more:

"All right." She spoke slowly, puzzling it out. "Ethan Rayne called the Ministry; he got me, but he could have got either of us - he only got me because Steed was off having his Bentley serviced. So this wasn't some nefarious little plot to lure me specifically down here. But he wanted someone from the Ministry, either me or Steed. Does that make sense?"

"I suppose so, yes." He watched her steadily. "We need to suss this out quickly, Emma. There are a few things you need to know about dealing with vampires. And you have to know them soon, otherwise that girl in there is going to be very dead, or possibly even worse, in a rather short amount of time."

"Worse?"

"Undead," he told her quietly. "If they decide dinner ought to become a dancing partner for all the nights yet to be, one of them will slip a bit of their blood down her throat and bob's your uncle, she becomes one of them. It's called turning."

"Fine." Emma had always prided herself on having a firm grip on reality; if Crispin, who was the sanest person she knew other than Steed, insisted that the two mental cases at Number 17 Norham Gardens were not only cannibals but bloodsucking creatures of night, she was damned if she was going to argue. Especially since he seemed to have good strong ideas about killing them. She obediently kicked her brain into a higher gear. "Rayne calls us, not caring who comes down here, so long as it's a Ministry expert. We hook up, he tells me about eleven bodies found, emptied of blood. Steed checks into it and finds that the blood part is true, but the numbers are wrong. The Oxford people told us seven. Where did he get that number - eleven?"

"I don't know." Crispin practised a few high kicks, taking down an empty birdhouse and two excess branches. "It may have something to do with that thing on the floor. As to the Ministry, perhaps he wanted someone he thought might have a fighting chance against that pair in there? He's certainly keeping himself safe from them, so long as he's in the pentagram. But there's a problem with that." He straightened his shoulders and rolled his head, limbering up his neck muscles. "That pentagram has been there for the past three days."

"What?"

"Quiet, for the love of heaven! I came by here three days ago. One of my fencing students, Deirdre Conover, went missing. I knew she'd been hanging about with this Ethan Rayne bloke. He's got a bit of a rep in Oxford, dabbler in the dark stuff, all that rot. So I tracked him down and came here, and took a butcher's through the window. It was broad daylight; he was elsewhere. That pentagram was right where it is now. When did he call the Ministry?"

"Two days ago. Damnation. What is he up to? Did you find the Conover girl?"

"No. Listen, Emma. Listen to me. We're going in and we're taking down those two. Prime objective here is to get that girl out safe. If it means losing one or the other of them, either William or Drusilla, so be it; we rescue that girl."

"Good." Her nerves were singing, strung along like piano wire. Dusk had fallen, and darkness, full darkness, was closing in. "Let's go. What are we standing about for?"

"Not yet. Listen to me, and pay attention, because this is absolutely vital. One: they're supernaturally strong. The slim little thing in the funny shoes can pick you up with one hand and throw you across the room. Or she can break your neck. Don't try to engage either of them hand to hand; there's really only one person alive right now who can do that, and like it or not? You aren't she. Understood?"

"Yes." He was completely convincing. "Keep them at leg-length then?"

"Yes. Two: metal does nothing, unless it's a question of decapitation. You need to stake them, through the heart. Alternately, fire works, or sunlight. But sunlight's not an option, and fire can take us both out as well."

"Stake through the heart. It has to be the heart?"

oooh, serious tension... I'm very much enjoying this, Deb.

I had a moment of wanting to drop Amanda Lisle into this - after all, she was the Slayer in my world at that point in time - but it seems like overkill to me.

Awaiting Nic. I have Rupert the Schmoopheaded kitty in my lap and he's so sweet, I could frellin' die of insulin shock. WHAT a cutehead.

Oh my bloody god. This is fabulous.

And more Vamp!Giles! Yay!

t /cup brimming over

A little more...

He was beginning to suspect it would have been kinder to let her die seven years ago, when it was still a legitimate option. It certainly would have been easier, and Dawn Summers and Rupert Giles would, in all likelihood, still be alive.

Perhaps Faith would have survived.

The trouble with guilt was that it fed on itself, fed on the what-ifs and if-onlys, none of which were any help solving the problem at hand. Not that he was making any progress through conventional routes. Or through unconventional routes, for that matter. Wesley checked the time--half past eight. About two hours later than he'd planned on staying. He filed his notes by category, put away his books, and rang for take out.

He briefly considered calling Buffy first and asking for her opinion, but as she'd treated everything from Chinese to Italian as if it were made from post-consumer paper products, he decided it wasn't worth the bother. She wasn't eating as much as he'd like, nor healing as rapidly. He suspected she wasn't sleeping well, either, but after the first night, he'd allowed her her privacy, even when he heard noises coming from under her door that cut into his guts like he'd swallowed ground glass.

Indian didn't go over any better than any other region. He observed her carefully as she toyed with her fork, occasionally managing a mouthful of korma or a bite of naan. She wasn't wincing too much when she chewed, and the last traces of bruising were almost invisible, even without make-up. When she got up and left the table, however, her gait was still as hesitant and uncomfortable as it had been three weeks before.

"I think you should see the doctor again," he said, flatly.

Buffy rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher before answering, a spark of irritation flickering briefly in her eyes. "Why? So you can feel like you're doing your duty, assure yourself that I'm not beyond repair? He said I'd be fine; it'll just take a few weeks for me to heal completely."

"You've been here nearly a month."

She shrugged. "And the bleeding stopped about two weeks ago." He felt himself blanche, and she gave him a bitter smile before continuing. "What? You don't want to hear the gory details? Then trust me when I say I'll be fine. That way I can stop repeating myself."

• **

Buffy managed to hold herself together long enough to get to the bathroom. After locking the door behind her, she stripped quickly, taking care to avoid the mirror, and stepped into the shower. The hot water soothed some of the constant tense aching in her back, with the added bonus of masking any frustrated crying she might feel like doing. Which was kind of a lot.

She hated feeling helpless and dependent. She also hated feeling more like a project than a person, and she really really hated that there wasn't a single thing she could do about it. Crying settled into coughing, which had the unfortunate effect of working soap bubbles into her mouth. She liked his soap; after several years of cheap bars that reeked of chemical cleanliness, the thick sandalwood-scented bars were heavenly. She just didn't like it on her taste buds.

Self-pity, she thought, was more trouble than it was worth.

Drying off gave her plenty of time to calm down. Wesley might leave her feeling frayed and inadequate, but at least he was trying to help. He could have left her standing on the sidewalk outside the espresso stand without a backward glance. Things, as usual, could have been worse. She put her clothes back on and headed to the living room.

Wesley was sitting on the couch, head-down in a moldy-looking book. She watched him frown, lean forward and write something in a notebook, then go back to the previous page. He chewed on the end of his pen as he studied the text, the frown growing as he read.

"Any luck?"

"Not especially, no," he muttered from around the pen. "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I slept all day."

He grunted and went back to his reading.

Well, that wasn't encouraging. She tried another opener. "I thought maybe we could talk."

The book closed with a snap and he tossed it aside. "About what, Buffy? Are you planning on taking this opportunity to remind me of my failings as a Watcher, or perhaps you'd rather second guess decisions I made when the fate of the world depended on them?"

"I was thinking something more along the line of 'how 'bout that weather we're having' or 'read any good books lately." She sat down on the far end of the couch. "Nothing deep, just... talking."

"My apologies. It's been rather frustrating trying to come up with a livable solution. Unless, of course, you're interested in spending the rest of your life in a convent, in which case it would be fairly simple."

"Can't say I've never thought of it, but the whole religion part kind of strikes it off my list of career choices. That bad?"

"Worse. It was next to impossible to find a way to remove the burden without killing you in the first place, but it looks like child's play next to what I'm trying to accomplish now."

She digested the words. It wasn't unexpected news, but it didn't make it any less unpleasant. "What do I do if you can't come up with something?"

The trace of pity in his gaze stung. "I don't know. There are a handful of stopgap measures that would allow you some limited freedoms, but nothing that would allow you to lead a normal life. For whatever it's worth, Buffy, I'm sorry."

So was she. She pasted a smile on her face and said as brightly as she could manage, "When has my life ever been normal? This is just my regularly scheduled programming."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, softening the harsh angles of his face. "I need to get some rest, but if you need anything, you know you can wake me."

She smiled, and it felt almost real this time. "Good night, Wes. Thank you."

Very nice Plei!

So nice Plei. Deena, you are going to write more of that, aren't you? And put it together and sent it to sa for the Bitch site and to BFA?

connie, I would like you to keep writing Vamp!Giles and quickly, because I want to get to the next part - and then the part after that, with all the stuff. You know.

Plei, that bit about the sandalwood soap is lovely. One thing:

Which was kind of a lot.

Would you consider losing that? It actually takes away from the power of what you've been showing us, by inserting a statement, thereby telling us instead.

And what you're showing is is pretty damned powerful, girlie.

Fay, more Emma to come later. Ethan is about to make more than a token appearance.

Oh, sure. Right now, many things are up for cutting.

I'll probably whack it.