I'm loving it. Loving it to bits.

Although I'm not making sense in English that isn't in a story. If that makes sense.

Nic missed the muscle with my MS meds Thursday night, and punctured a vein instead. So I'm low on interferon. It's a long time until next Thursday.

More:

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She stood at the front door, listening to the bell shrilling through Number 17. Behind her was the garden path, leading off the street to the charming cottage where Ethan Rayne had claimed to live. No footsteps, no voices, no lights. Nothing. It was near dark; the summer sun, glinting and dancing, slid towards the horizon. In one of the colleges, bells tolled out the half-hour.

Emma thought for a moment. She could go back to the Randolph, have something to eat, phone around and see if she could scare up anyone among the large acquaintance she shared with Crispin DeVries, who might have information they'd be willing to....

She froze suddenly. Impossible to tell, what had suddenly put all her attention on high alert; she knew only that something, some circumstance, was off. She stood, a piece of statuary in black, motionless in the leafy setting.

Rustle, scrape, rustle.

She melted suddenly into near-invisibility, a trick Crispin had taught her, becoming one with the encroaching long shadows. It had come from inside Number 17, that unpleasant little series of sounds. Whoever was inside, wasn't doing anything they wanted to share with a stranger at the gate. She felt for one knife in its custom sheath just inside her boot, and let the second one slide into her left hand. Good to be ambidextrous. Off to one side of the cottage, among the climbing trellised tea roses and cucumber frames, was a small white gate, hip-high. Emma dropped behind it, waiting and listening. The wall against which she pressed her back boasted three small curtained windows; facing her was a high wooden fence, covered in ivy.

Rustle. Thump thump THUMP rustle.

The hair at the base of Emma Peel's neck suddenly lifted. She stayed where she was, her breath coming shallow and fast. In her day, she had fought killers, dealt with spiders dripping with scientifically enhanced venom, suffered pain inflicted for no better purpose than to see how much she could take before she broke. She had faced all these things with all the weaponry at her command, knowing she was a product of her moment in civilisation, trained to do battle against them. Emma Peel knew all about looking the worst of man's evil in the eye, and kicking it squarely in its bottom.

Yet something about those noises had raised a purely atavistic reaction in her. She understood, after a moment, that she was unnerved.

So, when the laugh came from inside, a high soulless giggle that might have come from the crawlspaces of hell, it took her longer than it might normally have done to react. She trembled a bit, slid the knife's hilt into her best grip, and lifted herself cautiously up to peer in at the window.

The room, a conventional sitting room found in any two-up, two-down detached in England, was lamplit. It should have been muddy with shadow; the only source of vision was the faint artificial light offered by a single bulb. Yet the tableau was clear to the eye, etching itself on brain and heart, the stuff that becomes an uncertain memory, lingering in nightmare.

Ethan Rayne was there. He was seated crosslegged in a crudely-etched pentagram in the middle of the floor. Even at this distance, his eyes looked black, enormous, all one colour, sinkholes into hell. Emma wondered, briefly, just how much hashish he'd smoked. His lips moved rhythmically, apparently chanting something.

She registered his presence, and forgot him at once. The rest of the scene took full attention.

There was a woman in the room, gypsy-pretty, pale, curling hair and a slender figure. She was very oddly dressed, rather as though she'd got her skirt and jacket from a ragbag behind a theatrical costumer's shop. In startling contrast, she was wearing shoes so swooningly trendy that Jean Shrimpton might have worn them on a runway in Paris, all high heels and bits of fluttery ribbon. She was partly in shadow, partly in lamplight, and she seemed to be dancing with herself, crooning as she did so. The word "mad" flicked across Emma's mind, and her gaze moved on.

A man, young and bottle-blonde, caught somewhere between mod and rocker, seemingly uncertain of which he wanted to be. From the waist down he was pure Kings Road, red velvet trousers tight enough to show hipbone, and high-heeled boots; from the waist up he seemed to have decided to go for the scooter club black leather and chains look. He was looking with a mixture of exasperation and adoration at the dancing nutter in the posh shoes.

There was a third figure outside the pentagram: a girl lay, sleeping or unconscious, on the floor. As Emma watched, the dancer stepped fully into the circle of lamplight. She straddled the sleeper, and pulled her up with one hand as though the adult body had no more weight than a feather duvet. She said something to the blonde man - Emma caught a few words in a harsh cockney twang but they made no sense, something about a spike - and then, as Emma watched in shock, she smiled at Ethan Rayne and her entire face changed, became distorted, teeth curling out like the wolf in the fairy story, primal darkness, deep edged ridges coming from nowhere on brow and nose to absorb the light in the room and give back none.

Emma tightened her grip on the knife, and fetched a long, shaken breath. She tensed her muscles, preparing to kick in the glass.

The hand on her shoulder took her knees out from under her.

ooh, what an evil place to stop!

I do love Mrs. Peele

Meep! Lovely.

The hand on her shoulder took her knees out from under her.

"Quiet, Emma."

It was the barest whisper, the last voice she was expecting, the one voice she should have expected. "Whatever you do, don't let them know you're out here."

"Crispin?" She matched his tone and pitch perfectly. "Where in hell have you been for three days? What have you been up to, anyway?"

"Following this precious pair and finding out more than I wanted to, that's what. Follow me, quiet and quick; there's a door leads to the garden next door." He jerked his head to the ivy-covered wall. "We need weapons. All you've got is a couple of knives, yes?"

"'All'?" She blinked at his back, but obediently dropped to all fours, following him on cat feet. He evidently knew his way around Number 17; there was indeed a door into the next garden. The hinges were well-oiled, and silent. She followed him through and felt herself relax a bit, as if even the flimsy barrier of garden wall between herself and what was happening next door was somehow a burden lifted.

"Now," she said, speaking low and fast, 'suppose you talk to me. What in hell is happening in there? What's Ethan Rayne think he's on about, playing Siddartha in the middle of a pentagram? The damned thing's straight out of a Hammer House film. Who are Romeo and Juliet with the face bumps and the unfortunate wardrobes? Who was that girl on the floor? And what did you mean, all I have is a couple of knives? You gave me those knives, remember? Not to mention showing me how to use them."

"Romeo and Juliet, as you called them, are a pair of very well-known and completely merciless vampires."

Emma stared at him, speechless.

"Knives won't work on these two, unless you manage to decapitate them," he went on. He reached up and broke a branch quietly off a healthy young apple tree. "Ah, good strong wood, not too much green. Can I borrow one of your knives? I need to sharpen this and make a stake."

"Vamp -" Emma found her voice. "Did you say, vam -"

"He's called William the Bloody, known to his chums and his bit of mystery in there as Spike. The bit of mystery is a far nastier proposition. She's called Drusilla and she's off her nut, totally. She's also got some telepathic abilities. At a guess, the girl on the floor is tonight's dinner. I've never seen her before." He finished his efficient whittling, and held the stake up, hefting it in his grasp. "But your little correspondent, Ethan Rayne. Did you happen to see what he was doing in the Vincent Price floor deco?"

By the by, I put the latest snippet of V!Giles in my LJ because of our paripatetic natures the past few days. Should I put it here as well?

Aaah, Crispin is still alive. I'm relieved.

Connie, yes please!

More:

(He finished his efficient whittling, and held the stake up, hefting it in his grasp. "But your little correspondent, Ethan Rayne. Did you happen to see what he was doing in the Vincent Price floor deco?"

"No. And I don't believe in vampires. Are you having me on, Crispin?" Despite her own words, Emma broke off her own branch of applewood and began honing. She watched as Crispin slid the first of his newly-made stakes into the stretchy fabric belt he was wearing slung around his hips. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that he had the kind of inborn elegance that was enhanced by tension.

"You saw Drusilla's face change. Didn't you?" He met her eye and saw the remembered horror there. "Yes, I see you did. They're vampires, the real thing, creatures of the night, genuine and no substitutions offered or accepted. And this pair? They'd have Christopher Lee for high tea and move on to Dracula himself."

"All right. Assuming that I'm supposed to believe they were vampires, what's the story here? Why did Ethan Rayne want to bring me down here?"

"I don't know, dear, but I expect it has something to do with whatever he's up to in that bloody pentagram." A second stake followed the first, and he began on a third. Emma followed suit wordlessly, slipping her first stake into her own belt and beginning on a second. Apparently, a girl could never have enough pointy pieces of applewood, where vampires were concerned.

ok, here we go

In the house, Buffy was single-mindedly packing things for herself, Dawn, and Joyce. Willow followed her silently from room to room, only speaking when Buffy opened the drawer in Joyce's dresser that held sweaters.

"Are we going to be gone long enough to need winter clothes, Buffy?" she said softly.

Buffy froze, hands wrapped around a forest green cashmere sweater. She blinked for several seconds, then slowly let go of the sweater and straightened. "Right. Over-reacting. It's just--we've got to get stuff together, we've got to get out of here while we can."

Willow went over to her and put her hands on Buffy's shoulders. "We will. But we don't need too much stuff, do we?"

"No. You're right, we don't." Buffy looked at the duffle bag on the bed that she'd been packing and laughed uneasily. "But at least Mom would have a good work suit with her." She ran her hands through her hair. "Don't have time for this, got to get ready to go."

Willow shook her just a little. "Buffy, calm down! When you get all panicky, I get all panicky, and I don't need panicky right now, OK?"

"I'm not panicky! I'm just--" She took a deep breath. "I have to do something. Glory could be coming down the street right now, and--"

"I know, but--you've got to hold it together, please? We need you to hold it together so we don't fly apart."

Buffy closed her eyes. "Willow, I've only got so much holding it together left. You're going to have to hold on for yourselves here."

"I know." Willow hugged Buffy tightly. "But you've always been better at this than the rest of us."

Buffy hugged back. "Fibber."

After a few more moments, Willow pulled away. "I've got to go to the dorm, get stuff for Tara and me. I'll be back as quick as I can."

"You're not going alone! Take Xander or--or somebody."

Willow started to protest, then nodded and went. Buffy repacked the duffle bag with sensible things and slung it on her shoulder. She headed to Dawn's room to return some of the more impractical items, like dress shoes and a fancy blouse. She found Dawn curled up on her bed, clutching her Teddy bear.

Buffy started to scold Dawn for dawdling, but her sister's scared eyes changed her mind. "You can take that with you, if you want. I don't think anyone would care."

"I remember when I got Bear," Dawn whispered. "I was seven and had my tonsils out. Dad brought Bear to the hospital for me. Those monks thought of everything. I'm not going to survive this, am I."

"What? Dawn, what are you saying?" Buffy dropped the duffle bag and sat on the bed. "Of course you're going to survive this, that's why we're doing all this. Glory's going to miss that deadline, and you won't have anything else to worry about."

"But maybe--I was made to hide the Key. Once that deadline passes, the Key is useless. I'm useless. Maybe those monks just made me strong enough to last until the deadline, and after that there won't be any reason for me to exist any more."

Buffy remembered being Dawn's age, railing against the fates that had made her a Slayer, wondering if she was destined to have any kind of life other than the one foreordained for her. But she'd never had reason to doubt her own physical existence. Fifteen years of memories notwithstanding, Dawn's true lifespan covered mere months. Born for a single purpose, much like being a Slayer, with no clear idea if there was a future to look forward to. Much like a Slayer.

Buffy reached out and pulled Dawn towards her, resting her forehead against her sister's. "I don't know, Dawnie. But for as long you live, understand that I love you and I will die before I let anyone hurt you." She held the embrace for as long as she dared, then pulled free. "OK?" Dawn shrugged. Buffy pulled the duffle bag over and held it open. "You could put Bear in here, no one would mind."

"Are you taking Mr. Gordo?" Dawn asked suspiciously.

"Um, well, no--but I am taking Mr. Pointy!"

"Work stuff doesn't count." Dawn hesitated, then pushed Bear into the bag. "He makes a good pillow, if nothing else."

"Sure. Oh, here, your fancy-schmancy slutty shoes that Mom doesn't know you own. I don't know why I packed them, but I guess we can use the room for other things."

"Thanks." Dawn peeked into the bag. "Who are the black lace undies for?" Buffy smacked her with a pillow, then went back to her room to put back certain things of her own.