Angel groaned. He must have been sitting there for days, but there was no way to tell; his usual ability to sense night and day without seeing the sun had faded with the hours of solitude, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding the time away. There was no telling what Spike would do when he came back.
There was a sharp pain in his chest, and Angel looked down to see the gaping, bloody hole in his torso slowly closing up. It hurt like a bitch, but that was the advantage of being a vampire. No need for Band-Aids.
He didn't believe she was coming. She wouldn't have the courage to face Spike now, just as she hadn't the courage to face him. It had been almost two years since they'd last seen each other. Since she'd refused him for the last time.
He had loved Buffy for as long as he could remember, ever since she was only 16, the new Slayer who he had figured wouldn't last a day against the Master. But she proved him wrong in the most wonderful way, and the seven years they spent together were the greatest of his long life. He lost her so easily.
Would she really come back, after all she had said, all she had promised herself? No, he sincerely believed she would rather see him die than return. To Buffy, it was still his fault for hurting her. So even if Spike Fed-Exed his head to her, he couldn't see Buffy coming back to Sunnydale for the world. Especially not to face a raised Spike. It had never happened with the Master, a lucky thing for Buffy; Angel himself knew all too well that a master raised from the dead had his strength increased tenfold. She would be too scared.
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"Willow!"
"Oh, hi, Xander." Willow Rosenberg straightened in her desk chair. "What's wrong?"
"Have you picked up your morning paper yet?"
"No, I don't get the paper."
"Do you get mail early?"
"No, not really. It's mostly e-mail that I rely on. All the rest is outdated."
"Check it!" Willow was disturbed by the tone in Xander's voice. He sounded genuinely rattled, something that was hard to accomplish lately. Xander had it all: a high-paying job at an entry-level law firm, a beautiful wife, a happy life. To think that the same Xander she knew and loved in high school would end up one of Sunnydale's favorite sons. At the young age of 25, no less.
She grabbed the mouse on her personal computer and stared out into the library. She had definitely done a superb job on it. Giles would probably have cringed in horror, but she had sent Miss Calendar a scanned picture of the new library and gotten a thumbs-up rating. Since Willow had taken over, the library had become a thriving place, albeit not with teenagers. No Sunnydale student really read - some things never change - but with the attached entrance to the computer lab Ms. Rosenberg was able to shoulder three computer classes as well as the librarian's job. She would pick up where Rupert and Jennifer Giles left off.
"You've got mail!" Her computer was always happy to see her.
"Hold on, Xander, I'm checking it." She clicked on the icon. A letter or two from Oz, her longtime boyfriend, who was in New York and Philly touring with his band. No time to read those. Junk mail. Something from Cordelia, who repeatedly chatted with her, just to dish about Xander. What was worse was that Willow actually enjoyed it. No time for that either.
Then, at the bottom, was a mail titled "WILLOW", sent from Unknown@unknown.com. Strange, it must be an encoded address, she thought. Read button:
WILLOW ROSENBERG -
FELICITY HOPKINS DIED IN PEACE. SHE WILL NOT HAVE THAT LUCK.
That was the end of the letter.
"Xander, are you still there?"
"Yes, yes! What did it say?"
"It said: 'Felicity Hopkins died in peace. She will not have that luck.' What does that mean, what do you think?"
"Who's Felicity Hopkins?"
"Good question. Let me check the database."
Willow had thought it was a genius idea to put all of Giles' files - the Watcher Diaries, the Codex, all those musty old tomes - into an Internet search database for the next Watcher. If he or she was to ever surface in Sunnydale. Giles had been too upset about his sudden loss of the title to bother organizing his things before he moved back to England with his new wife.
Hopkins, Felicity: 1880's Slayer killed in New Hampshire by Master vampire, later given the moniker "Spike". Holds record for longest life of a traditionally chosen Slayer. Killed on the day before her twenty-fifth birthday as part of a pact made among the Old Ones to hunt down and kill all Slayers before the age of twenty-five.
"Xander, what did you find in your newspaper?"
"A headline talking about the warehouse murders last night was circled, most likely because they were related to -- well, you know. Someone had written on it 'SHE'LL BE BACK.'"
"Are you sure that she will? Does she know about Spike?"
"Willow, I've tried so hard not to care."
"I know, I know. But there's a pact, Xander," she said, scrolling down and clicking on the link to the Slayer Pact.
"What?"
"It was made at the time of the first modern Slayer, in A.D. 82. Stated that the ruling Master Vampire was under obligation to kill the Slayer before she reached the age of 25."
"Why? Why is that significant?"
"I don't know. But apparently, I got this e-mail saying that whoever SHE is is going to die painfully, and it mentioned Felicity Hopkins, who was the longest-living Slayer to date. She was killed right before her twenty-fifth birthday."
"That rules out you, because you turned twenty-five too long ago. Cordelia, too."
"Xander, stop that."
"Stop what?"
"You know who she is. You might not care, but if all the vampires in and out of Hell are suddenly on alert for her, she's going to need our help. In all likelihood, she's walking straight on into a trap."
"I don't understand you, Willow." He was trying to ignore it.
"What day is today?"
"October 24."
"Were you even going to call her on her twenty-fifth birthday? Too bad you missed your chance. She's probably already dead."
On the other end of the line, she heard her best friend, stoically steadfast, wisecracking Xander, burst into tears. Willow listened to his sobs for a moment, then hung up the phone. She had to try to contact Angel, if he was still there.
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