Title: Who Your Friends Are

Author: Jeanny

Spoilers: Through Season 5

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Yes, please! jeannygrrl@hotmail.com

Distribution: Go ahead, I don't mind, just credit me and tell me where it's going.

Summary: After Buffy's death, events lead inexorably to a showdown between the Dark Council and the Scooby Gang and their new leader, Spike. *Sequel to The Possibility of Friendship*

Disclaimer: Joss & Co. owns all these people, demons, creatures, tax collectors, etc. I'm only playing with them as I often do.

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PROLOGUE

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SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA...

Aldric Stokes-Martin had lost track of the number of attempts he had made to regain consciousness. His captors were using a combination of potent drugs and magicks to keep him perpetually unconscious, yet unable to slip into any kind of trance. Additionally he had felt that there was a tug on his spirit, a draining of his energies that he had been powerless to prevent. With a great effort he managed to break the surface of consciousness, not enough to move or speak or have a sense of his surroundings, but enough to hear the conversation that was taking place nearby.

"Is everything at the ready?"

Aldric recognized his father's voice immediately, of course.

"It is. The time is almost at hand. The Slayer will soon fall."

That voice was unknown, but it was unimportant. It was his father with whom he was most concerned. That and the fate of his sister Lydia. He hoped they would speak of her.

"And the Dark Slayer will rise. Has she been collected?"

Aldric would have moaned if he could. Sharonda Martin. A young girl already so corrupted that she would turn against her sacred duty and use her gifts for the side of evil if called. She had to be stopped, but he had no idea how.

"It is happening as we speak."

"Good. Make certain that the boy has been secured. Nothing can go wrong now."

Aldric this time did manage to moan as he felt the hands push up his sleeve and the prick of the needle on his skin. Then he was forced to surrender himself into the darkness once more. As always, he headed for the only place he knew. The Dreaming Planes could be a strange and frightening place, but he knew they were his only chance of warning anyone of what was to come. If he could get into the dreams of his sister, Rupert Giles or the Slayer, he might be able to stop this. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.

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MARTIN RESIDENCE, SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

Clive Martin was a simple man. He had always tried to accept what life brought him with stoic tolerance. Sure, when he lost his beloved wife and son in a fire, he had almost fallen apart. Claire and Jamie. It had been five years but he could still see their faces as clear as day when he closed his eyes. He could still hear their screams.

The only blessing God had given him that night was his ten-year-old daughter managing to escape the inferno. She had given him a reason to hang on and rebuild his life, and so he had. She was all he had left, and he had pinned all of his hopes and dreams upon her. He had even convinced himself that he could see her mother in the girl's eyes, burying the truth where he couldn't find it. Yes, Clive Martin was a simple man, but his daughter Sharonda was anything but.

Sharonda stood staring into the mirror, her expression unreadable. She hated the way she looked. Too short, too stocky, with stringy dull brown hair and a wide forehead and eyes that were too small and too far apart and were the color of dishwater. No one would ever wax poetic about Sharonda's eyes. The boys at school rarely looked at them anyway; they were too busy noticing other prominent features. Full pouty lips and a voluptuous figure had earned her a reputation in the girls' locker room that wasn't deserved. The truth was, the boys may have looked at her in lust, but they never touched. There was something about Sharonda that sent shivers up their spines.

Sharonda knew what they thought. What they whispered about her. There was a time when she'd cared, but that was before Alan Travers had come to tell her of her destiny. She smiled secretively into the mirror. She was to be the Slayer. They would all pay for their hurtful gossip; the currency she desired was pain. She hadn't felt so excited since the night she set the fire. She still lulled herself to sleep recalling her mother's screams. Soon she'd be able to make them all scream.

She was perturbed that Alan had not contacted her since he had returned to England, but he had said that he might not be able to contact her safely. She knew he would come for her soon, and the thought sent a thrill of anticipation through her. He had taught her much, trained her well. And his hands were so...talented...Sharonda stirred from her reverie by the sound of knocking on the door. She could hear her father moving to open it and hurried to the hallway, her heart pounding.

*He's here, he's come for me!* her heart sang. She saw her father's frown before she saw the man at the door. He was a total stranger, but the tweed suit was a giveaway.

"Mr. M-martin?" The man stammered.

"That's right? Do I know you?" Clive responded warily. Sharonda could tell he was aware the strange man was a Watcher. Clive had been tremendously distressed by the pronouncement that his precious daughter might be a Slayer. While he had grudgingly permitted her training, he had made it plain that he was not certain he would allow his daughter to be spirited away, destiny or no destiny. Alan had warned Sharonda that if her father didn't come around, he would have to be eliminated. She didn't really have a problem with that.

"My name is Andrew Tharpe, sir. I'm afraid I have some difficult news for you, sir, concerning your daughter. And her Watcher, Alan Travers." Sharonda froze.

*We've been discovered, and they've done something with Alan. And they’ll tell Dad what we've...this is a nightmare!*

"Go on then. Speak your piece," Clive responded gruffly. The man shifted uneasily on the porch, knowing better than to request an invitation. He cleared his throat again, looking more uncomfortable by the second.

"It is a rather unpleasant matter, I'm afraid. Mr. Travers-"

"It's a lie, Dad. Don't listen to him!" Sharonda blurted out.

"Sharonda, what the devil-"

"Ms. Martin, please listen to me-" Mr. Tharpe’s tone was pleading, but Sharonda ignored him in her panic.

"Mr. Travers is my Watcher, he can explain everything-" Sharonda said in a rush, focusing on her father’s eyes, trying to get him on her side.

"Ms. Martin, Alan Travers is dead."

"We never...dead?" It had taken a moment for Tharpe’s words to register.

"Good Lord, what happened?" Clive asked, putting an arm around Sharonda’s shoulders. Her body was as stiff as a corpse.

"There was an accident in London. A fire. I'm afraid he didn't survive. It's been a terrible shock to us all." Sharonda impatiently shrugged off her father’s comforting arm, advancing on Tharpe menacingly.

"No, no, that's not right. No, take that back! You're lying!" Tharpe met her charge with nothing but cool sadness.

"I wish I were, Ms. Martin. I truly do. I know that this must be terribly difficult for you to hear. But that is not all.” Tharpe shifted his gaze from Sharonda to Clive. “The Council wishes to inform you that it is no longer their belief that your daughter will be called as the Slayer when one of the current Slayers is...is no longer..." Tharpe faltered, fearing he would come off as seeming callous to a man whose daughter could potentially face the same fate, however unlikely that possibility now seemed.

"I understand, and I can't say I'm sorry to hear that," Clive responded, relaxing for the first time in the conversation. Sharonda merely stood still as a statue, her eyes focused on some spot behind Tharpe's shoulder. He looked at her sympathetically.

*Poor thing's in shock, and who could blame her, really,* thought the Watcher. *Clearly she'd already bonded with Travers. Always a difficult adjustment when a Slayer outlives her Watcher, even when she hasn't been called as yet. Which reminds me, better be clear about that to the old man.*

"It is not, however, inconceivable that it might happen, and for that reason I have been assigned as Sharonda's new Watcher. I do hope that will be acceptable." Tharpe's tone of voice made it clear that he would be staying whether the Martins found his presence acceptable or not.

"Might be acceptable. Can't be sure as yet. Put your hand on that, and I'll decide if you get an invite, Mr. Tharpe." Clive gestured towards the side of the door. The Watcher smiled in approval.

"Quite right, Mr. Martin. Such precautions are quite prudent." The Watcher placed his hand against the crucifix that had been mounted there, holding his hand against it for several seconds. Clive grunted and stepped aside, allowing the man to enter. Sharonda still hadn't moved, her eyes distant. She moved past the Watcher into the doorframe, staring into the night.

"Sharonda, are you all right?" her father asked, and she nodded absently.

"Mr. Travers is dead. Such horrible news...I need to be alone for a bit." She moved to step outside and felt a hand on her arm. She looked into the understanding eyes of Tharpe.

"I realize you've suffered a loss, Ms. Martin. But outside...I don't think that's a good idea." Sharonda smiled bitterly, gently prying the new Watcher's fingers from her arm. She had to keep reminding herself even if she’d had the strength, it would do her no good to break those fingers. Despite the satisfaction causing such pain might bring.

"May not be the Slayer, but I can hold my own." She turned to her father, knowing he would be more likely to give in to her. "I'll just be on the porch." The two men regarded her silently, and Sharonda forced tears to her eyes. She was upset about Alan so it wasn't hard to show emotion; to not reveal the depth of her anger to them at the same time was challenging.

"Stay close," her father finally replied, and Sharonda stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.

She heard her father usher Tharpe into the kitchen, and sighed as their voices retreated. Now she could finally get on to business. She moved to the edge of the porch.

"I know you're out here. Show yourselves," she called softly. Slowly a man and a woman emerged from the shadows and approached. Pale with dark hair, they would have been identical if not for their different genders. Their arrogant postures marked them as members of the Watcher's Council, but there was something in their attitudes that Tharpe had lacked: a healthy respect. Clearly they were afraid of her; Sharonda liked that. She liked that very much. Her spirits lifted as they stood before her.

"We were sent for you, Sharonda Martin," the woman began. “I am Hortensia Blackman. This is my brother Norris.”

"We would deliver you to the Council," her brother finished reverently.

"Why should I go with you?" she asked carefully. The two answered without hesitation.

"To fulfill your destiny." Hortensia seemed almost ready to drop to her knees.

"You are the Dark Slayer," Norris intoned somberly. Sharonda nodded in satisfaction, and went immediately to the matter foremost on her mind.

"Alan Travers? Did he die in a fire?" At this her two new visitors exchanged glances. The man answered as his sister moved away to make certain they were not bothered.

"He is dead, but he was treacherously murdered." He shivered at the look the girl gave him.

"You know who's responsible?" It wasn't really a question, but Norris nodded in response. Hortensia returned to his side.

"Come with us now, there isn't much time," she said urgently. Sharonda favored the front door with one last look, then stepped off of the porch. Once they were safely away from the house, Hortensia drew a sigil into the air. A fireball appeared in her hand and flew towards the house, igniting the front door as if she had thrown a Molotov cocktail. Sharonda watched critically for a moment as her home burned, then shrugged. The three vanished into the night.

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