He's not real, he's not real. This isn't happening.

He hit her across the face and she flew backwards into the wall. Oh fuck. She could see Leigh trying to stand, one hand pressed against her neck and blood flowing from between her fingers. He was coming towards her... what had she done in the dream? Fuck. Fuck. She couldn't think.

He grabbed her, and she noticed how cold his hands were against the skin of her upper arms. She kicked him, twisting her body around and struggling against him until he lost his grip and she hit the pavement. Her hands reached out in blind panic and found a broken branch. She lifted it as he came back at her, pushing the jagged end of it hard against his chest, and then he was gone and she was covered in a soft layer of dust.

It couldn't be real; she had to be sleeping.

She could hear Leigh crying and turned to look at her. Leigh's face was ashen, the red gashes on her neck still seeping.

"Leigh, get up. We have to get out of here."

Leigh looked at her. She seemed to be having trouble focusing. "Where'd he go? He's gone, right?" She made no effort to stand, so Tara pulled her up.

"Come on. Up. You can do it."

Tara managed to get them several blocks away from the warehouse before her knees gave out. Leigh was shuddering, and her skin felt too cold. Tara dug through Leigh's pockets until she found the phone, then dialed the emergency number. There was going to be hell to pay, but she didn't have time to worry about that.

"Hang on, Leigh. It'll be fine. It'll all be fine." Tara pressed her hand against the wound and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

 ***

The telephone rang at 1:30 in the morning, jolting him from sleep.

"Yes, yes. I'll be right there."

He hung up and just stared at the phone for several minutes, trying to remember where he'd put his clothing before he'd gone to bed. He needed his wallet and his keys, and they were still in his pants. He checked the hamper twice before remembering that he'd left them in the bathroom. All things considered, it was a miracle he didn't run any lights on his way to the hospital.

The emergency room was crowded, full of drunks and junkies in various states of withdrawal and overdose. Under the harsh fluorescent light, they all looked like walking corpses. He hadn't been in an emergency room since he'd left California, not even when Tara was going through the usual childhood battles with ear infections. He'd forgotten just how much he hated the places.

As bad as they had been as a patient, they were infinitely worse as a parent. He looked around with bleary eyes, wondering what in G-d's name she'd been doing, and hoping she was all right. She hadn't said much when she'd called.

New stuff from Plei! Yay! I'm not the only one up at weird hours futzing with fic!

He spotted her huddled in a corner and talking to the police. With her face streaked with mascara and dried blood, she resembled a child caught playing a particularly macabre version of dress-up. Her shirt was ripped, and there was a bruise on the side of her face, but except for that, she seemed to be intact. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and walked towards her, fragments of what she was saying reaching his ears.

"He vanished." She sounded like she'd said it a thousand times and couldn't quite understand why they were asking her the question again.

"So you said, miss, but if you can remember anything about where he went..."

She cut him off. "He didn't go anywhere. I told you, he vanished."

"You're trying to tell me that you hit him with a stick, and he just disappeared?" It was obvious that the officer didn't believe that part of her story, writing it off as hysterics brought on by the attack.

The doctors had him sign some papers, everyone, it seemed, saw fit to lecture him on his skills as a parent, then they were free to go. They made the drive back to the house in silence. She stared out the window, his coat wrapped around her to cover the torn clothing. He could think of a million things he wanted to say to her, but none that would be of any use in the long run, and none that he wouldn't regret saying in the morning.

When they arrived home, he locked the door behind them then gestured for her to sit down. He remained standing, watching her, still unwilling to speak. She looked around at the floor, the wall, her hands, at anything that wasn't him. Finally, words came out of her mouth, haltingly at first, as she told him where she'd gone.

It turned out it wasn't the first time. It was summer, she explained. She and her friends were bored, and hitting the underground club scene had seemed, if not like a good idea at the time, at least like a mostly harmless one. He must have made some sort of sound, because her head jerked up and she met his eyes for a second before looking away and admitting that no, actually, it had seemed like a bad idea; that was the appeal. She started to babble about the nightmares that had been keeping her up earlier that summer, and he thought for a moment that the tangent was meant to explain why she'd been sneaking out of the house. Then she described the dreams, spoke of men with faces like deformed lions, their flesh cold and smooth, teeth sharp and cruel as they tore into the necks of their victims. She talked about striking them with weapons of wood, of watching with glee as they crumbled to dust, and the words hit him like drops of acid. Acid turned to ice when he realized that the tangent wasn't a tangent, just a prelude to her description of the attack.

He didn't want to believe what he was hearing, and tried to quell the first suspicion that came to mind. What she'd run into was blindingly obvious, but the meaning, even with the dreams, wasn't necessarily clear. One didn't have to be cursed with a calling to come out ahead against a vampire. One simply had to be lucky.

He repeated what the police had said almost verbatim, including their mention of Leigh's had claim that she'd seen the man escape. What Tara thought she saw and what had happened were not the same thing. They couldn't be. She tried to tell him that she knew what she'd seen, but he interrupted her.

"Tara, what you're suggesting is impossible." It didn't really feel like a lie. There were things, which, if she just avoided courting danger at every turn, she didn't need to know about. Seattle was a safe enough place, and frankly, they were things he couldn't begin to explain. She looked for a moment as if she was going to argue, then her shoulders slumped. "You're right," she mumbled. "It's impossible. Can I go to bed now?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course... and Tara?"

"What?"

"I think that this has been punishment enough for you, but you need to remember the rules. If you want to do something, for goodness' sake just ask, and if you think I'll say no, there's probably a good reason why."

They didn't discuss the matter again. She tried to say something about it a few days later, but he stopped her before she could get any further than "about the other night".

"Tara, this matter is closed. I trust there will be no repetition of your shenanigans."

She nodded, and changed the subject.

 ***

It was stupid. It was crazy. It was any number of things, none of them good. Tara didn't care. It was something she had to do.

Getting the address of the warehouse had been easy enough, and pinching money from Dad's wallet had provided enough money for cab and cover. She'd make it up to him somehow. The short, tight dress didn't leave her any place for the pieces of driftwood she'd sharpened, so she'd stashed them in the pockets of a black leather jacket she'd found in the attic.

Two weeks and the dreams hadn't stopped. If anything, they were more vivid. When she woke up drenched in cold sweat every night, she could still taste the ashes in her throat. It couldn't be from memory. When she'd hit whomever--whatever had attacked them that night, she'd been too shocked to breathe.

She recognized some of the revelers from earlier warehouse parties, some of them just from around. She had felt better when she didn't see any familiar faces at these events. What had felt like slumming was starting to feel like home.

Tara looked around, trying to spot anything different about the crowd. It was no use. They were all pale, slim, and unhealthy. Nothing to set them apart from one another. Nothing that gave her a hint as to what she was looking for. It had happened. No matter what anyone said, it had happened. There had been no knife, no weapon. He hadn't run away.

He'd savaged Leigh, and Tara had stopped him. The way she always did in dreams. And that had been that. He was gone, no body, no trace save for a smattering of dust.

She wasn't crazy.

It had happened.

A dark-haired man in the corner caught her eye. He was staring at her as if he knew her, although she was certain she'd never set eyes on him before tonight. She'd have remembered. He was that kind of guy.

"Can I get you anything?"

She jumped, startled by the voice. She'd been so lost in her own world; she hadn't even noticed him coming over to her. Not that she minded.

"Scotch, neat."

"Aren't you a little young for that?"

He must not have been to very many of these to ask a question like that. "Look around you, buddy. Aren't we all?"

He was older than she'd thought. Too old for this crowd, in years at least. He looked at her with opaque brown eyes for a minute before going and getting her what she'd asked for.

"If I'm going to be corrupting a minor, least you could do is tell me your name."

"Tara. That's a pretty name; it suits you. You know, you might want to be careful, talking to strangers in a place like this."

"Why, do you bite?"

"No, but some of the other people here do. You should watch your back."

Then he was gone. She downed her drink, trying to figure out if he'd been warning her or warning her off. Whichever it was, she wished he'd given her some sort of clue as to what to watch for, apart from her back. Not only had he not told her anything useful, he hadn't even told her his name.

She set down the empty glass and took to the floor. Eyes closed, she let the thrum of the bass surround her and fill her. Her mind relaxed and she remembered why she kept coming to these things long after the rush of bad behavior had faded and passed. There was a comfort in the darkness and the noise, company in the loneliness of the crowd.

She felt someone next to her, felt the slight disturbance of the air around her as it slid close to her, smelled the Nag Champa and smoke and somehow knew it was one of them, one of the creatures from the nightmares. Cool fingers brushed the heavy fall of her hair from her neck, and she opened her eyes and smiled.

It was good-looking in this face, smooth pale skin and deep hazel eyes, a shock of auburn hair and full red lips. Pretty, very pretty. She wondered how much of it was due to cosmetics, and how much it owed to being what it was.

"You remind me of a ballerina."

Pretty, but none-too-bright. So much the better. She widened her eyes and raised her brow, letting her mouth part slightly in question.

It leaned in closer, so close she should have felt it exhale against her skin. She felt nothing, not even when it whispered, "It's your neck, so long and elegant," in her ear. She shivered, whether at the absence of breath or the slow caress of its fingers on her collarbone, she couldn't be certain.

"Come with me," its voice was as warm as its touch was cold. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

She let it take her by the hand and lead her through the crowd and out the small door that lead to the alley. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, and the thing shoved her hard against the metal, cold lips forcing her mouth to open as it used one knee to push apart her legs. A taste of something coppery hit her tongue. Blood. She wondered if it was her own. The face above her twisted and changed, teeth scraping against her lip until she could feel her flesh tear and didn't have to wonder where the blood was coming from.

It pulled its mouth away to speak, voice still all warm seduction when it told her she should feel free to scream.

"No one will hear, but you might feel better."

She pulled the bit of sharpened wood from her pocket, thrusting the thing between its ribs when it pulled back to strike, the impact hard against her fist before softening as the thing crumbled to dust.

"I thought for a while there you hadn't listened to me."

Her cryptic companion from earlier stepped out of the shadows, where he had no doubt witnessed the whole thing. She glared at him, tucking the weapon back in her jacket. Blood from her lip was smeared down her face, bits of dust clinging to it. It wasn't quite how she wanted anyone to see her.

He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the worst of the mess away. "You like cutting things that close, or do you just have a thing for vampires?"

Two weeks spent thinking she was crazy while everyone denied the evidence of her own eyes and suddenly here was someone not just giving name to the nightmare, but acting like it was an everyday thing?

"No on both counts. I just had to be sure."

"Sure of what? What he was--or what you are?"

"What do you mean, what I am?"

His lips curved in a slight smile. "You'll find out soon enough. Here." He handed her a small box. "You'll be needing this. Until you find out why, though, you might want to think about avoiding the late nights."

He walked away; pausing when she called out, "Wait! You still haven't told me your name!"

"You can call me Liam. It's as good a name as any."

She watched him leave, thoughts flying through her brain too quickly to take hold. Not wanting to wait for a cab, she started walking. It was an hour's trek uphill, but at least it would give her a chance to think. She opened the box she'd been clutching. The large silver cross with its sturdy chain forced one thought to take firm root.

He'd been looking for her. He probably knew more about what was going on than she did. Of course, that wasn't saying much. Maybe she was losing her mind, after all.

She pulled the scuffed leather of the coat tight around her. The buzz of thoughts was fading, leaving her all too aware of the nervous clenching of fear in her gut and the taste of cheap scotch, blood, and ashes in her mouth. She was shaking so hard she could barely walk.

If she wasn't losing her mind, they were real. She'd killed two of them. She'd enjoyed doing it.

Her stomach turned in on itself, and she doubled over, splattering the scotch, blood, and bile on the pavement. He'd told her she'd find out what she was. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

When she got home, she stared at the house for a long time before letting herself in through the basement window. The narrow city lot and carefully-tended garden looked all wrong, too peaceful and serene, the cross-gabled roof standing out too sharply against the pink-stained city night. Instead of looking like home, it looked like a facade from a community theatre production. She fell asleep still trying to force the image from her mind.

//The dream was different; wherever she was, it was warmer, the air heavy instead of crisp, and the terrain flat instead of rugged. She spun, arms and legs moving in ways she didn't remember learning. A quick spin and flip and a backwards jab took care of one of them. The dark-haired girl beside her took care of the other before flashing her a cocky grin. Turned around and they were in an alley, the red-haired creature from the club rushing them, but then he shifted and was someone else, someone human. Heard her voice--no, not her voice, but coming from her mouth--heard a voice scream "Faith! No!" as the blood pumped from the hole in his chest and spilled from his lips which were suddenly Liam's. "It's what you are" spilling out with the blood before he burst into flames.//

She woke up covered in sweat and still queasy from the night before. Fighting the urge to vomit, she dressed and stumbled upstairs to the bathroom. This time when she looked in the mirror, she didn't bother trying to find anyone other than herself.

Her father was waiting for her when she entered the kitchen. He watched with searching, reproachful eyes as she poured her coffee.

"Where were you last night, Tara?"

The quiet, clipped voice, accent more pronounced than usual, set a thousand alarm bells off inside her head.

"Last night?"

"Don't attempt to play dumb with me, young lady. Someone rang for you late last night. You were not in your room when I went downstairs to inform you of that fact, and before you attempt to fob me off with 'I must have been in the bathroom', I heard you come in well after two. I'm only going to ask you this once more, and I expect an answer: where were you?"

"I was out."

"Without telling me or checking in? And you still haven't told me where you were. Tara, you know the rules."

She did. Even the new one: "do not mention the incident". There was nothing she could say by way of an explanation that wouldn't involve breaking it.

"I'm sorry."

"As am I. I'm sorry you don't trust me enough to tell me whatever it is that you've gotten yourself into, but it has to stop. You'll move your things back into your old room by tonight, and until school starts up again, you're not to leave the house without me. I trust I've made myself clear?"

She'd expected as much. All things considered, house arrest was more of a relief than a punishment. She gave a nod of understanding and watched his face soften.

"Tara, I'm sorry I haven't been a better father. I don't mean to be harsh, but I'm at something of a loss as to how else to deal with this."

Nothing like a fresh punch of guilt in the gut to wake a girl up after a long night. She pressed a kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair. "It's nothing you've done, Dad."

As true as the words were, she wondered why they rang hollow in her ears.

 ***

He'd had the same pit of terror in his stomach when he'd found her room empty as when she'd called him from the emergency room. When he'd entered her room after she'd come in and found her curled up under his old leather jacket, a fine layer of dust still clinging to its surface and the sharp end of a stick poking from one pocket, terror was no longer a strong enough word.

He'd been numb when she'd babbled her confession two weeks before, some part of him refusing to accept the obvious. He wished he was still numb and able to take refuge in denial.

Sleep proved impossible. Not for the first time, he found himself regretting the loss of his books. He knew of one or two places that might have something he could use, but none of them were open at three in the morning. Besides, most of what he needed to know was locked away inside his head; he just needed to write it down to jog his memory.

Three notepads and four cups of coffee into it, it struck him that Faith must be dead. He hoped, for her sake, that it had been quick. He supposed she could have died anytime during the past fifteen years, but he preferred to think it had been recent. If it hadn't been... well, he didn't want to think about it. All the girls who might have died in the name of a war he no longer believed in... he couldn't think about it.

The Council must be aware that a new Slayer had been called. Tara had made her first kill a fortnight ago, and at least one since then. It was only a matter of time before they found her; he thought it strange that they hadn't already. If he thought it would do any good, he'd pack everything and run. Only the sure knowledge that they would catch up with them kept him from it.

He wished she would confide in him, but after his reaction to recent events, he couldn't blame her for not doing so. Bringing it up himself would only lead to questions he wasn't prepared, wasn't willing to answer. He looked down at his notepad, startled to notice that he'd let the pen rest against it until it a thick smear of ink had spread across the bottom of the page.

He stared at it, hoping to see answers in the pattern, but there were none. He turned the page and continued to write down everything he could remember from his training. No matter how much he knew, he feared it wouldn't be enough. He didn't bother to ask himself enough for what.

One thought kept forcing itself to the front of his mind, blotting out all others no matter how often he pushed it away. She could easily have been killed. She had to have known, and it hadn't stopped her. By the time she stumbled upstairs, pale and puffy, he was coldly furious.

He let her get a cup of coffee before he spoke.

"Where were you last night, Tara?" He was shocked by how much he sounded like his father.

She made a cursory evasion, and he listened as his father's voice berated her, demanding answers he knew she wouldn't give, watched as she took it all stoically. None of this would be happening if he'd been a better father, if he'd had some idea of what needed to be done.

He didn't realize he was saying as much out loud until she kissed his forehead.

"It's not anything you've done, Dad."

Except that it was. Things he had done, things he'd undone, things he hadn't done correctly. They were all a part of whatever tangled skein of fate was in charge of this mess. He smiled at her as best he could.

"I'll help you move your things back upstairs, then we'll watch a movie. I haven't had much of a chance to spend time with you lately."

He watched as Tara poured cereal and milk into a bowl and sat down across the table from him. She ate a few bites, then prodded the rest of it with the back of her spoon. She'd lost weight, not that she'd had any to lose, but she didn't seem interested in eating. There were dark circles under her eyes, and one side of her mouth was swollen, making her look more like a battered housewife than a teenaged girl. She pushed the cereal away and poured another cup of coffee.

"You should finish your breakfast, Tara."

She looked down at the bowl and pushed at the soggy mess. She raised her head and looked at him, eyes bruised and forlorn. "Daddy, make me pancakes?"

All stoicism and bravado had faded from her face, leaving just the frightened girl underneath. Faith must have been like that once. He should have known, but the Council had prepared him for dealing with the Slayer, not the girl. Had they bothered to prepare him for both, perhaps things would have been different.

He took the coffee cup and cereal bowl to the kitchen and dumped them both in the sink. He'd make them tea to go with the pancakes. Neither of them needed to be any more on edge than they already were.

The familiar ritual, warming the pot, measuring the leaves, pouring the water over them and waiting, had been neglected as of late. There hadn't been many opportunities to just sit down and have a quiet morning together. He doubted there would be many more in the days and weeks to come.

She added milk and obscene amount of sugar to her tea, and smothered the pancakes in an equally obscene amount of syrup. His teeth hurt just looking at it.

"Thanks, Dad." she said between bites.

"You're welcome. Would you like another batch?"

She nodded.

 ***

She could handle not going out. In fact, she was in favor off it. Groundings and curfews had never seemed more appealing. House arrest? The best invention since sliced bread. Sleep was still an uncomfortable tangle of memory and foreboding, but other than that, everything was fine. Or would be, if she could just keep telling herself that.

Tara lasted all of two weeks before starting to sneak out of the house again. She tried to play it safe at first, but avoiding the usual haunts meant she didn't have a huge amount of luck finding her quarry. After a week of bussing and hitchhiking to the trendy coffee shops of Capitol Hill, she went back to the familiar rotating series of warehouses. Every couple of nights, she found one. Every couple of nights she'd lure it some place secluded and go for the kill. And every night, *he* was there, watching her.

It made her feel a little safer, almost like she had a chaperone for these little hunting excursions. Neither of them made any effort to speak, although she made a point of making eye contact at least once a night, usually right before she lured her victim off the floor. For reasons she didn't want to examine too closely, she wanted him to see it happen.

There were other things she wasn't examining too closely as well. Things like why it was that she dressed up carefully before going out, her clothing too tight and her make-up just a little too strong, or why she felt her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear when she slipped into the nooks and crannies with one of them. During the day, she made a point of studying for the upcoming school year and doing her chores without being asked. With her face scrubbed clean, and her figure clad in scruffy jeans and t-shirts; her daytime self and her nighttime self weren't connected by much more than a body.

It was easier that way.

She hadn't talked to Leigh or Emily in weeks, but she didn't really miss them. They'd just be in her way, anyhow. Besides, it was almost time for school to start up again, and she'd see them in class. The thought of school was another thing she was trying to avoid, as her summer hours weren't exactly going to fly when she had to be on campus by 7:05 and she really didn't want to deal with it. Too much crossover between night and day. As a result, she wasn't really prepared when the first day rolled around.

It wasn't that her classes were hard. Tara was just so tired that she had trouble understanding simple spoken English, much less reading books and handouts. Fourth-period library T.A. duties couldn't come fast enough. At most, she figured she'd be assigned some mundane book filing or have to listen to the new librarian prattle about said duties for the better part of an hour. Either way, it would be a welcome break.

She walked through the heavy double doors and into the homey comfort of scuffed Berber, humming fluorescent lights, and the soothing musk of a thousand well-thumbed pages. There didn't seem to be anyone around, so she rang the service bell at the check-out station and waited. When there wasn't a response, she rang twice more, her foot tapping with impatience.

"Anyone here?"

A red-haired woman in a new-agey outfit poked her head out the office door. "Sorry! I was unpacking and didn't hear you come in, you're Tara, right?"

"Yep."

"I'm Ms. Rosenberg. You've figured out the part where I'm the new librarian, right?"

"Kind of, yeah. The whole adult-in-the-library thing gives it away."

"Come in and have a seat."

Tara wound her way around the counter and into the small room adjacent to it. Unlike the rest of the library, it looked fresh and cheerful. The walls were a pale spring green, and the overhead lighting had been eschewed in favor of a couple of torchieres. She moved a box off of the spare chair and sat down. Ms. Rosenberg closed the door and sat behind her desk. She looked at Tara with a degree of excitement Tara wasn't used to seeing in a teacher. Maybe the library was in a state of extreme disorder, or maybe Ms. Rosenberg was a little off. Tara was pretty certain it was the latter.

"So, Tara. Oh, gosh. Wow. I had a whole speech prepared, but I've kind of forgotten it, and gee--ever thought about your destiny? Cause, you've got one."

Tara blinked. Definitely the latter. "Umm... okay? So, what is it? Filing? Entering ISBN information into a database? Beating up kids with late fees?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of slaying vampires, though there will also be some of the first two. The beating up I don't think I can rightfully condone." The words tumbled from her mouth in a chipper rush that took a moment to decipher.

"Slaying vampires? Is this a joke?" Tara felt her hands clench and beads of sweat start to form in the small of her back.

"It's not a joke. You're the Chosen One, and, well, I'm kind of the one they've chosen to watch you."

"Chosen... who? What do you mean, watch me? Who's 'they'?"

"The Watcher's Council assigned me as your Watcher. Which means I train you and help prepare you for vamp slayage."

"Huh. Well, seeing as I already know pretty much everything I need to about killing them, I don't see where that's necessary."

Oh- PMM-- this is very exciting! Willlow! Angel! Wesley! Do Willow and Angel know whose child Tara is, etc... And poor lonely Wesley....

Just !!!!!!!!!