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Part ThreeSiobhan watched the Slayer foil her attempt to burn down the home of the Watcher who’d helped ruin her plans so many years ago. Damn, were all the vampires in this piddling little town such fools?
No matter. She had dozens at her disposal, and plenty of time in which to exact her revenge. There would be a time when Willow Rosenberg, or Emily Harding, or Regan Leary would let their guard down, and she’d be ready. Maybe a house burning, maybe a massed attack, maybe she’d just blow up the whole damn town. Subtlety was for those without the guts for a direct attack.
She studied the scene intently, looking for security systems, anti-vampire paraphernalia, the works, for future reference. If at first you don’t succeed, get a bigger gun.
As she turned around, intent on heading towards the center of town to find someone to kill, drain, and disembowel, not necessarily in that order, she stopped short at the mocking applause of the vampire down the street. This wasn’t one of the ones she’d intimidated around nightfall, this was an independent one. She could feel the power, and intelligence, radiating from him.
Well. Best to find out what he wanted now. That way, she could know whether or not she needed to kill him.
“Something about this amuses you, boyo?” she asked him.
“It does, actually,” he answered. “I was just thinking how I thought I was the direct type, and you make me look like a bloody puppeteer by comparison. I’m all for charging blindly forward now and again, but there are times when the direct approach just doesn’t work.”
“I’m still alive after 200 years, Englishman,” Siobhan snarled.
“So I notice. You and me have something in common.”
This bozo’s wordiness was really pissing her off. “Oh?” she asked irritably. “What’s that?”
“We both want revenge on some of the people living in this pathetic little no-horse town. The name’s Spike.”
“Siobhan,” she said. So this was Spike? She’d heard of him, all right. Killed three Slayers, and very inventive with the torture devices. “So, what did you have in mind? I know there’s an old railroad in town. You want me to hold them down while you pound the spikes through their skulls, or what?”
“I had something a tad more sophisticated in mind, actually,” he said.
“What? Boiling them in their own blood? I’ve heard of your rep, Spike; I heard how you killed that Kendra bitch after she laid waste to your girlfriend. Anything you have in mind, I’m game for.”
“Thumbtacks have their uses, but no. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Orb of the Savior …?”
And as Siobhan heard Spike’s plan, despite its sophistication, she found herself nodding in enthusiastic agreement, her red hair waving in the wind.
* * *
“She’s always come home before, Cordy.” Cordelia Chase Harris was watching out the bedroom window nervously, as she did every night their daughter went out Slaying. Despite the words, Xander couldn’t really fall asleep either. Not for the first time — not for the fortieth time, really — he wished for the ignorance, the bliss, of Joyce Summers. He’d rather believe his daughter was crazy, psychotic, or a bad seed, than to know the truth.
And the problem was, he and Cordy knew it had to be done, and never once had either of them come out with the question, “Why my daughter?” They knew why their daughter. That was making it all the worse, as there was no one to be pissed at. It wasn’t Willow’s fault, it wasn’t Regan’s fault, it was the fault of whoever controlled these situations. Presumably, this was God, and there was no point getting angry at him.
So the two of them waited, night after night, praying and hoping for their daughter the Slayer to come home; hoping that this night would not be the night that Regan or Willow called them with the bad news.
So far they’d been lucky. But they knew — they knew — that the only way the Slayer survived was when something like what happened to Emily happened. And even this was rare; in the Watcher Diaries there were records of only seven in history that had done so — and the Diaries extended back over two millennia.
And they couldn’t protect their daughter, except when she was at home. Not that they weren’t both in good shape for their mid-40s — they still had it in them to take down a vampire or two, and had in fact done so — but their daughter could outbenchpress both of them put together by a factor of around three, and could beat them up blindfolded.
Xander was proud of Buffy, and he knew Cordy was too. It was just … there was nowhere to aim their stress but inward.
“I know,” his wife finally answered. “I just won’t be able to sleep until I know know, you know?” Xander walked over and put an arm around Cordy’s shoulder. After a second her arm came back. Their marriage was still strong; they still loved each other as much as they ever had. They’d never had any other children, though not for want of trying. A doctor had told them that Buffy’s birth had been something of a miracle; that Cordelia produced ten times fewer eggs than the average. And it was then that the nature of Buffy’s dying gift to Cordelia had become clear. She’d given them their daughter.
And while much of the passion was gone —
That hadn’t been a result of age or attrition. It was a result of Buffy’s Slaying activities. The last time the two of them had made love had been — God! — late last summer, on their vacation to California to visit ‘Grandma Joyce.’ Joyce Summers was still alive — in her late sixties, and still running her art gallery. She’d cried when Xander had told her his daughter’s name.
They just couldn’t relax enough to be in the mood, either of them, while Buffy was in danger.
Xander was brought out of his thoughts, and gratefully so, by the sight of four people coming through the front gate, and down the driveway. Buffy, with Willow, and Emily —
— and Regan. That was the other thing that bothered them. Buffy’s life, entrusted to that psychopath. Yes, she was smart, yes, she was tough, yes, she could behead a vampire with her fingernails, and yes, if she wasn’t a Watcher she’d be a serial killer. But Willow and Emily trusted her implicitly, and their only other choice would have been to take Buffy and move to someplace without vampires …
… like, say, Sunnydale.
Puzzled, confused, they threw on some clothes and jogged downstairs to open the door. With nods for greetings, the four women walked in. Eyes narrowed, Cordelia walked over to her daughter and guided her to the main couch in the living room.
“What’s going on?” Xander asked sharply. “Why are all four of you coming here now? What’s wrong with my daughter?”
Willow, Emily and Regan looked at each other; finally, as Xander was just about to reach his limit of patience, Willow said, “All of you, sit down. We, um, we have news. Some of it’s good!”
“Most of it isn’t,” Regan said. Willow flashed her a hurt look, and the pale blonde continued, “No sense in letting them stay delusional. They need to know about it, and soon.”
“Agreed.” Willow took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you the good news, then. Four vampires tried to burn my house down tonight.”
Cordy said, “This is their idea of good news? What’s the bad news? Is the world coming to an end?” She looked around at everyone’s face and said, “Oh, no. No. We’re done with that.” Wildly, she looked at Xander. “Tell her, Xander! Tell her this family’s done enough!”
Willow blurted out quickly, “The good news is that Buffy saved all of us —”
Grimacing, Xander said, pleadingly, “Will. We’ve been through this three times before …” No answer. “Grab your things, Cordy. We’re getting the hell out of town.”
Regan’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Let me quote you something,” the Watcher hissed. “Running away? Gee, Will, why didn’t I think of that? You know, Slayerette standards have really slipped recently. They’ll let anyone in these days.”
Xander yanked his wrist out of the Watcher’s grip. “Cordy and I gave up being Slayerettes eighteen years ago.”
“You can’t run away from prophecy, Xander,” Emily said.
“Watch us,” Cordelia said grimly. “Buffy, go upstairs and pack. We’re going to visit Grandma Joyce.”
“No, we’re not,” Buffy Harris said, not moving from her seat on the couch. “I have to stay here. There’s something I need to do.”
A terrible sense of dread overtook Xander at that moment. “What is it?” he asked, although there was no answer he’d want to hear.
“First things first,” Willow told him. He sat by his wife on the couch and they listened to what the three had to tell.
Spike was bad enough. Then there was another prophecy.
Then there was the result of that prophecy.
Why her? Why them?
He shook his head. They’d evaded a prophecy before.
They’d do it again.
* * *
Galen Petrillo smoothly maneuvered his rental car into the hotel parking lot. New Glenbury wasn’t large enough to warrant more than one hotel, and it wasn’t really that good. But that wasn’t a problem. No one would suspect the reclusive multimillionaire Galen Petrillo of staying at a place that looked as lower-middle class as the Glenbury Chalet, which despite its name looked nothing like anything you’d find in Switzerland.
Checking in was no problem; he had three false names he registered under, on a rotating basis, and high quality false IDs and credit cards in each name. He made his way to his rooms — a two-room suite, the best the Chalet had to offer. He spread the printouts out on the bed he wouldn’t use and then went about rearranging the room to his specifications.
Then, when he was satisfied, he packed up his anti-vampire materiel and headed out into the New Glenbury night. He’d long ago learned the art of moving quietly, and the knack of knowing if he was being watched. He wasn’t.
Into the car, then. By his calculations, he had a day or so before things really started getting hairy; before the time came for the Slayer’s sacrifice. Of course, calculations like this had been wrong before, so he had to prepare for anything.
The Slayer’s Sacrifice. There had to be a way to get around that. Willow Rosenberg, Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase — they’d gone through so much pain in their lives. There was no way they’d go through more if Galen could help it.
The universe was cruel and often capricious; sometimes those who had done great wrong had easy lives, while those who got screwed got screwed over and over again, undeservingly. The Harrises and Willow were like that.
Driving slowly through the streets of New Glenbury he came across a road so obscure he almost missed it. About a mile down the road, he pulled off to one side and got out.
The Harris estate was set about a quarter mile back from the street, and was fenced all the way around. Slowly he walked around the outskirts, finding no signs of vampire activity. By another entrance, though, stood a car — which from his records he knew as belonging to Emily Harding. Galen pulled a miniature spyglass and looked through the darkness into the house. The six were in there, safe and sound. Good. So no need to look at Willow Rosenberg’s house.
But as he was driving down the road he noticed something frightening — a blond man, and a tall, red-headed woman. Galen’s heart leapt into his throat. The prophecy was closer than he thought to completion, if the blood and the red had joined. Fingering the stake he’d made earlier in the night, Galen sped ahead of them, slammed on the brakes, and got out of the car.
“Spike! Stop right there!”
The blond vampire made a big show of shading his eyes. “Hello, there,” he called out. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.” He turned to the redhead standing next to him and said, “Where are my manners?” in a sneering tone. “Siobhan, this is … say, mate, what do you call yourself these days?’”
“Galen,” came the reply.
Spike barked out an amused laugh. “Appropriate, if you know your history. Anyway. Siobhan, this is Galen. Galen, this is Siobhan.”
“And together you’re the blood and the red. I know the drill, Spike.”
Siobhan turned to Spike and growled, “Why are we letting him live? And where do you know him from?”
“Oh, — Galen — and I go way back. We’ve fought on a number of occasions.”
“And I’m still alive,” Galen said wearily.
“As am I, you may note. Anyway, he’s here for a reason, love,” Spike told his companion. “He’s as necessary as we are, if I guess correctly. You’d be the Unforgiven, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m trusting you on these things, Spike; too much thinking makes my head hurt,” Siobhan muttered. Power and anger radiated from the tall, redhaired vampire. Galen knew of Siobhan by reputation only. No sense of planning, but more brutal than every corrupt cop on the planet put together. Not stupid, but disorganized, though with tremendous survival skills. Her and Spike joining would be bad news under the best of circumstances.
Of course, Spike and Siobhan allied automatically made it not the best of circumstances.
“That’s why I’m here, Spike,” Galen said. “I am both Unseen and Unforgiven.”
“Well, make sure you stay that way. I assume we’ll be seeing each other shortly, old friend — but until then, we both have things to do.”
“I’ve never seen you so placid about a prophecy, Spike,” Galen said.
“For the power over life and death, mate, I’d go through a lot worse. You certainly have.” He paused. “You certainly will.” Spike bowed mockingly. “Good day.” The two vampires pulled off the road and began travelling cross-country; Galen could have followed, but Spike was right. There were more important things to do.
He was the invisible, and he was the Unforgiven.
That had to end within the next twenty-four hours … or there was no chance for the good guys to win.