TITLE: HUNTRESS 3/4
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
FEEDBACK: Absolutely, I love it - who doesn't?
DISCLAIMERS: Buffy and co. are the property of Joss Whedon, just borrowing them for a little bit.

We scorch the earth, set fire to the sky
Stoop so low to reach so high
A link is lost; the chain undone
Now we wait all day for the night to come
And it comes, and it comes
Like a Hunter-child…I'm hanging on.
- Red Hill Mining.
(U2).

A landscape of melting wax. Sand stretching far as the eye could see.

The sky was blurred - a river in motion - sliding out of phase with a blast of heat. The type of heat you could taste; tang of sweat and cider, an element of…

…Xander…

Xander was peering under a rock, as large as her empty house, hoisting it upwards with one hand, peering intently into the darkened shadows. A crab scuttled sideways, and it slowly occurred to Buffy that she should be thankful - at leas there was no cheese.

A mutter, and Buffy blinked, watching with amusement as Xander shrunk, hair growing long and wild. Dawn emerging into shape from the folds of her friend, smile bright and sunny as she conspired: "All we are is blood," - and slashed her arm to the bone.

"Bet that hurt."

The sky roiled. Tumbling over-head like a roller coaster, bruise black lightening to indigo, staring at the bleached remains of a carcass where Dawn had once been. There was no real surprise when Buffy turned to find Faith, eyebrows quirked and arms folded. "Is this your inner Slayer or mine?"

Faith tilted her head and shrugged. "I'm still cooling my heels in an L.A women's penitentiary, so I'm betting this is your dream and *not* mine."

"I've been here before." Buffy's sandal swept through the sand, tracing aimless patterns. The heat was punishing, a bead of sweat on her upper lip, shading her eyes with one hand: "I met the first Slayer here."

"Really?" A speculative glance; Faith squatting down and biting into an apple. "What was she like?"

"Intense, bad fashion sense, a little like you."

//a little like you//.

Faith grinned, peering over her shoulder with serrated teeth. Her features flared suddenly, white hot like an atomic blast, as if she'd drawn breath and caught fire from within.

It hurt to look. Hurt to stand within the radius of that intense brightness. Buffy wanted to take up clay and water, smear the other girl's face with dirt. Ochre. War-paint. Prayers for the damned and dying.

"We don't know who we are, do we? Where we come from? Where we originate? It's all lost in time," sand sliding through splayed fingers - apple juice sliding down her chin in a thin trickle - and suddenly, she was Faith again, dark bangs and tired eyes. "Our known history begins and ends with the Watchers, B."

A nod, distracted, searching the middle distance. Shrill cry like a scream, a hawk pin-wheeling mid-flight and plummeting down. A rabbit, Buffy supposed, and the landscape shimmered at the impact of death, the last pulse of a heartbeat.

All we are is violence and blood.

"Did you ever wonder where they came from? The Watchers, I mean?"

Breeze like the flutter of a moth's wings, cool as water, and Buffy turned, brow creased into a vertical slit; what Xander had laughingly called the 'I-want' line.

Faith wasn't behind her. Faith was walking up the crest of a sand dune, thirty feet away, tossing the apple up mid air and catching it.

Distractedly, Buffy noticed that the apple was formed whole. "Hang on a minute, wait! Do you know?"

Faith turned, winding her arm up like a pitcher at the plate, "It's in the Slayer's hand-book!" and cut loose.

One instant to pout - Giles had never shown her the damn hand-book! - and then the apple struck her in the forehead like a ballistic missile.

Teeth clicking shut as she fell on her rump - and with a start, Buffy woke up.

__________________

Dusk by four p.m, English winter at its best, and Giles smiled faintly; he'd missed this? Hell yes, and chuckled, the sound startling, even foreign. It occurred to him that he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd simply laughed at himself of late - and there was something a little depressing about the thought. His smile diminishing, but not quite fading, chasing the corners of his lips.

It was damp, a slow drizzle that stole under his coat lapels and trickled down his back; as if Mother Nature couldn't be bothered with a full onslaught of torrential rain, and had settled for sloppy seconds instead. His feet were numb in the hiking boots - a coldness creeping in despite the brisk pace - cutting across a paddock and vaulting a stone wall before hurrying on, hair plastered to his forehead.

Dark by four p.m. He wondered if that was why the majority of the vampire population was located in England and Europe, rather than countries like Africa, America, or Australia. Countries that were still light be seven in the winter months.

Not that those countries were impervious - six years on the Hellmouth had taught him that - and there was plenty besides vampires in the world. England, though, always seemed to have more than its fair share. The stake, coated in dust and clutched in his left hand, was testament to that. There was a reason why the Watchers' Council had been founded here. But still, he had found it rather rude of a vampire to interrupt his evening stroll.

The moon was waning - a bare sliver of light - the baying of distant dogs and the low growl of a passing truck. Giles hesitated before adjusting his course, moving diagonally as he cut across the field. He hit the road presently, jumped a second wall, and walked slowly along its dirt path. The cottage he was residing in was a bare mile away and for once in his life, Giles felt no under-lying sense of urgency, walking with an internal peace that was long sought.

He'd been here little over two months, deserting his flat in London on a momentary whim - books and empty bottles left astray - and the change had done him good.

The cottage was ridiculously cheap, the recent troubles with Foot and Mouth Disease had left the rural community in strife, and the land owners had been grateful for his interest. Small, cramped, isolated. Exactly what he needed.

Giles was a solitary man, forced by circumstances into an extended family. By his own count, it had taken almost two years to feel truly comfortable with that riotous mob, and he sorely hoped it wouldn't take as long to readjust. He awoke sometimes on the edge of a dream, hearing their laughter as they tumbled into his flat. Memories that were bitter-sweet, held close and oddly, cherished.

The grass rustled, rain slanting sideways as he crested the hill and hesitated. Light, a yellow eye that was fixed unblinking, guided the way home, and he frowned. One hand clutched tight around his collar to keep the drizzle out, the other flexing around his stake.

//Foolish, old man, it's inside, not out//.

Yet somehow, that wasn't a source of comfort, a whisper in his mind as he finally acknowledged the inevitable…she was here.

____________________

The dream stayed with her long after the plane landed; Heathrow airport like a miniature city. She had found her duffel, the exit, and a cab with minimal fuss, not above using dirty tactics when called. A sweet smile for the customs official - and an elbow in the ribs for the Italian momma who had jostled her for the nearest cab. Taxi, move with the lingo, and was 'lingo' British or Australian? She had a memory of an Australian actress saying that her nation had shortened every possible word in the English language - and the inherent difficulties of that when your best friend's name was Richard Head.

She could still remember Giles' low laugh.

Buffy had arrived to find his flat deserted, forcing a locked window she had clambered in, only to discover no signs of his current whereabouts. The flat had a faint odour, the scent of a house that had been shut up for too long, and the fury that had struck her had been sudden. No tears, no confusion. Everything boiled away by a white rage - the intensity of it leaving her shaking.

She had gone out and she had killed.

Finding release in the alleys of a foreign land, Buffy had lost count after her tenth encounter. Focus narrowed into tunnel vision she had slipped further into herself.

Fugue state. It terrified her whenever she came to, because she couldn't *remember* what occurred between one conscious thought and the next; and alarmingly, such occurrences increased with every hunt.

Buffy came back to herself in the early hours of dawn, hair and clothing coated with a fine layer of ash. Sitting on his porch step with her duffel between her feet she had…concentrated.

She couldn't explain it, not in any way that made sense, just an elusive urge, chasing a thread on a winter breeze. This way…don't stop…a taxi driver who thought she was near insane, and she was, Buffy supposed, teetering on the fine edge of control. But it had led her to here, and now all she could do was wait.

A development from the year previous - Giles' voice sliding her down into the psyche of a Slayer - and she had stumbled, quite by accident, onto the fact that she wasn't alone. She could find him. She could find him anywhere.

The wind gusted, rain hitting the pane with added force, her 'spider sense' operating on an entirely different level. He was close, and her fingers clenched briefly before smoothing open, mind tracking listlessly over her memories of the dream.

Where did the Watchers come from?

In truth, it had never been a concern of hers. They were simply there, always had been and always would, and yet Buffy knew that wasn't true. Her encounter with the first Slayer had told her as much - the Watchers had arrived at some point *later* in a Slayer's evolution.

If Buffy had to hazard a guess, she would have said they were an offshoot of the ancient Church. But she also knew there were two types - pre-destined Watchers and Watchers by proxy, filling in the gaps until the next 'natural' Watcher arrived.

Giles was a natural Watcher, Wesley had been a Watcher by proxy - and both Buffy *and* Faith had known the difference instinctively.

He was hovering, coming neither closer nor moving further away, and Buffy's jaw clenched on an impulse. The buzz of betrayed anger worked its way back in, and she wondered briefly if this was how Giles had felt, in the months after Acathla.

//Stay still, he'll come//, and if not, then Buffy would go out and drag him back in ropes (she already knew what he could do with a lock), and really, that plan didn't sound so bad after all.

________________

Giles faltered, breath catching, tension riding high, and then trudged onwards, keeping his mind determinedly blank. As plans went it lasted all of two seconds before the thoughts crowded in, a life-time habit not easily dismissed.

Vampires - and it was Spike whom his thoughts turned too.

He'd be the first to deny it, but in truth, Giles *liked* the vampire. Not that it meant much; he had no compunctions about staking the demon if necessary. But Spike had a quality not easily defined. Beneath the bluster and posturing there was something that *needed* to be needed, as if Spike wasn't complete unless he had someone to look after. Dru, with her madness, insanity, childish bouts; and Dawn, with her vulnerability. Spike, knowingly or not, had a protective streak - it didn't extend far or even wide - but it was *there*, and it was a paradox of sorts.

Buffy had loved Angel with every fibre in her being, a vampire, her natural enemy. But Angel had a soul and that was all the reasoning that Buffy required. Angel had a soul, cared, was loyal, and ultimately had been capable of the higher emotions. Love. By the Slayer's logic, the presence of a soul meant he was capable of emotion, emotion meant humanity, and humanity meant 'goodness' - a dot to dot logic that did bugger all to explain Spike.

Spike, who had loved Dru for a hundred and twenty years, and who had defended Dawn with a hellacious fury. Spike, who unlike his sire, had never been *cursed* with a soul…and yet cared.

Giles had always found it faintly amusing that not one of the Scooby gang had questioned that fundamental difference.

Angel had *lost* his soul - not a glimmer of humanity left as he cut a swathe of blood through the community of Sunnydale - and it occurred to Giles that William, whoever that young man had been, was made of much sterner stuff than anyone had cared to admit.

Because William, unlike Angel, had survived, however small the sliver of humanity had been.

He knew Buffy had slept with him, not all things needed to be said, and Giles wasn't sure how he felt about it. Anger, concern, and under-lying that, a vague sense of hope. That maybe Spike, who matched Buffy in speed and strength, might offer her that sense of peace. He could manage hope - if he ignored the overwhelming urge to vomit - and his thoughts shifted instantly to combat it.

Angelus.

Funny how that name could render every muscle taut.

He had made a decision two years back to offer aid to the vampire, and since that day, Giles had never once looked him in the eye. Gaze always focussed to the left, or down, or over his shoulder, and he knew intrinsically, that Angel viewed it as a sign of submission, of brokenness. Standing on his doorstep, seeking aid from the First, as if it was Angel's right, as if he knew Giles wouldn't deny him.

At the time, a rage so profound that it *shivered* through Giles' bones, fingers clenched tight around the cross-bow. One crazy spasm, and Angel had never known how close to death he had been. Not the plea of the vampire that stayed Giles' fingers…but Buffy. Because Buffy *needed* Angel, like a soul sickness, and Giles wouldn't do anything to jeopardise her state of mind. Keeping his eyes cast downwards from that moment on…to shield the urge for murder.

Leaving Sunnydale had been the smartest decision Angelus had made, although it pained Giles, if only for Buffy's sake.

The cottage loomed before him, the silhouette of a nearby tree casting searching fingers along its walls. The lock had been forced, and Giles stamped his feet twice, shaking the caked mud of his soles before stepping in.

Warm light greeted him, smoke and burning wood. He dumped the backpack in the corner, toed his boots off, and turned slowly.

A beat - anger, sadness, *tension* - all fading in an instant, like the day she had returned - bitterness sundered by acceptance.

He drew a breath, watched as the snap in her eyes gave way to a gentle smile, and returned it. The easiness that had always laid between them emerged and it was almost…normal…except for the fact that she had hunted him down.

"Buffy."

The Slayer inclined her head, regal as a princess, and the unspoken formality suddenly struck Giles as ridiculous.

The same thought must have occurred to her, because her smile widened briefly, eyes tracking over the small interior before lighting on him: "I hope you realise you ruined half a dozen perfectly good cliches."

Giles shrugged out of his damp coat and jumper, pulled a fresh one over his head, and emerged from the turtle-neck looking decidedly dishevelled. "How so?"

"I always imagined you in London, in some dank apartment surrounded by books and…and…"

"Bottles of scotch?" he supplied helpfully.

A quick glance, her mouth twitching when she saw his look: "Well, yes. *Moping*."

"Did that last month."

She rose, part of her delighted at how easy it was, because she hadn't expected humour.

This felt like the days of old, before Willow's magic and her mother's death, before black rage and the *urge* to hunt. //All we are is violence//, and she caught him in a quick hug, hearing his grunt of surprise. She felt, almost, like herself.

He disengaged gently, eyes wicked.

Giles smelt like the night, wind and damp wool. His jeans, from the shins down, were soaked, as if he'd been strolling through wet grass, smile relaxed as he quirked an eyebrow: "And the hug's for?"

"Because I missed you - and I'm sick of mopers."

The smile faltered, head tilting, and there was something a little *too* calculating about his look. Buffy backed away, circling restlessly.

Giles hesitated. Buffy looked better, yet there was something edgy about her movements, tripping lightly up the stairs to see what was above. That sense of unease that had plagued him since her 'return' twisted a little tighter, hearing her voice call down, "You *need* to get out of those jeans."

His head snapped upward, meeting her expression of playful innocence as she amended, "Before you catch your death of cold."

Giles was beginning to think he hadn't run far enough - voice dry as he answered, "Care to remain upstairs?"

An indelicate snort - which he took for the affirmative - and Giles snatched a pair of slacks, stripping off the wet jeans before pulling on drier clothing. He shifted to the open flame, sliding the pot on the iron wrought and boiling the water the old fashioned way, sprinkling in herbs stolen from his bag - eliciting enough racket to let Buffy know it was safe to emerge.

She did presently, cradling the only book he had seen fit to bring, expression dubious: "Work or play?"

"Play. It's an early edition written by Demascus Corrian." Early edition indeed - it was hand written.

"And the language?"

"Ancient Greek."

"Oh." She placed it down carefully, hands brushing the yellowed papyrus, meeting his own gaze with strange intensity.

He shifted under the look.

The room was too small. Crushed herbs and spiced air, the rake of tree branches scraping weather-beaten walls. A low groan as the wind gusted on an open mouth sigh.

"I keep forgetting that about you."

Giles wasn't a mind reader, and the flash of ire that accompanied her statement seemed out of context. A slow realisation that outward nonchalance aside, internally, her presence had strung him tighter than a hung man's rope. Expression schooled as he responded: "Oh?"

Non sequitur meets non sequitur.

It was a little like duelling, and Buffy found herself warming, a little twist of pleasure as she watched him pace to the opposite end of the room. Keep your opponent off balance, change the tempo…feint…strike. She knew the rules. Giles was already off kilter, although he had hidden it well, and changing the tempo was one of Buffy's specialities. It was only another battle - one that she would win.

//I keep forgetting that about you//. "The out-doorsiness," and her voice deepened into what Giles sincerely hoped was a poor imitation of his own voice, "I used to love hiking and kayaking." Quoting him from the first day they had met Faith; and Buffy grinned: "For some reason that was always hard to imagine, what, with you being all book-guy and tweedy - bustling down the corridors to the library."

"Firstly, I do not, and have never, *bustled*. Secondly, this is hardly the great out-doors."

He smiled. It was tired, wary, and stole her breath, because there was magic in his voice, easing an ache that had insinuated itself into her soul. Buffy had once resided in heaven - and the wolves of memory could be savage.

There was peace here…if she could find a way to keep it.

_____________________

It was, with few exceptions, one of the more bizarre nights of Buffy's recent history. They ate, caught up on individual gossip, debated like bona fide legal professionals, and quite merrily danced around the topic of her arrival.

It was, by turns, both exactly what she needed, and incredibly awkward.

By two a.m jetlag had well and truly descended, and Giles caught one yawn too many.

Buffy had already sussed out the cottage, tiny by the standards she was used to. Kitchen and bathroom downstairs, open fire, a single wooden table and four matching chairs, one arm-chair that was so decrepit that when she sat in it, her arse sunk to regions hereto unthought of - body curled like a U. Giles, gentleman that he was, kept his expression remarkably blank when he hauled her indignant frame back out.

In any case, definitely not a chair to be sleeping on. Which only left the double bed upstairs. She kept waiting for the stammer and blush to emerge but it never did. Giles had always been an unlikely mixture of whimsy and hard practicality; an aspect of him easily overlooked.

Buffy had known that in the first year of their acquaintance, when he had asked her to die, and when she said no, had witnessed it first hand when he had been prepared to go in her stead. Not because he thought he had a better chance of success - but because the job needed to be done.

Had known it only last year when Giles had considered murdering Dawn as a viable option - and had heard of it when Xander told her of Ben's demise. Hard practicalities.

Or not so hard - because there was only one bed, and he was not giving it up any more than she was.

They had gone to sleep on polar ends but it didn't last. Giles had been a bachelor the length of their partnership, and once asleep, he hogged the bed like nobody's business. Sprawled on his stomach, with one arm and leg thrown carelessly over her body; and for the first time, there were no haunting dreams to awaken her from slumber.

_______________

They set out late in the afternoon, walking up a hillside and into a clearing, Giles carrying two wooden weapons with him.

Buffy hadn't sparred with anyone for ages, and there was a sharp spike of anxiety when he handed the shinai to her. A practice sword - four slats of bamboo tied together with a hollow centre, the length of it higher than her waist. It balanced easily in her hand, and she faced her Watcher with an uncertain air: "Giles, I'm not sure if this is a good idea."

He nodded - the demeanour of a teacher in his calm eyes, "Elaborate."

Buffy realised that he *knew* on some level, and struggled to put into words feelings that she was not sure of. "I’m slipping. Whenever I fight I…blank out."

"For how long?"

"Sometimes only a few hours, other times the entire night. It scares me."

"Scares me too, that's why we've got shinai's," he smiled faintly. "I need to see you in action before I can determine what's wrong. But I have no wish to be skewered by a live blade."

"I already know how to play with swords."

"A broadsword, and that's a different style of fighting." At her quizzical glance he continued, "A broadsword is a two sided weapon Buffy, and it's a *hacking* weapon. Skill is forfeited to brute strength - as a Slayer, it always seemed like an ideal choice. If you want to learn swordplay however, then it's either a rapier or a katana, European fencing or kendo. Given the only non-lethal weapons I have are shinai's - kendo it is."

"And again with the why?"

"I need you to focus on me, don't…fade away. Learning a different style of fighting might keep your interest engaged, and keep you…here. Can you do it?"

"Oh, call me MacLeod."

He blinked, opened his mouth, and then wisely shut it.

Giles talked as they worked, instructing her quietly on foot technique and various slices, murmuring approval. It was dark by the time they finished and Buffy never once zoned, she did, however, brush up against him on far too many occasions. His body breaking into a light sweat from more than just the exercise.

It was on the way home when the attack came, five vampires, and Buffy, with her strange combination of carefree and hauntedness, snapped.

__________________

She held onto awareness for the first attack, snapping her shinai in two and using the bamboo as a ready stake. A low buzz in the back of her mind like a swarm of flies, and her smile was a fixed snarl when she drove the wood into his chest.

She held on for the second attack, pivoting like a dancer, still aware that her name was Buffy, daughter of Hank and Joyce, Sunnydale resident. Flipping the assailant over her shoulder and dropping down on top, plunge and move on, regular as clockwork. But when the third vampire moved toward Giles, something inside of her shut down. The buzz an angry swarm in her mind, vision narrowing into redness and black, and what she unleashed, was a fury that Giles had never witnessed before.

Primal.

The third vampire sensed her attack and spun, shadow and form, Buffy held no stake.

Her arm rigid as she whirled, hand clawed, a cat-swipe. Fingers catching at the bulge of his adam's apple and carrying it through with all of her might. Tearing his larynx out direct. A spray of blood, something white and misshapen in her hand, and then she dropped it, moving on.

When it was over, there was nothing in her that Giles could recognise; breath catching as she turned deliberately; and it occurred to him that this wasn't a good situation to be in. Buffy was running on instinct alone, and the last Slayer he had met along those lines had scalped him. His voice was sharp: "Buffy!"

The Slayer swayed, head tilted to the side, as if she had heard something from afar.

He tried again, a little more desperate, and her eyes flickered with the first hint of self-awareness.

"Giles?" It was spoken with lurching imprecision, as if she were choking on how to form and structure speech. But it was enough, and he approached carefully.

She was covered in blood, as if birthed from the very hills, and her vision kept flickering between extremes. She was…killer…all we are is blood…name is Buffy, and you're not the source of my power…and oh god…instinct swept forward. She could *smell* him…hang on…keep me anchored Giles…

The sky thundered, the ominous threat breaking at last, lashing down like the sting of a whip, not rain but hail, striking at them both. Neither moved - five feet of distance and a void of uncertainty.

Her fingers clenched. //Take him//, she could *feel* his heart beat, and slowly, she felt her personality claw its way back. //Don't wanna be Faith. Don't wanna be the first Slayer. Don’t wanna live on instinct alone. Wanna *feel*//, and it was that litany, and that litany alone, that kept Buffy still, kept Giles unmarred and on his feet. //Talk to me, please, it's what you *do*//. Keep her mind engaged, isn't that what Giles had said? Well then, she had a question: "Giles, who was the first Watcher?"

His eyes closed as hail gave way to rain, and she couldn't say if it was relief or some other emotion. "He was a sorcerer, Buffy."

And somehow, she *knew* the truth of it, instinctively.

"Of the dark arts."

Lighting flashed, one…two…three and the world *cracked* - like the shifting of heaven and earth.

Nuances, and it came to Buffy that when Giles said 'dark', he meant DARK.

A shiver, watching as his eyes met hers, wariness and warmth, myriad emotions that had always been hers to see. Sorcerers weren't demons, but they were often the harbingers of destruction. Ethan Rayne flickered across her mind and Giles' mouth twisted, as if he had heeded the thought.

"They were enemies."

Buffy hadn't realised she'd spoken aloud until he nodded, the movement barely perceptible, and her eyes widened in shock.

When Giles spoke, it was in the dry tones that he had once used to lecture her with. "Sorcerers, by necessity, are *learned* Buffy, and Slayers…Slayers run on instinct, collecting to their side any weapon of choice."

She could feel the rain slide down her collar, running in icy shards. Breath collected in front of her with each exhalation, hearing a low buzz of discordance.

The first Watcher had been an *enemy* - and the Slayer had taken him by force.

"How do you bind a sorcerer to your side, Giles?"

His head jerked like a startled colt - green eyes flecked gold - and then his expression smoothed itself into sudden blankness. "I don't know."

The discordance peaked - letting the lie slide - her own features still as a sphinx when he continued: "Presumably it's just something the Slayers did instinctively, the knowledge passed on by the Powers that Be."

//Keep going//, she could ferret the truth out later, "If he was a sorcerer, why didn't he fight her? And if he was 'bound', why not *betray* her to death instead?"

"I imagine that he did fight, originally, and as for the second question: self interest. Once performed the ritual is complete, if she died - *he* died. Keeping her alive was in his own best interests, and as a result, the life expectancy of a Slayer increased ten-fold."

Slayers collect to their side weapons of choice, and that originally, was what a Watcher had been.

His magic, knowledge of demons, archaic rituals, his very competence in the dark arts; all tapped for the benefit of a Slayer. The most common analogy of all - how does one catch a thief…

You needed someone who *understood* the intricacies of the dark arts to fight it.

She could feel a tingle, the first flash of insight, expression speculative as she asked: "And the difference between the Watcher organisation and pre-destined Watchers?"

He swallowed, the action convulsive. "The Watcher organisation is an original off-shoot of the Church, 'natural' Watchers are…"

"Sorcerers."

The word hung between them - spat like a curse, whispered promise - and her eyes were *hard*.

Giles' voice became soothing: "We're talking about ancient *history* Buffy, it's not like that any more."

History. History fed into the present and the present fell into the past - her smile was dangerous. "No? How many demons did *you* raise, Giles?"

He reeled as if struck - backing away - not even aware that he was doing it. "I'm not your enemy, Buffy."

The rain came to a stop, a sigh, quiet acknowledgment of a truth that no longer mattered.

He saw it in the instant that her eyes shifted, the tangible presence that had always been Buffy, her spirit, over-laid by an older, more *ancient* power. Slayer. Coiled in blood and the action of death.

…we're not demons…

No. A Slayer was something else entirely - and no less frightening because of it. Giles had a bare second…and then she attacked.

NEXT