and some more stuff, for my last day of taking cable customer calls. Whee!!!

Xander wondered if he needed a commercial driver's license to drive the bus if it wasn't being used as a commercial vehicle. Well, if the cops pulled him over to check his license, they'd have bigger problems with explaining the blacked out windows, the girl with the broken hand and the inability to form coherent sentences, and the obviously sick woman who should be home in her own bed. Plus the guys under the seats in the back. Maybe he could explain it as a field trip for an institution for the chronically weird.

Maybe Willow could do a Cops-Be-Gone spell or something.

The vampires hadn't gone into hiding just yet. Spike was lounging in the seat behind Dawn, arguing quietly with her over who caused what scratch on a CD. Giles perched nervously in one of the seats back in the blacked-out section, watching the lightening sky. Buffy went to sit in front of him.

"I think I speak for everyone here when I ask, Where are we going? Can we know now?"

He nodded distractedly. "Yes, certainly. We'll be taking some side roads before we reach the park itself. That will take us into the mountains, to a convent of St. Eugene."

Anya turned from her position in the seat behind Xander. "There are Eugenians in America? Since when?"

"Early 1800s, I believe. Their early records are spotty."

Joyce frowned. "I've never heard of a St. Eugene."

"That's because he was a demon," Anya explained. "His followers mostly stay in the Pyrenees in Europe. I thought there was only the one monastery in France."

Giles shrugged. "I heard of them from a Brachen demon who came into the Magic Box late one night last summer. The convent is apparently a sanctuary for, well, esoteric folks of all species. It's become something of a waystation for creatures who mean no harm who are travelling through this area."

"Out here in the boonies?" Buffy asked. "I'd think they'd be more comfortable in cities."

"In LA and San Francisco they can hide from people, but the smaller cities are more difficult. Plus the Hellmouth discourages them from coming closer to the coast."

Spike looked suspicious. "Eugenians don't much like vampires. You think they'll let us in?"

Giles studied the back of the seat in front of him. "I visited them once or twice, before ... I'm hoping they'll make an exception. If nothing else, if we cause no trouble they shouldn't object to us."

Xander snorted. "Trouble, like being chased by a hellgod?"

"I'm hoping the sanctuary aspect of the place will be more than just tradition. Aside from that, there is the problem of finding us." His frown became more pronounced. "It's quite late."

Spike glanced out the windshield.. The sky over the mountains ahead of them was definitely pink, tending towards sunny. "Right. Been lovely chatting, folks, Ripper and I are getting under cover now." He slid out of his seat and headed into the back. Giles followed, and they slid under the seats to either side of the aisle. Four minutes later, the edge of the sun appeared through a gap in the mountains, sending sunlight into the bus.

Even in the darkness under the seats, Giles winced in pain at the increased brightness. Spike glanced at him, then slithered out of his duster. "Here." He tossed it over.

Giles made no pretense about pulling the duster over his head. He peered out under the edge. "This is bloody unfair. You're only under here to keep me company, aren't you."

Spike shrugged. "Till the sun gets a little higher, no telling how the direct light is going to come in. I'm under here for a bit yet." He managed not to snicker too loudly on the look on Giles' face. "Look, Ripper, I've been a vampire for a century and a quarter. You're not even three months' turned. Fledgeling mortality rates are high for a reason."

"It's still unfair."

"Kids." Spike lost his grin. "I wish you'd told me it was the Eugenians we were headed for. Does this place have much contact with the mother house in France?"

"Occasional letters back and forth. Why?"

Spike studied the bottom of the seat above him. Several decades of hardened gum dotted the metal. "You know how Angelus was about convents and such. We spent a few months in France once, and we toured the Pyrenees so himself could make a religious pilgrimage of sorts."

"Angelus attacked the monastery of St. Eugene? When?"

"Before he got souled, of course. But we had a great deal of fun there one night, before one of their sorcerers drove us off. We didn't make a point of introducing ourselves--well, the poof did, but his ego was always bigger than his brain--but we might not want to say the words William the Bloody around our hosts."

"Lovely," Giles sighed. "Damn, this made a great deal more sense when I thought of it. At least we're moving. And there's less than twenty-four hours to go. If we can just make it past dawn tomorrow ..."

"Yeah. Just."

Fay, that was such a lovely story. Beautiful. And it should be published as the brilliant piece of original fiction it is. Maybe the pornanthology?

Connie - keep it coming.

Am - I love the salt. It's such a tiny character detail, but one I think Xander would have.

Connie-- it appears that all I have to say is "More! Please!" So, um, more? Please?

Elena, thank you.

past miles of working-class row houses, each looking like the next as the small hard-fought differences between them disappear into the dark.

I love this line and his climb into the fairgrounds. Really beautiful.

You've all written some brilliant stuff.

Fay, I think that would be awesome for the pornathology.

I love the story, connie. The dawnie/spike thing was brilliant, but I love all of it.

more, more, more from everyone, please?

Remember the boys in the basement? They're at it again.

- - -

“So you’ve got your soul back, then, Broody Boy?”

“Courtesy of Willow, yes. You managed to keep yours?”

“Yeah. I’m not relying on a stupid gypsy spell, either.”

“Why are you in such a bad mood today, Spike? I brought the best blood I could get.”

“The folks in Sunnydale were overcome with a sudden desire to have me work out my issues. Stupid American psychiatry crap.”

“To get rid of the trigger?”

“None of your business.”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“You’d get upset.” Spike smirks, remembering.

“Look, Spike, I was Angelus only the other day. I did horrible things. I know what you’ve done in the past. Unless you killed Buffy, nothing you did could be worse than what I’ve done recently.”

“But,” and suddenly the grin and the candle-lit blue eyes are turned full-power onto Angel, “it wouldn’t have to be *worse*, would it?”

“What are you talking about, Spike?” Angel asks, but he can guess. Not Buffy, that idea he’s dealt with—one of the others. Willow? Surely not. One of the men, maybe. Not Xander, but… Giles? The principal Willow said they were working with? The other, what was his name—Andy? Arnold?

“Oh, I think you understand, Angelus…”

“I’m not Angelus! I have my soul!”

“I have a soul and I’m still Spike.”

Drawn by the confrontational tone of the familiar argument, Angel sits up, only to hit his head on a random pipe. “Damn! Interdimentional basement, and it’s still full of bloody piping.”

“That’s what basements are for, you ponce.” Spike moves across, kneeling in front of Angel, taking control. “Besides, technically speaking, you’re wrong. This,” a tap on the pipe over Angel’s head, “is an unbloodied pipe. Bloody plumbing is to be found,” and Spike’s hand is clever, unzipping and slipping inside, then grasping, fondling, “here.”

“Spike!” Almost a gasp.

“Is that as yes or a no, Angelus?”

Deep breath, and Angel’s in control again, of his voice if not the way his cock is hardening in Spike’s hand. “It’s a no, at the moment.”

He grabs hold of Spike’s shoulders and shoves the blond backwards. The hand still in his trousers persuades him to move as well, so that he ends up lying full length on top of Spike.

“Great! The poof says ‘no’, and then turns us into a big old heap o’vampire. Are you sure Willow didn’t take you brain out when she put your soul back in?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me.”

So Angel did, quickly, simply, efficiently, and in a manner than—while it didn’t lead to total silence—did keep Spike quiet for some time.

The start of something rather random (Sandman/BtVS):

* * *

The first time Drusilla dreamed the future, it was full of blood.

It started with a mirror tumbling towards the ground so slowly that one might suppose that the air had grown as thick as honey. Drusilla watched her pale face flicker into view and out again as the silvery disk fell, and she knew with a terrible certainty that when it hit the ground and shattered her reflection would be lost forever - but there was nothing she could do to save it. She was twelve years old and her dreams had always been as rich and strange and terrible and mundane as those of any other little girl, but this was different. This time she knew that it was real, and that the world would never be the same. When the mirror hit the ground it broke into the tiny fragments, a rainbow explosion of shards as small as sugar crystals or glittering grains of sand, and it was gone beyond all possibility of repair. For a moment the world shivered out of joint and she was standing in a dusty garden full of neat little paths. She heard a footstep like the whisper of dry grass and turned; behind her stood a hooded man his head bowed and a heavy book open before him.

"Excuse me, sir?" she ventured, embarrassed to be caught invading this stranger's garden and painfully conscious of her state of dishabille. "I beg your pardon, sir," she began, and then he looked right at her and her tongue grew still.

"You aren't truly mine, child," he said, and his voice sounded inside her head like no human voice she had ever heard, even in dreams. "And you are in my brother's kingdom. This is just a shadow of my realm - but you may walk in the garden when you will."

"I don't understand," she tried to say, and then the garden was gone and she was standing in sand all alone. At first she thought it was a desert, such as she had read about in books, but then she turned and saw the crimson ocean stretching to the sky. "This must be the Red Sea," she said out loud, frowning uncertainly, but that didn't seem right at all, because surely Red Sea and Dead Sea and Black Sea and Yellow Sea were only names for distant blue water. She stepped closer, and watched a wave rushing up to her feet. It wasn't water, and it wasn't a dream, or not like any dream that she had had before; she could really feel the warm blood lapping at her feet and smell its metallic taint in the air, and she knew that she was looking at the future.

"There." She spun around again but it was a different man this time. His skin was paler than the finest white lawn and his hair was black as a murder of crows. She did not know him at all. "Do you see?" His voice hurt her head. He sounded impatient.

"But I don't want this," Drusilla said. "Isn't there - can't I choose something else?"

"That is none of my affair. This is the borderland with my brother's country, and such questions are his concern." She glanced back at the sea, and when she looked again the man had gone.

She wasn't expecting the pain. Dru doubled up in sudden shock, clutching at her belly, and tears welled up in her eyes. She looked down and saw a poppy-bright stain blossoming on her nightgown. Blood was pouring from between her thighs.

Drusilla woke herself screaming. Her sisters, lying on either side of her, were peevish at being so rudely woken, but when she continued to sob incoherently for minutes and minutes and minutes their anger faded into puzzled fear. When they saw the blood staining her gown they screamed themselves and ran to find their mother. As Elizabeth ran to the door she slipped and her flailing hand hit the mirror that the three girls shared. Drusilla watched, hiccoughing with tears, as the little disk arched through the air. It hit the ground and shattered irreparably, and Drusilla felt sick to her soul.

"I saw it," she tried to explain through her sobs when Mama arrived. "I knew it would happen. I'm going to die."

Mama smiled and laughed and told her not to be silly. It was only blood, she explained, and it was part of a big mystery that grown up ladies shared. This happened to all little girls, and it was a punishment for Eve's sin, but it was magical too because it meant that she was a woman grown, and soon there would be handsome suitors flocking to pay their respects. She calmed Drusilla, brushing out the long dark hair and singing under her breath, and then she helped Dru to wash herself and gave her bandages, and she kissed Dru and hugged her and told her to be brave.

When Drusilla asked Mama about the dream and tried to explain about the mirror, Mama just smiled and shrugged and said it was all her body's way of telling her about the change. Drusilla nodded solemnly, but she didn't believe it. Not for a moment. She knew that this meant something more than her mother had said. Something worse.

I like, Fay. I like very much. In fact, I like so much I'm nearly incoherent.

His skin was paler than the finest white lawn and his hair was black as a murder as crows.

Metaphor. Image. Yay.

It's very powerful.

a murder as crows.

a murder of crows, perhaps?

See? Very powerful! And with added telepathy, that ignores typos!

Whoops! Cheers, petal.