Ma'at

Tea? The Watcher is facing me, knows who I am, and he offers me *tea*?

“Thank you. It has been a long journey.”

Best to remind him now that if he displeases me, he might hold certain other temptations for me. He should walk carefully. He bustles about in that very English version of the ritual, and I consider why I am here. The Adrasti gave me as much information as they could, but mystical foreseeing is rarely clear and never certain in its interpretation. What they saw, and recounted to me, as it directly concerns my reason for visiting the Watcher, resembled nothing so much as a giant gaming board. They saw Angelus and the Slayer, cornered as far apart as possible, Angel in the third corner, all of them besieged by demons of the most elemental kind. And there was a man who could only be the Watcher, standing between them, a bridge, or a barrier. No one knows how, or why, or even whether these interpretations of the figures they saw are correct. I must do the best I can with what I have.

I spent weeks in that dimension, struggling to understand, and I have tried to exercise my own small powers in seeing how matters can be amended. They are not powers that I was born with, I’m sure. They are powers stolen from others, taken into me with their blood. Such stolen powers can surely never be wielded as they were by their original owners. They are merely reflections, echoes. But they have to be sufficient, because they are all I have. And I have tried to see what these things mean. I am here to open the lock. The Watcher holds the key. I must make him use it. I have given Angelus a task, to keep him away from Sunnydale for a while. I don’t want him privy to this meeting. I don’t want him to even know about it. This is between the Watcher and me.

He settles himself back down and pours the tea. I get no nourishment from it, it is of absolutely no value to me, but it makes a pleasant drink. And it serves other purposes, as now. It gives time for him to think, to gather himself, and for me to do the same, should I need to.

“I have come, Watcher, because you have not done as you ought.” It’s a vague opening, but he gives an instant start. He’s good – most humans would have noticed nothing, but I saw. And the flood of scent gives him away.

“Why do you say that?”

“We have not Ma’at, Watcher, and it must be restored.”

“Ma’at? The cat goddess?”

I almost sigh. This is an educated man.

“No, that is Bast.” He looks confused. We cannot make progress until he understands this.

“Ma’at was the Lady of Truth to the people of the Pharaohs. You will forgive me if I express what I have to say in such old-fashioned terms. I am, after all, a vampire of my times.”

He looks sceptical at that, and covers it by tg a g a sip of his tea.
“Yo
“You will, I am sure, have seen pictures of her with the feather of Truth in her headdress. That is what her name means – truth. But she was far more than that. She represented what was right, what things should be. To creatures like you, the world is a duality, lly lly and ethically. Sin is punished, and purity rewarded. Ma’at is the reality in which all of that is grounded. And although you might not recognise it as such, the Universe is a perfect balance of dualities. It is a rational, ordered place. Without Ma’at, all of creation will perish, swallowed up by the waters of Nun. By chaos. Even the Gods worshipped Ma’at. They had no wish to see the world destroyed.

“The Universe is neither ethical nor moral, it simply is. A flower, a rock, an ocean, a planet doesn’t know ethics or morality. It simply is. A thunderstorm isn’t good or evil. It is what it is. But to keep it that way, there must be Ma’at. There must be order. There must be balance. Duality must be in harmony. We must observe the right way of doing things. There must be truth. What do you have to say, Watcher?”

His face flushes, and I can see that I have touched a very, very raw nerve. I have, more easily than I had dared to hope, come to the heart of the matter. I must now find just what that matter actually is, and what may be done about it.

“You are telling me that because I haven’t told Buffy what happened in the Underworld, the Universe will fall into chaos? Ridiculous.”

I understand the reference to the Underworld, of course, but I have no idea what the rest means, and I cannot tell him that, or I will lose control of this meeting.

“Yes. Ma’at is out of balance, and every day we slide a little further into chaos. I cannot say yet when it will become too late. Perhaps when I find out, it will *be* too late. You must act as you know you should.”

There is a spike of anger from him, sudden and sharp, acrid in the nostrils. It is spiced with fear. That makes him emphatic, and prevents him from examining too closely those things that he is revealing to me: things that, ideally, he might not wish to reveal.

“I must tell my Slayer that she owes her life to that vicious beast? I must forget everything I saw in his mind, the horrors, the corruption, the sheer black-hearted evil, and remember only what he felt for her? How he fought and would have died for her? That he and Angel finally fought together to win her life? I must tell her how he sacrificed himself for her? Would have stayed down there in that dreadful place, in her stead? That he *loves* her and would undo every single hurt he has ever done her if he knew how? And yet he remains a murderer, a torturer, a beast that is the antithesis of everything that she holds dear. He’s almost as insane as Drusilla! You haven’t seen the trail of blood and body parts that he has left behind him here in the last few weeks, but I suppose you are as bad as he is. You couldn’t care less. You probably enjoy the depravity as much as he does. How should I hand her over to spend her life with *that*? I may have been charged to tell her, but I cannot, and will not!”

He is breathing heavily now, his lungs almost sobbing with emotion, and I use these precious moments in which he tries to calm himself to sip my tea. That is to hide my own astonishment. If I sift what he has said carefully, I will be able to deduce much more, but even the most superficial interpretation would have taken my breath away, if I needed to breathe.

“You m It It is Ma’at. It is the right way of doing things. And I tell you this, Watcher. I have seen the waters of Nun. They are rising. You must fulfil your charge.”

It sounds good, while I have chance to think. *Who*, I wonder, would have charged him with such a thing? Who, or what? And it seems clear that he went with Angelus. How? Why? Why did Angelus not say? And if he did go there, why does he remember? That is a critical part of the magic of the Underworld. Those who travel there remember nothing of their stay. Yet he does. Does Angelus? I should have asked more questions of the boy. The trouble is, my people seem to think that I am omniscient, and I don’t wish to disabuse them… Pride. I have too much pride, sometimes.

And Angelus is painting the town red. Literally. He hadn’t seemed to be so unbalanced to me, but the mere fact of his suicidal challenge is an indication of the stress he must be under. If he needs straightening out again, I must see to it, before I let him return here. The Watcher has fought down his anger now, and responds to me.

“No. I won’t. And don’t you bare your fangs at me. If you kill me, she can never be told.”

I am impressed by his nerve. This is a very unusual Watcher. It is true that I have put on my game face. It is much more demonic than the ones that he will have seen before. As we age, our demon face ages and matures, from the softer more infantile features of our youth to the harsher planes and angles of the mature demon. A little like the picture of Dorian Gray, I suppose. It’s a process that never stops. We never lose the ability to revert to our normal human form whenever we wish – well, most of us. Nest was an exception, of course. Remember how, when you pulled a face, or looked miserable, your mother would say to you, ‘Your face will stick like that one day’? Well, his sire should have told him that more often. Or made him stronger. She spoiled and indulged him, and you saw the result.

And he is right. I may threaten this Watcher, but I cannot kill him. He is part of what is to come. I sit back, and resume my everyday face. And I wonder just what I will have to tell this man in order to restore Ma’at. I barely have time, though, to collect my thoughts, when two young women hurry in. The red-haired one starts talking excitedly, before she realises that he is not alone.

“Giles, we think we’ve found what it…”

She sees me and trails off. I know what they are by their scent. Witches. He doesn’t introduce me and, since this is his place, I do not show up his discourtesy by introducing myself. Besides, I might learn more if they don’t know who I am…

We are all silent, in a very *measuring* way. Into that silence comes a tiny sound that the humans certainly won’t hear. It’s the scuff of fur and leather on floor as a sleek black cat pads into the room. She takes a look around and then instantly launches herself at one of the witches, wrapping herself around an ankle and digging in with all her claws.

At least it brings to an end the silent standoff. A cat’s claws can *really* hurt, as I know from experience. Sekhmet has, from time to time, punished me in an equivalent but larger scale fashion.

“Ouch! Miss Kitty! Stop it.” The witch is trying not to hurt the cat whilst disengaging her. The other two go to help.

“Why has she started doing this? Oh, come on Miss Kitty. Stop it, you’re hurting.”

In the end, it is the cat who decides when enough is enough. She releases the witch, and then trots over to me. One lithe bound and she is on my knee, her forepaws wrapped around my neck as she rubs her cheek against mine. Cats always recognise their own.

The witch – she must be the one called Tara, I think – needs attention. Her wounds are bleeding. The Watcher fetches water and disinfectant, and I hold onto Miss Kitty. She’s a very wise creature. She has helped me.

When the wounds have been tended, the Watcher moves over towards me.

“Thank you for calling by. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Mr Giles. And I do believe these young ladies need some help with their cat. Was there another cup of tea left in that pot?”

The Watcher almost audibly grinds his teeth at my brazen refusal to leave, but he obediently puts the kettle back on and makes tea for all of us. Miss Kitty has inspected my eyes, ears and nose, and pronounced herself satisfied with my health. She now starts to sniff at areas that are not mentioned in polite society and I distract her by pulling her ears a little. She licks my finger, taking in my taste. She finds that she can trust me, and she settles onto my lap and watches her possessions with interest.

I can tell that the witches are a little disconcerted at the lack of introductions, but they don’t question. It is Tara who asks what they both want to know.

“Did you say that you could help us find out why Miss Kitty makes these vicious attacks?”

“Miss Kitty? Is that her name?”

“Miss Kitty Fantastico,” she replies, shyly.

“And you think that she is being vicious?”

“You saw her. She attacked for nothing. And she hurt me. My ankles would be covered in scars if…”

She trails off, unwilling to disclose that they magic them away. At least, that is my assumption.

“Tell me about Miss Kitty Fantastico. Did she do this as a kitten?”

“No. And that was such a surprise. Her mother was running wild, and Miss Kitty had never been handled, so you would expect her to scratch, but she loved us from the start.”

She becomes very animated, talking about her beloved cat, and I see the affection with which her girlfriend is looking at her. I can also see the sour expression on the Watcher’s face, so I keep mine carefully neutral. There are many little anecdotes - I love the story of the laundry and I tell her so. We all laugh together, although the Watcher is struggling. I suspect that this wise young cat has been caught up, right from her first adoption into this family, in the magic that wraps around these two young women. No cat is an ordinary creature, but I think she is more extraordinary than most. Miss Kitty certainly thinks she is.

Then Tara tells me about the change. The witches recognise that, with all their duties, they were spending less and less time with Miss Kitty. They tried, but she was alone for much of the day. Miss Kitty started hunting things. Her first kills were brought home dead, but then she started bringing live prey to them – rats, mice, birds, lizards – and was told firmly that she should not. She started going with them when they accompanied the Slayer and again was told that she should not. She took to lying in doorways, and on the front doorstep, so that people fell over her, and was told to find somewhere else to rest. The final straw came when she brought in a small Kathor demon, quite dead. She was scolded for that – the women, terrified that their pet might have been hurt, put too much of their fear into the anger of their words to her. After that, she started attacking their ankles.

This is a better opportunity than I had hoped for. I summarise.

“So, Miss Kitty is wild, but allows herself to be tamed by you? She sees something in you that speaks to her? And at first, she has all your love and attention, but then you have to leave her alone for large parts of the day?”

“Yes.”

“She watches you. She smells you. She tries to understand what you have been doing, what takes you away from her? And she marks you, more and more, by rubbing her head against you, smearing you with her scent, her signs of ownership?”

They both nod vigorously.

“She proclaims to the world that you are hers, and that anything that hurts you will have to reckon with her.”

“She does?” They look sceptical.

“Yes. That is how she thinks of you. She starts to hunt, to find a way to help you. She knows, after all, that you yourselves are hunters; that you must be the best hunters that you can, for you are involved in a dangerous game. She declares her own territory, warns off other predators, keeps down vermin. She brings home first her dead kills, so that you can see what she is about. She might even think that you will be interested in eating them – you are to her in place of her kittens, you know. Then she brings home live prey. Since she has realized that you spend time yourselves hunting dangerous prey, she wishes to teach you everything she can about hunting.”

They wait, trying to understand.

“You scold her for this. She doesn’t comprehend why, but ts ths that she has not understood her role in your lives, or you in hers. She doesn’t know what you want of her. She starts to go with you, so that she can better understand. So that she can adapt, if necessary. So that she can become what you want her to be, or teach you what you need to be. And so that she can keep you safe. She is scolded for this, too, and you continue to spend less time with her, excluding her from your lives. She is becoming confused.

“She tries something else. She knows that you do dangerous things. She may be only a cat, but she has been touched by your magic, and she is bonded to you. You are hers, to protect. She starts to guard the entrances to the rooms where you are, and to your home. Anything coming for you must get past her first. You are not pleased with her for this.”

“Then she meets something that really does threaten you. Regardless of the danger to herself, she enters the fight for you and slays a demon. She brings it home to show you. To warn you in case there are more. You scold her, and seem to reject her.

The witches start to look alarmed, and, for the first time, the Watcher seems to be taking an interest. He knows that I am telling them something born of my own experience, giving them an understanding that they did not have before, but he suspects I am also going to talk about more than just the cat. He is correct.

“Now, she has no idea of her place in your life, or what she needs to do to please you and to protect you. She isn’t even sure whether you still love her. She hits out at you in her distress. That is when the ankle biting starts. Perhaps she is testing herself, to see whether she can stop loving those who have rejected her, but I think that she does it because you have hurt her, and she loves you. She does it to test you. What part of her do you love? You didn’t seem to love her enough when she was trying her hardest. Perhaps you will love her when she is as bad as she can be. Perhaps she is trying to see whether you *can* still love her, love all of her, everything she is, let her have a role in your life, as you have a role in hers. Can you truly love the duality of her nature, as a devoted companion and a consummate, obligate killer?

“It will be much more complicated than that, but if you understand this much, then you can solve the problem, with a little effort.”

The two of them have now caught up to the Watcher in their understanding, and I see something that I did not expect. Sympathy.

The red-head, Willow, says, “So that is why he is… why Miss Kitty is so aggressive?”

“Events are different, so the logical analogy is not exact, but it is a good working model, yes.”

The Watcher is sitting hunched in his chair, his chin sunk onto his chest. I hope that my work here is done. I feel my companion close behind me, and stand up to go, putting Miss Kitty gently on the floor.

“It was an… interesting… discussion, Mr Giles, and I am pleased to have met you. I hope that the next time we meet it will be in pleasanter circumstances. Please heed my words. I should not like us to have to revisit this same topic. Ladies… I take my leave of you. Tara. Willow.” I, at least, will show that I know who they are. “I thank you for the services I believe you have rendered to my adopted childe. Deal with Miss Kitty more on her terms, and the ankle biting will cease, I promise. Oh, and there is nod tod to tell Angelus that I was here. Good night.”

The witches are now openly gaping, because they start to understand what I am. And they have seen my companion. I turn to leave and find that Sekhmet is sitting quietly in the doorway, waiting for me. Miss Kitty knows who she is, and is rubbing against her, marking her as her own. She has a huge heart, that cat. The difference in size and offensive capability is laughable. Sekhmet smiles at me, amused, and bends her head to her distant relative. Gently, she wipes her cheek along Miss Kitty’s back. The local hooligan cats will think several times before squaring up to her, at least for a while, until the scent wears off. I stroll out with my Sire, leaving behind me an astonished silence. Perhaps I’ve taken so much of Angelus’ blood in recent years that some of his characteristics are rubbing off on me. I do so love to make an exit nowadays. No, I’ll be honest. I always have.

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

The Lady sits quietly on the ornate little chair that is reserved for her very occasional visits. Across the table from her, the senior of the Hylekian Seers puts away the instruments of her trade. The casting is complete, and both women … beings … are agreed. Nothing short of catastrophe awaits unless they take the right actions now.

“There can be no shrinking from this, and it must be done now.”

The Lady nods her agreement. The Hylekian Seers are the best in all the dimensions. By tomorrow, there can be none left. The Adrasti Seers are almost as good. They, too, must be disposed of. No other prophets or seers exist in this time who are good enough, or have enough power, to be a danger. Just the Hylekians and the Adrasti. That is bad enough.

“All the necessary information is now available to those who need it?”

The Hylekian pours more tea. “Yes. Only one piece remains, and that will be put in place tonight.”

“There is no other way?” The Lady knows and respects each of these Seers. She loves this woman.

“No. If we are moved to live in another dimension, we will be found. If we stay here, even if we seclude ourselves under the King’s protection, that will bring war to this plane and we will be found. We cannot run far enough or fast enough to correct the balance. Only if Ma’at is restored can anything be saved. After tonight, those concerned must be guided by nothing except their own instincts, their own powers. That is the only route to Ma’at. Nothing else succeeds. Nothing. In all other possibilities prophecy piles on prophecy and they are paralysed by doubt or they take the wrong path. There is no margin for error here, none at all. There must be no Seers in our two worlds. No other species represent such a danger, but after we are gone, you and the Duality are the only ones who can ensure that there are no others, unforeseen, on other worlds. Not for more than a hundred years. Without us to teach the new generation, there will be no new seers in our two home worlds for centuries. Yet we will be where and when we need to be, with all our powers intact, not diluted by the travails of other existences. My Lady, much as it pains us both, this must be.”

“Are the others prepared?”

“Yes. They will follow where you lead. The ones who have been prepared come for them tonight.”

The Lady smiles, and tes hes her hand to the old woman’s brow. “I shall be waiting for you to join your brothers and sisters. I promise, it will only hurt for an instant. And I thank you.”

A moment later, she is gone, and the Seer waits for her next visitor. Whilst she does so, she puts away The Lady’s chair. It won’t be needed again, but she will not allow it to be defiled by this creature’s hellish profanity. She has other things to do before he comes, and those tasks, too, she finishes. He arrives punctually.

He is handsome, a young man, younger than she expected, and yet older in corruption than she cares to think. He is flawed. Weak. She has watched his progress, as she has watched the progress of others. He doesn’t know her, but she knows him. She knows what waits for him back in the city called Los Angeles. He stands politely on the doorstep, waiting to be invited in.

“Come in Mr…?”

He does not give his name, just walks into her house and stands quietly by the table: the table where her casting is done. Despite his patient stance, there is an air of restlessness about him, of almost manic energy. She closes the door and crosses the room until she is standing by her own chair. She motions him to sit in the solid, workmanlike piece of furniture that has replaced the Lady’s more delicate chair, and she does likewise. She takes out the tools of her trade – the ones that are left, that she has not burned so as to put them out of his reach.

“There is an Apocalypse coming. There are things we need to know, and you are said to be the best Seer in all the dimensions. I can pay you well.”

“Payment is unnecessary. I give you this information freely, with the single condition that you act on it, exactly as will be foretold.” She knows he’ll do that anyway.

He looks surprised at that.

“What about others? Have there been others asking about it? What have you told them?”

“I have told them only what they needed to know, and none of them will know what I tell you. You have a special role to play.”

He looks mildly pleased by that. She dislikes him intensely, but then he won’t be what he currently is for very long. He is due for some changes. Changes for the better. In the long run.

She reads for him. She tells him what he needs to hear. No. She tells him what she and The Lady need him to know. Some of it is even true. As she reads, she sees many other things, some of which make her want to laugh out loud, and some of which make her want to cry. She tells him nothing of these things. It is knowledge that belongs to others, not to this man.

Then she is done. She sits back from the last reading of her life, and waits for what is to come. He has made notes, and he tucks these away into his coat pocket. He rises, his hand still thrusting his papers into his pocket and steps away from the table. That brings him nearer to her. Suddenly, there is a knife in his hand, and then it isn’t. Now, its hilt is standing proud of her breast, in a spreading stain of scarlet, and The Lady was right: it does, indeed, only hurt for a moment. As her sight darkens, she hears him say, “Thank you, Seer. Oh, and the name’s McDonald, Lindsey McDonald, of Wolfram & Hart. If it makes your death any harder, let me tell you that all your other seers are dead now, in Hylek and Adras. There’ll be no one to provide guidance to Angel ever again.”

She almost smiles, that this creature has done so thoroughly exactly what was needed. It would never do to let him see her triumph, though. She knows that he will ransack her house, but he will find nothing. She has disposed of it all in one way or another. There will be nothing to mislead the champions, nothing to prevent them from guiding creation out of the coming holocaust. She hopes.

And then she is crossing an area of black sand, towards some towering cliffs. Far in the distance, she sees a cluster of dark figures, bent over a paler form, curled up on the ground against their attacks. Suddenly, the paler figure rises to his feet and tries to run away from the horrors that have been tormenting him. He has no strength, though, bleeding as he is from many wounds. She knows who he is, why he is here, and her heart cracks at the thought of what he will be forced to endure. But it is necessary. There must be Ma’at. His sacrifice will be weighed in the balance, and will make the difference between life and death for creation. Or at the very least, for this corner of it. For these dimensions.

Unable to watch his suffering any longer, she turns her back to him and trudges through the shifting sand to the black cliffs. When she arrives, she finds a darksome passage. Undaunted, she enters, and finds The Lady waiting there for her. They greet each other warmly, these two who have known each other for a very long time indeed. The Lady leads the Seer through the passage and into the heart of the cliffs: into that crystal chamber of light. There are many, many tunnels here, and we have seen some of them before. Now? The Lady leads the Seer to a small, separate chamber. Around the walls, which glisten in delicate shades of green and purple and blue, the colours of oil on water in the sunlight, are niches. Each niche contains a crystalline form of coruscating light, filled with colour, and radiating power. Each one is the life force, the soul, of a seer. Everything they were, everything they still are, everything they might be, their power intact. They are dreaming. One niche is empty. The Lady embraces her friend, and then the niche is no longer empty. The chamber is complete.

Without a backward glance, The Lady leaves the chamber and walks out towards the black sand. She has another errand to perform here. There is something she must do first, though.

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

I dream of Palestrina often, although not many of my dreams are like those I have had today. An echo of her is with me always; when I am awake I remember her, as clearly as if her portrait were hung on my wall, but it sometimes seems that she can push through the barrier between us when I dream. It is as if we meet in a dream reality that is hers and mine alone. At these times, she is more real. Today is one of those rare times.

Angelus returned last night from his task in France, and I am well pleased. He could havken ken Marseilles from Françoise, but he didn’t. Almost certainly, his restraint was for selfish reasons, but he will learn the advantages of retaining allies, of having others who have obligations to him. He isn’t stupid.

I summoned him to my bed this morning, and he was less well pleased about that. He and Françoise have been discovering each other, and I think they had hoped to discover some more. I have precedence, though.

Like all vampires, I will rut with anything, if needs must, although it is many centuries since I was put in the position of needs must. If I cannot have Palestrina yet, I will have the brightest and the best among my clan. My own childer are always firm favourites, of course, but Angelus is one of the most seductive vampires I know. I’m happy to consider myself seduced – and to return the favour. I do know he has no complaints about what he finds here.

I have come to love him. He has always hated me with a passion, ever since I branded him as mine, since I remade him a little in the sight of Darla and the clan masters, since I put my mark on his shoulder. I would like to think that his feelings now were more…ambiguous, but that might be putting it too strongly.

Up until now, when I have called for him, he has always responded to my touch – he is too sensual a creature not to – but there has always been a core of restraint. I have always had to lead, and he has obeyed. y, ty, though, he has offered, and I have followed where he led. I am still the dominant partner – my position requires nothing less – but I have given myself over to the feel of his hand on my skin, stroking; the touch of his mouth, murmuring words of desire; the insistent pressure of his body, in an invitation of submission. I have lost myself in him, and he in me.

When we at last fell asleep, I dreamt of Palestrina. She came to me as I last saw her, dressed in robes of the richest, most vibrant reds, with a shawl the colour of old blood, warm against her creamy skin, wrapped around her head, hiding all but her eyes. She has eyes as black as the Egyptian night, sparkling with mischief and with love. Despite the fact that I was sated and content, I wanted her, more, even, than I have wanted her before. How I shall survive until she is returned to me, I cannot imagine.

It doesn’t do to have the clan master unable to control himself, even in sleep, so after the first dream, I sent Angelus back to his bed, and then I gave myself over to her. The minion doing the laundry will find nothing unremarkable – just a few extra stains, unnoticed amongst the remnants of the day’s other passion. I shall be as close to my soul mate as is possible with the unrisen dead. And Angelus, that master of self-control, will not know my weakness. Angelus offering himself freely, and Palestrina almost real. Today is a day to remember.

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

I’m in that crypt again, with the altar draped in purple and white. Deepest purple, almost black. Purest white. This time Spike and Drusilla are not here, although I can hear them talking somewhere, and I know that there is not much time. My mate is stretched out naked on the altar, the chains digging in to her flesh, reddening the skin beneath. I do not want that.

I reach over her and, breast to breast with her, release the manacles. She shudders with desire as my skin catches her nipples. I move down the altar to release her feet and cannot resist tasting her femininity, feeding on her need.

The alter is large enough, and I do not try to move her, simply run my palms gently over her golden skin, caressing her flanks, feeling with my fingertips every rise and fall of bone in her rib cage, thrilling to the softness of her breasts.

She looks at me, that ‘come hither’ look that now, more than ever, has its fist around my cock, and there is love in her smoky eyes. There is something else there, too, something that I can’t recall having seen before, something *old* and powerful. It beckons me on, and I lean towards her lips. Then I am kissing her with all the passion I have ever felt, and her legs are wrapped around my waist, and I am sliding into her, the prodigal come home.

I feel my desire rising even more within the heat of her embrace, and she urges me on, her need matching my own in every respect. And then we are lost in each other’s arms, lost to the world, lost in everything except the moment and the orgasm explodes within us both, and I’m slipping away from myself and…

I’m awake, my shout of ecstasy echoing across the tiled room, and damn me, but I’ve had a *wet dream*! When the hell did I last have a wet dream? Never, as a vampire. Never have I lost so much control.

What is happening to me?

I’m back at Aurelius’ palace, and after that lapse, can only be grateful that I’m in my own room, and not in Aurelius’ bed. I’ve been e, ee, earlier, his partner in a day of strangely affectionate joining. Despite my resentment of being forced to submit to him, he has never left me unsatisfied. He has always given me the most exquisite pleasure. I am an extremely good lover, the best, really, and so I should be at two hundred and fifty years old. Think of the experience I have. Then, try to imagine the expertise of a vampire twenty times my age.

I have never treated him as a lover, though, never opened myself to him of my own free will. I have obeyed him implicitly, and I have met his every wish. I have been the recipient of his attentions. Tonight, I remembered his care of me after our combat, in the shower and afterwards. I wanted something different. I wanted to exert myself to please him. Let’s not dwell on why, I just did, alright? Afterwards, I was content to stay there, locked within his eternal embrace, but he was restless in sleep, and let me go. I thought it odd at the time, but I can only think myself fortunate now. It wouldn’t have done for him to see this. Whilst I clean myself up, I’m wondering what to do next. There are so many options.

I have sent Drusilla back to Sunnydale, and made no claim on Marseilles. Oh, I did consider it, and I did think about leaving Drusilla there to hold it for me. But it’s too far away, and would be more trouble than it’s worth. I decided to hand it back, and Françoise was pleased with me for that. That may be useful to me in the future. Well, she was pleased with me in other ways, too. We’ve had fun, and I wouldn’t mind staying for a longer holiday with her. That is one of my options. She threw out some extremely subtle hints that she is currently without a mate, but I didn’t pick them up. I’m a prime candidate, obviously – well, you didn’t expect me to show any false modesty, did you? But I already have a mate. She is another of my options.

For days now, I have felt a change in Buffy through the link that we have. The link is weakened by distance, and attenuated by lack of renewal, by our own emotional distance, if you will, but it remains. It will always remain. Always. Unless the clan master casts her off, that is, but even then, it cannot be broken, simply weakened enough to allow her to survive my death. She has largely succeeded in cutting herself off from it, not allowing me access to her, but I have felt something. And that something has changed.

She must be facing difficult times or hard choices. She is full of anger, just as she was before I left Sunnydale, but now it is tainted with fear. My people would have contacted me if there were anything happening in Sunnydale, anything untoward, so she can’t be in any real danger. Still, I feel uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s time to go home.

I’m wondering if that might be a problem with Aurelius – he seems to want to keep me around, but last time I was here, he kept me for months. Now, I’ve got things to do. I’m not staying for that long again. It’s not yet sunset, although not so long away, but it’s impossible to set off now. However, the more I think about it, the more I believe that Aurelius has had quite enough of my time. Tonight, I leave for home.

There’s a rustle of activity, and that change in the air that tells us some one is at the door. A minion approaches Aurelius and bows low before whispering something so qly tly that no one else can hear. Aurelius looks startled, and it takes a lot to startle him. The emotion is very fleeting, though, and he now wears that urbane expression that you use to greet people whose business with you is unclear but quite possibly unwelcome. There’s another waft of air from outside, the sound of hurrying footsteps and in comes … well, well, well. It’s Ripper.

He’s very crumpled in appearance, both his clothes and himself. He’s clearly been travelling non-stop, and hasn’t even taken time to freshen up. I can feel something rising up from the pit of my stomach. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and I can’t remember the last time I felt it. Panic. This is about my Slayer. My mate. I hope that I manage to suppress any sign of that in my face, but it’s even harder to keep back my demon countenance.

Aurelius has wiped the surprise off his face and is greeting the Watcher cordially. Ripper stops in front of him. His expression is so curdled that he looks as if he’s about to go into a demon face of his own.

“I haven’t come here to make trouble. Willow scried out where to find you. I need to speak to Angelus. Alone. Please.”

Colour everyone surprised, but me most of all.

“You may speak to both of us.”

Ripper nods, and Aurelius leads us into his own chambers. One of the rooms in that spacious suite is a cosy den with comfortable, over-stuffed armchairs. As we seat ourselves, he calls for a minion, gives his instructions in an undertone, and then sends him on his way.

“My servant will return in a few minutes. Perhaps we should wait until then.”

Small talk would normally be the order of the day, but the Watcher has none. He does have a death grip on the arm of the chair, his knuckles white with tension. He is radiating fear, but not fear of us – it would be a grave mistake to think that. He is clearly many miles away in his thoughts, oblivious to the splendours around him, and the panic in me ratchets up a little more. OK, a lot. But I can still feel her. She isn’t dead. She isn’t dead. I want to keep saying that, like a protective mantra.

So, no small talk, and we simply look at each other.

Then, the minion is back, followed by another. He has brought fresh fruit juice, tiny sticky sweetmeats, stuffed dates, finger-sized slices of melon. Mint tea. And a basin of steaming, citrus-scented water, with hot moist towels, so that Giles can clean himself up. I can’t imagine where he got them so quickly.

As the minions leave, Aurelius tells Giles, “Please, refresh yourself as we speak. Nothing there will cause you harm, you have my word.”

Giles looks surprised at that reassurance, but takes a towel and wipes it over his sweaty, slightly begrimed, face. Under cover of that act, he lets out a small, tired sigh. I think he forgets how good our hearing is, but we do not remind him. When he speaks, it is into the towel, his face covered and downcast, as if he cannot bear to see what he is doing.

“Buffy is missing. Faith went to find her, and now she is also missing. I have nowhere else to turn.”

The growl comes from me, quite unbidden. So does my mantra. She isn’t dead. She isn’t dead. I can still feel her. She can’t be dead. Can she? I remember that crystal cavern in those hollow hills in the Underworld. Those passages where I found her when she died. I found her because I could feel her. The link was still there. Let this not be the same. Please let this not be the same.

I feel some difficulty with my fingers, they are stiff and won’t respond. When I look down I have shredded the upholstery, and my claws are caught in the rags.

I’m fighting for control, now. I must not appear out of control in front of a human. *This* human, who, if my mate and I are to be together, must be part of my own court. She will never accept it otherwise. She isn’t dead. I didn’t go through all *that* for nothing! I must keep control.

But, oh, the madness is rising. I want to rend and tear and rage and howl. I want to slaughter everyone and everything standing between my mate and me. And I finally understand something. Buffy is my sheet anchor. She is the one that holds me in check, who gives me a purpose other than destruction. She makes me somet…oth…other… I don’t know how or why, I just know that it *is*. You had better hope that I get her back quickly, and that she lives a long, long life. Without her, the world will most certainly burn. And you along with it. Word of a demon.

I force myself back into my human form. Giles still has the towel over his face. I haven’t been out of control for long, then.

“Ripper.” It’s good to remind him of who he can be. I might need that. He looks up, letting the towel fall to his lap. His face is haggard, his expression desperate. He must be, to come to me.

“Ripper. What was she doing when she went missing? Tell me everything.”

He gathers himself with an effort. He knows that he is no use to her if he goes to pieces. He has held himself together so far, and he can do it a little longer. So can I.

He begins to talk. Sometimes he pauses for a few moments, and eats or drinks from the tray by his elbow. He isn’t stoppior ror refreshment, though. He’s pausing to gather his thoughts, and absently helping himself as he does so. His mind is only on her and what might have happened. Knowing this, I manage not to rip the sweetmeats out of his hand, not to smash the jug of fruit juice against the wall, not to grasp him by the throat and force him to speak more quickly.

We hear what he says. There were werewolves, outside the period of full moon, werewolves acting in concert, Oz amongst them. Surely not? Neither of those concepts is likely. Unless…

Aurelius has remained silent all this time. I look to him.

“I fought a dragon a few weeks ago. It was a demon the size of a house, a primitive thing but very powerful. It had come through the rift in the dimensions. The one opened by that godling, Glory.” The rift that Buffy closed with her own life, I want to say. The rift that killed her, and sent me after her into the lands of death.

“Is it possible that something else has come through, something that has control of the werewolves? That can force an incomplete change on them outside the full moon?”

As he considers his answer, I consider something else. When Oz bit me I was, for a short time, almost beyond control. I was in gripgrip of a rage so overwhelming, so unreasoning, that I was in danger of becoming simply a primitive, elemental demon driven only by my lust for the kill. I enjoy the kill, we all know that, but nike ike that. And not only the kill. Then I mastered it. Mystical tests showed that I had converted the matter and energy that was the werewolf infection into an increase in power for me. But something remained. Something that other werewolves would recognise.

Since returning from the Underworld, I have on occasion felt that same rage trying to rise within me. I think it has fuelled my actions sometimes. I think it is wrapped up now with my own rage that my mate is missing. Is it the same thing that has enslaved this planet’s werewolves? Is this the same influence that I feel, trying to summon me to join them, but diluted, controlled by my own demon? (‘Or the unknown sloe-eyed woman,’ something inside me whispers.) Can this help us?

Ripper knows most of this, but Aurelius, so far as I know, does not, and so I tell him. I don’t mention the woman, though. I don’t want them to think I’m having hallucinations. I kthatthat I will go to where she was last seen, and I will be able to track her. I know that I will face anything that might come between her and me. Everything within me is screaming to go and do that *now* but I cannot, of course. Sunset is not yet on us, and I am no good to her dead from overexposure. I will most certainly go tonight, but it would be helpful to have some idea of what I might be up against. Aurelius seems to come to the same conclusion.

“Angelus, you and Mr Giles will look at maps now, and make sure that you know where you are going. You will tell whoever is here to start researching with the resources available here. Mr Giles, you will be assigned a bedchamber and you *will* get some rest, since you will be no good to Angelus or the Slayers if you are dead on your feet. You may join the research team later. Angelus, you will ensure that the Watcher has everything for his comfort.

“It is a pity that almost all my childer have left after our gathering. Japheth would have been particularly useful, but he had other pressing duties. I think enough remain, though. I am going to see if I can find other help elsewhere. I shall be back before daybreak. You will not leave here until I have seen you again. You may use these rooms, both of you. Angelus, I leave you in charge of the operation.”

Without a fur wor word, without giving either of us a chance to respond or question, he has left the room. I hear him in the great hall outside, telling his people to look to me for instructions, and then there is nothing else to do but get on with it. We follow him into the hall, to find astonishment and much interest. Françoise is still here and she has a particularly smug look on her face, as if something had happened that she expected – I must ask her about that later – but right now, we have work to do.

**************
Continued in chapter 7