone and hollow, and up the swell of her calf. Then to her thigh, her hip, the delightfully rounded curve of her buttocks, the gentle dip of her waist and slowly moving ribcage. I stand back up and my palms travel to her shoulder blades, the fingers of my left hand spreading over the outlines of the inked tattoo, the one that stays there because of her innate magic, and over to hollaollarbones, fragile and delicate as a bird. When I have finished with her, she will never look like this again. Never feel like this. Both hands reach for the softness of her breasts, the touch of her damask skin warm against my palms. Never again.

I can feel against my fingers the slight trickle of blood from the cut on her breast. I can scent it, the ambrosia of a slayer. I have not permitted her to wash or to toilet herself. The odour of her sweat fills my nostrils, overlaid with the bitter aroma of vampire ash. Of Will. But there is more. She uses fragrances of lavender and of vanilla, but they are faint now. The scent that surrounds me is simply her. As I breathe it in, it fills me, completes that most primal of senses. The feel of her overwhelms me. Her body speaks to me. But so does her soul.

Never again.

I remember the way her eyes sparkle when she is pleased with me. The touch of her tongue as she tastes mine. The feel of her skin moving in rhythm against mine. The warmth of her, removing the chill of the tomb from my dead flesh, bringing an inner warmth that is otherwise denied to me. One hand moves to cup her face, my thumb caressing her cheek bone, the other threads through her hair, which slips though my fingers like liquid silk, cool and smooth and heavy. Her eyes close, but she doesn’t pull away from me.

Never again.

And I cannot. My hands are no longer shaking, steadied by the hold she has on me.

I love her.

She has betrayed me. I don’t care. She has allowed others to trespass where only I should be allowed. I. Don’t. Care. Her very essence is sliding through the palms of my hands, etching itself once more into my flesh and bones, suffusing itself intery ery cell of my body. The fires of my rage are suddenly banked. Not extinguished, never that; but banked, and under my control. She has done that. She has caged me and chained me more surely than ever the soul did.

I love her.

If I continue with what I intended, I will spend from here to eternity a lost and damned spirit searching for what I can never again have. Her. And the world will burn. I won’t just be the Scourge of Europe: I shall scourge the world. She would be so disappointed in me. But whatever I did to the world, it could never bring her back to me.

I love her.

I cannot do it.

I reach up to the chains, to unfasten them. I will bathe her, bind her wounds, and find a way to make her forgive me. I, the proudest of the creatures ever spawned by Hell, will abase myself in whatever way is necessary in penance to her. She must forgive me.

I love her.

It is as my hands reach up to the manacles, as I unfasten them, that something heavy slams into my back and agony lances through me. The head of a crossbow bolt stands proud of my chest, glistening with my blood, and with the remnants of some blue, vile-smelling substance. Only my action in reaching up has moved my heart from its path. Kept it from penetrating her, too.

The strength has suddenly gone from my legs and I start to crumple to the floor. But Buffy is free from the chains, and she, too, is falling. I twist my body under her, to cushion her from the fall. I won’t allow her to be hurt again – I have already hurt her too much this day. As I catch her, I turn to face my attacker.

Ripper.

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

Getting in is much easier than I had expected. Most of Angelus’ household is in Hylek just now, looking after his interests in that dimension. The time is high noon – how apt – and there are only a few minions on duty who are no trouble to dispose of – after all, they are accustomed to us, if not as friends, then certainly not as enemies, provided they obey the rules that Angelus himself laid down, long ago.

So here we are, myself, Xander and Wesley, standing at the door to his chambers. Does he know we are here, I wonder? I nod to Xander, who quietly opens the door then throws it back wide. The monster has his back to me, standing in front of my Slayer, who is hanging in chains. I am surprised that he appears not to know that we aere.ere. Is too preoccupied to detect us. That must be a first. I already have the special bolt loaded into the crossbow. It doesn’t even take a heartbeat for me to aim and pull the trigger. And then it is in his back. I had aimed for the heart, but he moved. No matter. The bolt is coated with a preparation of my own. He won’t last long. He’s sinking to his knees now, bringing her with him.

Coward! If he thinks that holding her in front of him will save him from me, he’s fair and far off. And too late. The poison will kill him, as certainly and as painfully as I could devise. There is no antidote available to him.

It pays to be sure, though. Especially with this vampire.

“Wesley. Get Buffy.”

He does so, wrapping her in the coverlet from the bed. So many marks on her. His marks. So much blood.

“Xander. Get him in the chains.”

Xander, who has always distrusted Angel and hated Angelus, obeys with a will. And I keep the crossbowinedined on the beast, just in case. I could just shoot him again, of course, put him down without giving it a second thought, and that is a tempting course of action, but I remember the blood on my Slayer. A slower, and much more painful, death seems more appropriate.

That is how we leave him.

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

I know what I have to do, and it is easier than I might have thought. Willow has helped me, she and Tara, now that Oz is no longer here. They have bathed me and dressed my wounds, and Giles has told me of my losses. My mother, in critical condition in the hospital. Dawn, taken. Angel, gone forever. He didn’t need to tell me of the other. Angelus hates me, that much is plain. I have lost everything that has real meaning for me, everng tng that has kept me tied to the world. And now I’m so tired of it all. Dusk is on us, but I must go and find Dawn. My Slayer healing powers are kicking in, although I won’t be at my peak. I wish that those powers could help my mind as well as my body, but they can’t. So, I’ll go and find Dawn, and try to give her the chance to live even if I die fighting.

I have lost two lovers, two soul mates, whom I shall never find again. I pray that if I die, at least I may be granted oblivion if I can’t be with them both in the aether.

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

When I return from Hylek, everything has gone wrong. The minions I left on duty are nowhere to be seen, and I suspect are the ashes drifted around the front door. The mansion does not quite feel deserted, though, and evallyally I find Angelus in his rooms. He is strung up in chains, and a crossbow bolt, stinking of poison, stands a hand’s breadth from both the front and back of his torso. How it missed his heart, I do not know. But the poison is at work, black tendrils spreading from the wound across his pale flesh. Even though he is barely conscious, his face is contorted with pain. I fear the t.
t.

I unhook him from the chains, and lay him gently on the bed. He seems to rouse a little, and grips my wrist with more strength than I would have thought possible.

“Get me some blood, Ezrafel. Please.”

He can manage no more. I don’t think that pig’s blood will do him a great deal of good, but mine will do him even less. And pig’s blood is all there is. He can only manage a pint, but at least he can stand, even if shakily.

“Help me to find Buffy. I must find her.”

His voice is urgent. I suspect he knows how bad his case is. Perhaps he wishes to say farewell to her. So, I pull the bolt from him, and then I help him into a fresh shirt, of deep wine red. I almost carry him to the car. I haven’t really learned how to drive it, but even with me at the wheel, it will be quicker than walking.

It is dark, now, but as soon as we get outside, I can see where we need to go. There is a light show in the sky, one that shouldn’t be there at all. A portal. Drive very quickly, then.

***********

I am as weak as a child. Weaker. Whatever power in my blood helped me before, with the werewolf’s bite, is trying to rise and help me now. But it has not enough strength. My veins are on fire, carrying agony to every part of my body. My blood is burning me alive. I know that I am going to die from this wound, but I cannot die unforgiven. Unforgiven by her. I must find her. But as Ezrafel drives can can think of no better word for it – I see where he is going. The portal in the heavens. She’ll be there, of course. Damaged and weak, but still fighting. Damn me and my pride. My jealousy.

When we arrive, everything is in desperate case. My sight is failing, but it is still good enough to see Dawn tied at the end of the gantry jutting from a scaffolding toweShe She is bleeding. There are a number of bodies around. Wesley and Giles are hurt, Willow and a girl, both of them hurt, are hugging each other, Xander and another girl sit on the ground, looking shocked. All of them are looking at my beloved, climbing the tower. A huge portal spins slowly across the sky, and enormous beasts are crossing from whichever dimension they started in; crossing into ours. My mate intends to stop that. I can feel her determination even through this burning in my blood.

Ezrafel helps me over to Willow. It’s hard to talk now, but I must try.

“Willow, tell me quickly what she is doing. How does she intend to close the portal?”

Willow’s eyes are red with weeping, but her voice is brave.

“Summers’ blood.”

That is all I need to hear.

Summers’ blood.

I have some of that, too. I drank quite a lot of it today. Perhaps it will be enough, if Giles’ poison hasn’t tainted it too much. A throng of what I take to be the godlinginioinions are massed around the base of the tower.

“Can you clear a space for me?”havehave no strength to drive through.

Willow looks to the other girl, then they both nod. They start to chant, and it is as if a wind were parting a cornfield. The more energy I use, the quicker death will come for me. I don’t care. That might even be an unlooked for blessing, provided I can do what needs to be done. Get the forgiveness I need before I die. Gathering myself, I run through and in three bounds, I reach the top of the tower. I can see very little now, but I see that my beloved has freed Dawn and is hugging her. Then she leaps gracefully off the tower, and towards the portal. She doesn’t even give me a backwards glance.

Why am I always too late?

I leap after her, powering through the air as best I can. My fingers reach out and touch her ankle as she enters the portal. Then, before I can get a grip, I have slammed into an invisible barrier, and she is gone. Something has prevented me entering the portal after her, and I don’t know what. It felt like the barrier of invitation, but surely that can’t apply to a complete dimension? Unless… unless it was heaven, from which I would understandably be debarred. And I must know.

My fall to earth continues, but Buffy has emerged from where the portal was, from where the portal is no longer, and I am now below her. Her body looks broken and lifeless, and she is silent in my blood. Nevertheless, I must try. If I fall and roll, I will prevent most injuries to myself. In my weakened state, if I try to catch her, to cushion her, my lower body will suffer extensively. What does that matter, now?

I reach for her, and she is in my arms as my feet touch the ground. My shins are splintered and broken, my knees shattered, my hip joints sheared and my lower spine crushed. The pain is a roaring giant, drowning out for a moment even the agony of the Watcher’s poison. But she takes no further hurt. And again I am too late. She is quite dead.

I sink down to the muck, kneeling as best I can, in my broken state. My beloved’s body is sprawled over my knees, like some bloody pagan sacrifice, or an exotic pietà. And I shall die unforgiven. I must try.

“Willow.”

My voice is a whisper now. If she is in heaven – no doubt with *him* – there is nothing I could or should The The anger howls within me at that thought, but I hold onto my control. I must be sure, though. Because if she is elsewhere, if she is somewhere – less tranquil – I must try to bring her back.

“Send me after her. If she isn’t…safe…I must try to bring her back. Watcher. You must give he ahe antidote and quickly. I must have the strength to follow her.”

Neither of them seems to understand the urgency. The Watcher looks at me with contempt. The words of sal sal are unnecessary, but he says them anyway. The witch simply looks horrified.

It takes a moment, a precious moment that we do not have, to muster my strength for more words. “You need the Slayer. Look to the skies.”

Many demons have decided to use the portal to seek pastures new. The winged ones are circling even now. And their escape route back to their own dimension is gone, with the closing of the portal. These children will not be able to deal with such demons alone, and the new Slayer – for one will certainly have been called now – will be young and untried. And who knows where in the world she is.

“You know what to do, don’t you, Willow? You must do it quickly, and the Watcher must give me the antidote.” I have faith in Willow. She has always been the most honourable one of the lot, except for Oz, and he is no longer here. I also have faith in her witchery. The spell will have to be a powerful one.

She pulls herself together. She understands. So does Ripper. He looks as if the knowledge is like gall in his mouth.

“I don’t know the spell. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Tara if she knows.”

Willow and the girl, Tara, start to speak quickly together. So, the other girl is a witch, too? Neither of them knows how to do what I need. No matter. I do. It was in Aurelius’ book. But my mind is not as sharp as it should be, thanks to Ripper’s poison. Its progress is accelerating, and he shows no sign of relenting.

I visualise the section of the scroll, the columns of hieroglyphics and the Egyptian demotic script, deciphered with such difficulty. Aurelius reads them as easily as you and I read English, but I do not. I have read only small portions of the book but, thankfully, I have read this. I repeat the words of the spell to the two witches. It is relatively simple, although they have none of the magical props, in in a construction yard. I must hope that they are powerful enough to overcome that. I do not tell them how they can call on the power of the Hellmouth. That way is fraught with danger, introducing them to such dark forces that they might not have the strength to control. Buffy will kill me if I harm them.

They go over to the Watcher, who is standing a little apart, watching my beloved’s sister, the one for whom she gave her life, being brought down from the tower. I cannot see who is doing that, my sight is so dimmed. They speak to him, urgently, with many gestures to the sky. And to the body of my love, broken and bloodied in my arms.

His face grey and grim, Ripper walks over to me and squats by my shoulder. Everyone stops to listen. The words are torn from him. “You must drain the Slayer’s blood. With my blessing.”

Ah. The very last thing in the world he would ever wish to do. Isn’t it strange how events continually conspire to leave us no option but the very last thing in the world we should ever wish to do?

The witches have decided how to go about their task. Willow looks defiantly at the Watcher.

“Well? Does he have your blessing? He can’t try to rescue her from the Underworld if he is dead.”

Perhaps Ripper thinks I can. Perhaps he thinks that is the best way. Or perhaps he just hates me more than he loves the Slayer. No, that is unfair. Nothing could exceed his love for her. He thinks of her as his daughter.

He is silent.

“Giles, if we don’t send him quickly, Buffy may have travelled too far. We may not have enough power as it is.” Tears fill her eyes as she looks at the girl-woman that I know is her lover. “Neither of us is in prime condition, and we have nothing to help us do the spells. He needs to go. Now.”

Defeated, the Watcher chants a few words of blessing in Latin, and then walks away unable, I’m sure, to watch. I understand him. I’m almost unable to do what I need to do. The act makes me sick at heart as well as sick to my stomach. But I must. Somehow, through the gathering shadows in my mind, and the roiling agony in my gut, I find my demon face and sink my fangs gently into my beloved’s throat. It is hard work taking blood from the dead. The heart no longer pumps it around, it no longer spurts freely, but must be pulled with effort. And the sweet taste of her is threaded through with the bitter tastes of pain and sacrifice and death. It is the most unpalatable blood I have ever taken. And the most precious, because it is hers. If I fail, it will be the last.

The witches and the Watcher are speaking, but I do not care to hear. I bury myself in my lost love, in the taste and scent of her, in the touch of her cooling body in my arms. And I feel her, returning my strength to me. Giving me the pain of renewal in my broken bones. Cleansing the poison from my system. If I had a deity to pray to, I would pray that this would not be her last gift to me.

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

I see Willow walk over to me as I watch the vampire drinking down the girl I think of as my daughter. He’s no doubt revelling in this moment. He’ll be full of slayer’s blood – what better meal can a vampire want? And he’ll be free of my poison. He must think that he has gained a victory, and I suppose he has. For the moment. The future is a long time.

“We’re ready, Giles. But…”

She hesitates, and I tear my attention away from the travesty of love. Willow has something to say, and I can tell that I’m not going to like it.

“Tara and I will have to keep the spell going as long as Angelus is in the Underworld, and we don’t know how long that will be. Between us we will also have to stop Buffy’s body from…deteriorating, and his from turning to ash whilst the demon is gone. We’ll be lucky to be able to do all that. But something else needs to be done. He needs a way back.”

“What?”

“If he is to come back, he needs a consciousness to follow, like…like a trail of breadcrumbs. Tara and I think that has to be you. Xander doesn’t understand magic, and we don’t know Wesley well enough to be sure of keeping hold of him. Anya…well, we don’t know what it might do to her, to let her loose in the Underworld again. You’re the only one.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You need to remain anchored here, but share part of your consciousness with him, to give him a path back. Him and Buffy.”

“You mean that he will share my mind, my thoughts?” The idea of that must be akin to the idea of rape.

“No. You might share some of his – but only the surface thoughts – we don’t need to implant you too deeply. If we do it right, it will be just a small part of you and you won’t really be aware of what he is doing – you just need to concentrate on staying linked with yourself back here. And if anything…goes wrong, Wesley and Ezrafel and Anya will be here to find help.”

That irdlyrdly any better. Perhaps share the demon’s thoughts? And if it goes wrong? I really don’t think I can do it. I turn to look at him again, and I’m disgusted by the sucking sounds as he draws the blood from her. It seems that he’s just finishing, because he stops drinking, gives the wounds a gentle lick, then turns to look at me. Those yellow eyes seem to glint in triumph, but perhaps that is just my imagination. His demon face changes as he looks at me, but the blood on his mouth remains. Murderer. Monster. Share his consciousness? Never.

It is then that a deep cawing sound overhead attracts my attention. Flying demons. He was right. We need a slayer, and we need her now. The new one may be too late. In the end, it’s the easiest decision I’ve ever made. And the hardest.

“Very well. Let’s get them back to my place.”

“No! There’s no time. Tara says we are already almost too late. We must start now. Here.” She hesitates, “And anyway, here is where it happened. We have the best chance of linking to them here. Of finding her.”

She’s seen me look askance at the sky, though – it can’t be all that long until dawn.

“If necessary, the others will build a shelter, but we need to start. Now.”

She’s right, of course. As I sit down next to him, I wonder what the monster will think of it. But there is no time to ask, because the girls have already started their chant. They have nothing to help them, no herbs or candles or crystals or amulets, just their own abilities and strengths. I pray it will be enough. Then everything goes black.
*********
Continued in chapter 6