Get ready? Get ready for what? She didn’t want to know, that was for sure, but had a feeling that wasn’t acceptable.

Crowned the new rulers here?

She certainly wasn’t a ruler, more like a prisoner, just the same as her mom and friends in the basement. Drusilla had more freedom than the so-called ‘Goddess.’ Buffy studied her wardrobe in overwhelmed silence, completely at a loss over what to wear to a coronation. She’d never been to one, obviously, had only watched Queen Elizabeth’s black and white taped one in history class…and had fallen asleep halfway through at that.

She wasn’t cut out for this queen/goddess-ness; it wasn’t who she was. Yet Angelus seemed so dead set on making her into who he wanted her to be. Why couldn’t he just accept her as is? Or…maybe that was it, maybe –

Buffy shook off the thought before it fully formed; she couldn’t finish that thought. She also didn’t want to admit her ignorance to Angelus. It was bad enough with him always being condescending to her, telling her what to do, what he expected her to do, required her to do. The least, Buffy figured, she could do was pick her own damn dress. It was a small thing, but one thing she wanted a little control over.

Sometimes it was the little things that mattered. Or counted.

If she went for the dark green dress, Buffy thought, trying to put herself back in the girly-girl mode she was once so good at, then it’d make her eyes look greener. On the other hand, the black fit her mood perfectly. There were several dozen dresses of varying lengths in just about every shade she could think of. And several only Cordelia would know the appropriate names of. Her fashion magazine reading days had been few and far between lately, and Buffy didn’t think the editors were going to cater to their new demon clientele.

Of course, she might have just jinxed herself, and they were even now descending on Angelus’ lovely little castle as she stood there staring at the very wardrobe they wanted to ogle.

Buffy shook her head; she was losing her mind.

Angelus stood behind her, the slayer knew, but she ignored him. She had no idea what to say to him. Small talk seemed stupid; she didn’t want to know about what was going to happen, though she probably should. She didn’t want to ask questions about her new world, because denial, while pretty impractical, was a happy little place Buffy decided was just her style.

It was a shame Buffy hadn’t been able to find that happy place in a long, long while. (Miss you, Angel.) (Hello, lover, miss me?)

He was silent, and Buffy wondered why. Was it because he knew what awaited them and didn’t want to rush her, knowing she’d go all the slower because of that? No, he made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t to do that, and Buffy wasn’t about to give him a reason to test his rules. Everything within her rebelled at the thought, wanted to break free of the restraints he’d imposed on her and fight him.

But every time she went to put action to words, her mom’s face would flash before her. Giles, smiling up at her as they trained and she knocked him on his very British ass. Willow as they sat in the (long gone) sun at school. Xander as he tried to dance at the Bronze. Oz and the way he followed Willow with his eyes, whenever they weren’t touching. Cordelia as she tried to fit in, while trying to keep her own self-importance to the forefront.

Those things effectively kept her from doing anything against Angelus’ little rules. Buffy wasn’t sure how long that’d last; it’d only been a couple of days – if that – and already she was tired of playing the dutiful concubine. Dutiful wasn’t exactly in her vocabulary. Of course the word concubine set her teeth on edge and introduced all sorts of murderous thoughts that she was all to happy to play out should she find Angelus with someone else.

(I’m sure that was purposely, but whatever. You have my attention, lover.)

No, she didn’t understand it, either, that need to keep him to herself, and the seething hatred that he was effectively doing the same. Yes, she was losing it.

“What are you staring at?” Buffy asked when she found her attention more focused on Angelus than on her clothing choice. Just as well, she wasn’t making a decision anytime soon at this rate.

“Turn around, Buffy.” The voice held no hint of anger at her slowness, no indication that he was going to take anything out on anyone because Buffy couldn’t choose one damn dress for some all-important ceremony.

Slowly doing so, she looked him in the eye.

(He has the most gorgeous eyes, she remembered telling Willow. I could stare at him for hours just looking at his eyes. And the rest? Willow had asked with a girlish giggle. What about the rest of him? Buffy smiled, and she was sure it was dreamy. Yeah, the rest of him, too…did you see him in those pants the other night?) 

Bowed, she admitted when she met his gaze with her own steady one. She was bowed but not broken; no, she wasn’t broken, not yet anyway. There was a difference, and the slayer intended to keep that difference. She was bowed, forced to bend to a new set of rules in a new world with a new leader. Adaptable, she was adaptable, and could handle this. It wasn’t the first curveball life had sped her way, and Buffy was sure it wasn’t to be the last, no matter what Angelus had in mind.

Raising her chin a fraction at that thought, Buffy waited for him to say whatever it was he needed her attention for.

Eyeing her with a critical look, Angelus gave away nothing. Admiring her defiant look, wanting her because of that, at the same time he wanted to beat that look out of her eyes and her posture. A small voice in the back of his mind asked if that was really what he wanted…if beating her down to nothing more than another Drusilla, or, worse, breaking her completely so that nothing was left of the spitfire slayer he’d taken as his lover…was what Angelus truly wanted.

He ignored that voice, ignored all it represented and wanted, and he moved with predator gracefulness to where Buffy stood, defiant. Enjoying the moment, enjoying the power play he knew he’d continue to win by dint of holding more collateral, he looked down at her, hand slowing moving to her smooth cheek.

Appreciating the way she looked, with her hair still wet and bundled in a small towel; her robe hanging just passed her knees, the top revealing a hint of creamy smooth skin for his pleasure. Angelus breathed deeply of her scent, the light fragrance of her lotion and the underlying and unmistakable scent of him. He wanted her again, but there wasn’t time; not today, not with his inauguration looming over his head.

“When Acathla opened,” he began, now that he had her undivided attention, “He released his magicks over the planet, changing the world to suit his needs. But the demon knew he couldn’t survive, not after so long as a big pile of stone, and not even in this new world. He created this hell for his demons to move to; a new home for them knowing that with his awakening their original dimension was doomed.”

“Great,” Buffy said with a perfectly straight face. “Demons on parade.”

Narrowing his eyes in a warning Buffy didn’t bother to acknowledge, Angelus continued as he stroked her cheek with absent gentleness and affection. “When he finished creating Hell, his powers moved to his worthy successor as it was preordained. Me. You were there, lover, you saw what happened. Somehow,” and he was loathe to admit this when he understood so little of it himself. But Buffy needed to understand before the ceremony, and if the only way for her to understand now was for him to tell her when even he knew so little of it, then he would.

Her safety was of paramount importance to him. (You’re in danger, Buffy. I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.)

“You received something from him as well.”

Buffy paled. “I’m a demon?”
 

“You are as you always were,” he qualified, telling her nothing one way or another. His other hand came up to steady her as she swayed with sudden tension. Those stupid watchers, they knew nothing, and they passed onto their slayers even less.

“Now you’re a part of Acathla; as he no longer exists, lover, you’re a part of me. The emissaries that are coming today will sense that.” She looked horrified, and Angelus checked the impulse to comfort her and soothe away her fears. That wasn’t his job, he didn’t soothe. Instead, he smirked, counting it as one more reason for her dependence on him.

But he didn’t stop touching her cheek, and his hand still gripped her shoulder to keep her upright.

“You need say nothing,” he told her, half in warning half in explanation. “Simply nod at whatever they say unless I dictate otherwise. Understood?”

“Gotcha,” Buffy nodded, only vaguely realizing what she agreed to; her heart raced in fright. What did he mean about as she always was. Was what, a demon? And a part of him, of Angelus, she was always a part of Angelus? “Ignore the demons and hope they don’t eat me for intruding on your worthiness.”

“Sarcasm does not become you in this instance, lover,” Angelus warned, eyes flashing, fingers convulsing on her arm. “Find a dress and do it soon, or I’ll dress you and you won’t like it one bit. I’ll send Drusilla in to help you finish getting ready. I expect you outside our chambers within the hour.” His eyes narrowed further, and Buffy wondered if he could actually see out of them, so narrowed were they.

“I understand,” she ground out, her own eyes flashing silver at the demon before her. With a curt nod, he turned and left the room in a swirl of silk and leather, the enticing scent of Angelus still permeating Buffy’s senses. Damn him. But once the door closed behind him, Buffy’s thoughts turned to her own predicament which was now magnified several times.

(Demon. She was a demon. She was part demon, and connected to Angelus.)

What was in her? What had Angelus done to her by awakening Alfalfa? He’d destroyed the world when that stupid stone statue opened its mouth and breathed. He’d kidnapped her friends and family, and had thousands of demons worshipping him as their god. But what was the rest of that? What more had Angelus done when he’d pulled the sword out of stoney?

What more had she perpetuated when she’d failed in her sacred mission and allowed Angelus to win?

She had a demon inside her, and Buffy hated that; more, it scared her to the point of a near breakdown. She needed to know what happened, what was going on, what was inside her; and she desperately wanted to ask Giles. But that was impossible: her watcher was jailed below.

So she blindly turned back to the wardrobe, and the one choice she did have, vowing not to cry, not again. Tears did her no good, and Angelus seemed to actually enjoy her grief. Her luck, the one being that stayed with her got off on her misery. But she could still feel Angelus’ hand on her cheek, and see, however faintly, a spark of something – compassion, love, regret – in his eyes.

Buffy stared at the selections before her, consciously slowing her breathing and doing her best to regain control of her racing heart. All the relaxation techniques Giles once taught her were of only minimal use in her current situation. Pressing her fingers to her eyes, Buffy focused again, trying to listen to what her body was telling her. Taking a deep breath, one that didn’t sear her lungs as the hot air first had, she focused on the first thing she saw, a crisp white dress, floor length with a low-cut bodice that would hug her curves in all the right places.

Very virginal, Buffy snarked to herself, wiping a tear that escape the rigid control she placed on her emotions. How ironic for Angelus’ whore to wear white on the day she was crowned his queen.

(You’re weak, Angelus. Everyone knows how you let the slayer walk all over you, leaving you panting in her wake. This town needs a new leader, and I’m it.) (The slayer is mine!)

Tugging it off the padded hanger, Buffy laid it over the dressing chair, careful not to crease it. She may want to stake Angelus for a lot of things, and she wanted to wear the ugliest rags she could find to the ‘ceremony’, and smirk at his expression when she did so. But Buffy didn’t because she knew. Knew the reasons for her not to, and, frankly, she was just too damned tired to continue the fight. Angelus’ rules barred her continued fighting of him, but her own fall from heaven’s grace had battered her down before her (demon, beautiful, soulless) lover turned her beautiful world into hell.

Plus, she wanted to look her best, just to spite the arrogant bastard.
~~~~~~~~~~
Drusilla twirled in her new pretty dress and wished she could see her reflection for herself.

The material was so fine, so soft, and she had to run her hand across the material once more, sighing at the exquisite feel of it. Ah, it was beautiful. So soft, so fragile, so beautiful. She loved it and knew she’d be the princess of the ball. Princess, she was a real and true princess now, not just Spike’s Princess, not just Angelus’ favored. A real princess now that daddy was king and her new mummy was to be queen.

“Have you been a good girl, Miss Edith?” She asked her dark haired doll. Her Spike got Miss Edith for his princess in a little shop in Vienna. It was his gift to her for their first year together. “Of course you have, my pet,” she cooed to the china doll who remained glassy eyed and still, her bright blue eyes looking eerily up at Dru as if she were as mad as her mistress.

“Want to go to the party? Daddy says it’s very important, and that we absolutely must attend. He says that if not, then it all goes to hell.” Dru giggled at her pun, knowing full well what lay on the other side of the castle walls. “He says that we’ll be the talk of the ball, and that everyone will love us.”

Dru frowned, and picked up Miss Edith, soothing the doll as if she were actually crying. “But our new mummy, she doesn’t understand, does she. She will,” Dru promised with a wicked golden gleam in her eyes. “She’ll understand because she’s one of us, now.”

Giggling again, Dru placed Miss Edith in her favorite chair, and put the chair on a tabletop near the large bay windows that overlooked the courtyard…and the opening of the Hellmouth.

“You have an honored place, Miss Edith,” Dru waved as she left her room for Buffy’s. “I know you’ll enjoy all the party goers.”

Heels clicking on the stone floor of the deserted hallway, Drusilla walked to Buffy’s room where she knew the slayer waited. Angelus instructed her to make sure his queen attended the ceremony on time, and looking perfect, and Dru wasn’t about to let her daddy down. Knocking once on the door, she entered without waiting for an answer. Angelus wasn’t within, and Drusilla knew Buffy wouldn’t answer the knock if she had a choice.

“Are you ready, my bright star?”

Buffy looked up from her vanity where she was combing the knots from her hair. The dress required her hair to be up, and so long as she was playing the part, Buffy intended to do so to perfection. Drusilla’s unbidden entrance was hardly surprising, though annoying.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Buffy asked, though she’d heard the knock. She just ignored it.

“I did,” Dru said, puzzled as she wandered over to Buffy. “But my bright star doesn’t like to answer doors, ignorant of what’s on the other side.”

Taking the brush from Buffy’s hands, Dru finished combing the slayer’s hair, taking the curling iron from its place on the vanity top. Using pins and hairspray – which Buffy was not a little amazed to have discovered in the drawers of her vanity in hell – Dru finished Buffy’s hair. Pulled back from her face, her hair was piled at the back of her head, with fat curls escaping from the tight bun Dru somehow managed.

Humming, Drusilla found the dress Buffy chose and smiled. White, like the stars that no longer shone on their land. White like the only beacon of light that existed any more. Her bright star would shine in her gown, so soft, so pure, so bright. Outshining them all.

“The light becomes you,” Dru said with a smile, “It’s what makes Daddy want you.” She slipped the dress off the chair and held it up to her own body, admiring the diamond straps that would hold the dress up, and the cluster of them at the ‘V’ of her bodice. “The stars,” Dru continued as Buffy warily watched the vampiress point to the cluster of diamonds, “They can’t outshine you, mummy.”

Completely freaked, Buffy abruptly stood. “Right” Another sarcastic quip was on the tip of her tongue, but Buffy resisted. She couldn’t have said why, but figured it wasn’t worth it, not on the crazy woman – her only ally – before her. “I’m getting dressed now, so you can…leave.”

Dru made no move to do so, and Buffy wasn’t surprised. The previous two times she’d dressed for Angelus – and that thought grated on already raw nerves – Dru had been there, all but putting the clothes on her. The vampiress had already seen her naked, that was nothing new though, Buffy was still uncomfortable with the whole thing.

She needed to take charge, the slayer thought, she needed to do what she did best, and take control of the situation. Taking the dress from Drusilla, Buffy smiled and knew it was a horribly forced one. “Really, I can get dressed on my own.”

Dru didn’t acknowledge Buffy’s ascertation, and instead pulled the thick rope by the bed. “Have to eat first,” she told the slayer, and went to answer the door when a knock sounded almost immediately.

A servant brought a tray of food in, placing it on a side table where Buffy had eaten before, and quickly bowed his way out without looking at either Buffy or Drusilla. Piled with fruits and cheese, some crackers and bread, the tray looked inviting. Buffy wasn’t that hungry – stress caused her to lose her appetite, as was evident the past months with Angelus roaming free. Dru shooed her to the table, however, and forced her to sit.

Grumbling at the high handedness of every vampire she came in contact with, Buffy looked at the fruit. Where had this come from? It was doubtful the outside environment could grow something like this as harsh and hot as it seemed. She’d ask Angelus, Buffy thought. But then again maybe not. He’d no doubt enjoy telling her how he had done this all for her and wasn’t she grateful?

Bastard.

Repressing the sigh that wanted to escape, Buffy ate the food before her, having no desire to faint from hunger in the presence of the no doubt hundreds of demons that were going to be present. That was weakness. And Buffy had enough of those; this wasn’t going to be another. Tying the belt tighter around her waist, Buffy went to brush her teeth before dressing. The demons probably wouldn’t notice a bit of celery caught in her teeth, but Buffy was determined to make her own impression.

And it was going to be a damned good one.

She hated this, true, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t time, past time, that she started playing by her own rules. And those rules included presenting herself as she was, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, not Buffy the Vampire’s Whore. If she was truly to be Angelus’ queen, then she planned to play the part of the Ice-Queen to perfection, the aloof goddess, one that no one could touch.

No one would ever know her hurts and sorrows; no one would ever realize just what went on behind the mask she planned on showing the world. Not if she could help it.

Looking in the mirror for another long minute, Buffy made sure that her eyes were flat pieces of jade, that her mouth was set in a slightly smiling line, one that told of secrets and mysteries that wouldn’t ever be revealed. She wasn’t sure how long this mask would last, but that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that she could play this game as well as Angelus.

Back in the bedroom, Dru watched the open door of the bathroom with a small smile of her own. Ah, her bright star was beautiful, so sad, so bloodied, so pretty. Angelus had her, Dru knew, but Drusilla wanted her for herself. She’d never go against her daddy, never ever, no. But she couldn’t help but want daddy’s compelling consort. Soon to be mate.

Her thoughts drifted to Spike, and the fun they could have, if her pet had not angered daddy. “Bad Spike,” Dru hissed, “Bad Spike. Can’t make it up to daddy, but I’ll be here.”

Buffy exited the bathroom, and nodded – once, regally – to Dru to help her dress. Wanting to touch the slayer, the power, the brightness, the need and the strength, Dru did just that, taking in the girl’s determination as the vampiress’ pale hands lingered on Buffy’s smooth arm. She felt as beautiful and undeniable, as she smelled and looked. The air tingled with power, and Dru was drawn to it.

“Ready, my little one? The festivities are about to begin, and you’re the star of the show.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Giles?” Willow asked tentatively from her cage.

She’d made her bed on the floor, so as to be closer to Oz, and now sat up to face the watcher. It hadn’t been that long since they all arrived here, not long enough to actually starve, but Willow was hungry. Six minions arrived to bring them their trays, one per cage. The food was good; fresh fruits and vegetables, breads, cheeses, clean cool water to drink. Afterwards, those same minions, along with two others, arrived to lead them, individually, to the bathrooms. Their daily ablutions were quick and spare, but they had a chance to wash, use the facilities, and remember what not being locked up was like.

Apparently, Angelus had a keen sense of smell. Wouldn’t want to offend his delicate sensibilities.

Spike ate once a day, though Willow didn’t actually watch. That was more than she ever wanted to know about vampires. So far, he’d been…fed…twice. They were vampires, probably ones Angelus held a grudge against, or found weak, or some other thing that he found wanting in them. Maybe he simply didn’t want any other vampires in the castle.

The first time one was pushed through his cell, Spike complained loudly.

“A vampire? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! Just stake me already.” No one had, of course, but Xander offered to do so from his position still within the cell. Apparently, as Spike later went into excruciatingly detailed descriptions, Vampire blood was gross and nasty unless it was family blood. Willow wanted to ask how it differed, but hadn’t; she seemed to be the only one interested in the difference.

“Yes, Willow?”

“What’s Acathla’s world like?”

Giles didn’t answer right away and felt everyone’s eyes on him. Well, minus Spike and Whistler. Again, the former watcher wondered what the destiny demon knew. And why Angelus kept him in the cells with the rest of them. He already suspected the reason for Spike’s imprisonment, and found it ironically funny.

“I don’t know, Willow,” he admitted, and hated, absolutely hated, to do so. “My books didn’t give a lot of description; all they say is that when he opened his mouth, he sucks the world into hell.”

”Oh,” she whispered, and hoped for more. Turning to Whistler, she asked him. “What do you know? Being a destiny demon, and one who was sent to help Buffy, you have to know what Acathla was going to do.”

Whistler looked at the redhead for a long moment. In the end, he decided that sharing his knowledge about what Acathla was, in no way endangered his already forfeit life. Besides, if they knew, it was possible for them to understand the need of the slayer; she had to be out there, fighting, not in here, with Angelus.

“Acathla wasn’t banished from his dimension like a lot of other hell gods and goddesses around here. He voluntarily left to seek new lands for his world, knowing that time was running short; there was some cataclysmic something or other that happened there; Acathla, though immortal, was still dying because he was a literal part of his world. When his world experienced something, he did as well.

“So when his world began to die, Acathla was affected by it. Having read the prophecy of a being destined to become his successor, he came here, looking for this heir. Acathla wouldn’t need to breathe here until the time came when he transformed Earth into his own Hell dimension; he couldn’t do that, until he found his successor. Didn’t find him,” Whistler admitted as he picked up a grape and munched on it. Not bad, actually. Would be better with some wine, though…

“Some virtuous knight decided to kill the demon and pierced Acathla’s heart with his sword, a sword that was blessed by a pious monk. Or at least the knight pierced what he thought was Acathla’s heart. Hearts are in different places in different demons. Instead of actually killing Acathla, all the knight did was turn him to stone, put him in stasis. The knight didn’t know that, and told everyone he’d killed the beast. A bunch of them set sail for a distant land to bury the stone demon, and found Sunnydale.”

Giles, interested despite himself asked, “And now that Angelus woke Acathla, and hell really did descend here? What now? What happens to Angelus? What about Acathla’s dimension?” He knew Angelus was the key, knew that the ‘demonic souled one’ meant Angel, and that since Angel was no longer in possession of his soul, then that meant Angelus. He hadn’t told anyone, and planned on taking that particular secret to the grave and beyond, with him.

Whistler shrugged. “Acathla is no more; Angelus is the true ruler now. Three days after Acathla wakes, if Angelus is still alive, the powers that were the demon’s are now his. The world will become the new home for Acathla’s dimension, with Angelus as their ruler.”

“And if Angelus can’t hold onto the powers?”

Whistler shrugged again. “Then we’re dead, but nothing changes here. This is permanent, children,” the demon warned. “If Angelus dies, then a new ruler will have to fight for control and anarchy spreads.”

“You knew this?” Giles raged, standing from his cot and striding to the cage bars. Magicks long buried woke at the potential unleashing, simmering along Giles’ skin. “You knew this and did nothing to stop it!”

“Hey,” Whistler defended himself. “That wasn’t my job, it was the slayer’s. I told her where to go, what to do; it’s not my fault she failed.”

Giles snarled at the little demon and shook the bars, his anger overriding the strict control he long held over his darker side. Whistler noticed that the whole cage shook when the human did that, and seriously feared the watcher/mage/prisoner. Spike just laughed, looking between Whistler and Giles and obviously betting on the human.

Hey, he was down here for eternity, something had to amuse him.

Giles stared hard at the little demon. He was going to kill him. From in here or not, he was going to kill the demon known as Whistler, and he was going to make it as painful as he could. No one, no one, talked about his slayer liked that. No one.
~~~~~~~~~~
Allen Francis Doyle crashed to the ground in pain.

The vision slammed through him in wave after wave of painsound and painlight and painsmell. Big demon, vampire, no, not a vampire, what were they shouting? Angelus! Angelus! (It was a chant that echoed throughout the land, a shout of support and of love. The sound was taken up across the land, and across the world, and yes, even across the dimensions. Angelus! Buffy!)

This Angelus, whoever or whatever he was, overlooked a crowd of things Doyle’d never seen before and wished he wasn’t seeing now. They were large ugly creatures, but looked oddly subservient to the vampire. Former vampire. Beside him was a woman, human, or nearly so, dressed beautifully. He couldn’t see her face; a flash of light, so bright and so pure, blinded him to the sight, and Doyle found he wanted to bow in her presence. She stood beside Angelus, looking out at the masses before her…

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” A voice asked from somewhere above, and all Doyle could think was that finally, he was released from his visions and free from this world.

He wasn’t that lucky, and opened his eyes to a shadowed woman standing over him, concern playing over her pretty features. Dark hair blew slightly in the hot wind that covered the land, and a slight sheen of perspiration made her look only more beautiful. A hand appeared in front of him, and Doyle took it, not immediately realizing that the strength in the grasp meant that he’d finally found the girl he sought.

“Yeah,” he said automatically, grateful for the person’s assistance in standing. He looked at the brunette before him, just slightly shorter than he, and groaned. It was partly in pain and partly in recognition. He knew the woman/girl before him; she played a very prominent role in several of his most recent – and painful – visions.

“You’re the new slayer,” he whispered in pain and secret, “Right?”

“Yeah,” she said warily, eyes darting around the barren landscape as if someone in the deserted land, had heard him. Faith didn’t know why she admitted her secret, it was the one thing Julie stressed; no one was to know she was the slayer. Her life was in enough danger without adding that tidbit to the mix. “How do you know?”

“Name’s Doyle,” he said with one hand still holding his head, and another out for a handshake. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Who are you?” Still not trusting and Doyle couldn’t blame her. She was too young for this, and he hated that she was called into a world such as this.

“Seer for the Powers that Be,” he said and was grateful – he thought – that she hadn’t staked him yet. “The send me visions of people in trouble and I have to save them. Then this happened, and they sent me a vision of you, wanted me to find you, help you.”

Faith smirked, “How can you help me?”

“Don’t know,” Doyle readily admitted, “But I’m supposed to, anyway. Is your Watcher here?”

Faith paused for a moment. He wasn’t a vampire, that special tingle low in her belly was absent. But she wasn’t entirely sure he was human – or completely so – either. Still, Jules probably wanted to meet him, she was all into that researching business. Faith decided that if Julie didn’t trust him or thought he was evil, then she could always stake him later.

“The Powers that Be what?” Faith asked as she led him to where she and Julie were staying in this godforsaken town. They’d decided it was better to avoid the main cities, or what remained of them, for everyone’s sake. The riots were spreading, however, as no answers were given and the world didn’t change back to the way it was before, to the ignorance the population was before. So some little backwater, in what was rapidly becoming no longer Utah, was now their home.

“What?” Doyle asked, confused but grateful she was taking his word for this, he had no idea how else to explain himself, and hoped that the slayer, at least, understood the whole supernatural thing.

“The powers that be, you said, be what?”

“No idea, they just send me the visions, along with a hefty dose of pain, and leave me be.”

“That sucks,” Faith said, sizing him up. Not her usual type, true, but cute enough. And that accent didn’t hurt either. Irish, she thought and reminded her of Boston. Even her worst memories took on a softer glow in the face of this.

How sick was that?

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