TITLE: 'Out of Africa'
AUTHOR: Pythia
RATING: Umm - not sure. PG 15 for content probably.
PAIRING: B/A series references
FEEDBACK: Will be appreciated
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
SUMMARY: An ancient Evil comes to Sunnydale
DISTRIBUTION. ODD and WatcherGirls. Anyone else please ask first.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the UPN Television Network. The story is written for the pleasure of the author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.
SPOILERS: Roughly up to 'Earshot'
TIMELINE: 3rd Season
WARNING: This is a horror story. There are some nasty moments in it …
NOTES: Some of the incantations used here are paraphrases of actual Egyptian texts - that is, a modern translations of those texts. They are not, nor are they intended to be, genuine rituals!
THANKS: Many, many of them to Michelle, who's patiently working her way through this, one semi-colon at a time …

POSTING NOTES: *.* is for emphasis. {.} denotes thought and [.] implies translation from another language.

Darkness. The looming shapes of carved tombstones, and ivy wreathed crypts. Silence. The empty, yawning echoes of unspoken voices, and the deepest slumber of the dead. Terror. The tense expectation of encroaching night, filled with menace and warning. Conflict. The sudden eruption of noise and motion, the grunt of fist on undead flesh, the glimmer of undead eyes and the whisper of dust across newly disturbed earth. Sunnydale's Bell View Cemetery on a Tuesday Night. The dead are rising. And the Slayer is on patrol …

"Not bad," Giles observed thoughtfully, watching as Buffy unwound from her strike and carefully tucked the stake back inside her jacket pocket. "Not bad at all. Your speed is - uh - improving. Your - um - timing could be a little better, but - w-we can work on that."

"We do nothing *but* work on it," she protested. The complaint wasn't heated though; it held a note of quiet forbearance and just a *hint* of irritation.

Her Watcher sighed. "Then we work on it some more. Buffy, you need to hone your skills, every chance you get. One mistake, one misstep …"

"I know, I know," she accepted, waving away the lecture and leading the way deeper into the darkened graveyard. "They're fast, they're strong and they want me dead. Been there, done that. I've even got the t-shirt. Giles - I *know* I need to do this. And I appreciate that you're trying to keep an eye on my technique so I keep improving and don't get sloppy and stuff, but - this is so *boring*. These vamps are all - fresh out of the grave, hi I'm hungry, grab, throw and stake stuff. I can do this in my sleep."

"Well, I seriously hope you never have too," he said, frowning a little over the thought. "I - I would have thought you'd welcome a little - ah - routine, regular Slaying practice for once. You were complaining only yesterday that you barely had time to breathe, life has been so - interesting, just recently."

"That was yesterday," she said grumpily, then threw him a reluctant smile. "I'm sorry," she apologised. "You've probably got much better things to do too. But Slayers slay and Watchers watch and here we are, doing what we always do." Buffy paused for a moment, clearly thinking about some of the things they *had* done, over the years. "Nice night for it though," she decided, skipping a little as she skirted a recent tombstone and stared down at the grave beyond it.

Giles smiled a little to himself, only too aware that she was right. They were where they were, the two of them, because of the needs of duty, not through choice. In a manner of speaking, that was. He knew that - strictly speaking - he'd been fired, but he didn't *feel* fired; he felt obligated in a way he suspected he'd never be able to explain. Not even to himself. Watching Buffy could be frustrating sometimes. But it also had its rewarding moments, making it a commitment he embraced with confident dedication. Besides, it *was* a nice night. It was warm but not too humid. The stars were bright jewels of light scattered across a velvet sky, and there was the scent of flowers lingering in the air. Everything had a fresh, crisp feel to it; the freshness left by a sudden shower of rain. "We - uh - needn't linger too long," he offered, compensation for having had to remind her of her destiny and the need for constant vigilance. "I think this is the last of the new burials. A q-quick tour of the crypts and you can head out for the Bronze - or wherever else you might want to go."

"Thanks," she smiled, grateful for his generosity. Perhaps he should insist she patrol a little longer, but he suspected there wouldn't be much point to it. Faith and the Mayor both appeared to have gone to ground for a while, probably taking time out to work on their plans for the Ascension. The vampires of note - like Spike and Mr Trick - were either out of town or drifting around as dust; and the rest of the bad guys seemed to be lying low for once. Plotting, he had no doubt, but as long as that was *all* they were doing, these regular clean up sweeps would be enough to keep the town safe. As safe as it ever was, that is …

He stepped back as a pale hand thrust itself up through the bare earth, seeking a safer place to stand and watch while Buffy danced into action. She didn't need help with *one* vampire; better if he moved aside and made sure he didn't get in the way. He needed to get a clear view in any case. He took his duties as Watcher very seriously, and one of them was to help her analyse her actions, to identify the flaws and weaknesses in her technique. And maybe catch the unexpected move from the opposition, to learn from observation of their approaches; 'know thine enemy' was advice he'd long since taken to heart.

Buffy waited until the new arrival had clawed its way out of the ground before bounding into the attack, playing with the thing a little, using it as a foil for her frustrations. Giles frowned at her showy moves, and then froze in alarm, feeling a sudden sense of presence loom up behind him. He slowly and warily lifted a stake out of his jacket pocket, holding his breath as the thing took a step closer. Whatever it was, it was making barely any noise; he'd been alerted to its presence as much by the cold shiver which had run down his spine as anything else. Buffy was busy exchanging blows with the recently born vampire; he looked to be pretty strong and was definitely faster than the last one. She had a look of taut concentration on her face. If he called out, he was likely to distract her, and that would be dangerous for both of them. He stood very still, instead, trying to give the same impression of focussed attention, looking at Buffy, but listening - intently - to the soft whisper of danger approaching from behind.

Something - someone - reached out and touched his shoulder; he spun away from the contact, turning to strike as fast as he could, hoping that he'd catch his assailant by surprise. It wasn't quite fast enough. A hand seized his wrist, jarring the blow to a painful halt - and fingers clamped round his throat with a grip of steel, sinking into his skin and cutting off his air supply. Any *chance* of outcry was choked into immediate silence.

A face swam in front of his rapidly blurring vision; a remarkable face, carved with ebon beauty and dominated by a pair of startling gold flecked eyes. They were eyes that burned into his with dominating intensity. He was caught and held by them, struggling like a moth drawn to a candle flame. Somewhere, distantly, he felt the savage twist that spilled the stake from his hand, his fingers spasming with pain as his captor forced his arm over and down. His legs buckled, and he went down onto his knees, fighting desperately for air.

"Now, see how fortune favours me," a deep and disturbingly sweet voice murmured with amusement. "To find the Slayer so soon - and one so intent on her slaying that she overlooks her Watcher's safety. And he so busy watching *her*, that he has no heed of it either. How delicious." Her smile was predatory, and it taunted him through a growing haze of darkness. His free hand groped feebly at the fingers that crushed his throat, but to no avail; his lungs were screaming and the world was going dim. "And how - *perfect*," the vampire purred, generously loosening her grip - enough to let him draw one strangled gasp, at least. "The gods have been kind to me tonight."

There was a peculiar lilt to her voice, a soft hint of accent that whispered of hot savannahs and hyenas squabbling over prey. Her eyes were lion's eyes, deep and tawny - and they whispered of hunger and savage appetites. "I have awakened to this world," she confided, leaning in close. "But I am not yet whole. My shadow is still lost to me. It is my intent to win it back - and to do so, I must first steal something from *you*." She chuckled - a sound that made his blood run cold. Whoever she was, she was old and she was very dangerous. There was an aura of power about her which stirred both terror and dismay.

She let go of his arm, lifting her hand to casually tug off his glasses and toss them away over her shoulder. Her palm flattened firmly against his forehead and her lips moved, whispering an arcane incantation. {Early Egyptian,} he recognised, fuzzily - and then pain lanced into his head, lifting a scream to his lips - a scream she efficiently silenced, sealing it into his throat with a savage squeeze. There were more words, but he didn't hear them; he felt as if her fingers had sunk through his skull and were digging down into his brain.

Perhaps they were; her hand slid down his face, and he could somehow feel them *behind* his eyes, as if they were tearing his face away from the bones beneath. For all that, he could still see, was still held in that hungry gaze. Phantom talons slid lower, ripping through nose and mouth and out again, leaving a trail of agony behind. The scream struggled to be free, emerging as a strangled, agonised squeak - and she laughed, pulling back her now clenched fingers to press them against a carved amulet that nestled between her breasts. "*Perfect*," she declared, her eyes laughing at him, at the desperation with which he fought for breath and escape. "You have more spirit than the last one," she said hungrily. "The gods *are* feeling generous." Her eyes flicked up, briefly, then down again, her lips curving into another of those predatory smiles. "And I never refuse a gift from the gods."

Giles was reeling with shock, dizzy and dazed for lack of oxygen. He should have tried to push away as her hand left his throat, should have called out for help, should have done *something* - but by the time he'd registered the sweet taste of air in his lungs, she'd already seized hold of him a second time and lunged to the attack. Her hand clawed through his collar, ripping his shirt - and then her teeth were sinking into his flesh, piercing him with exquisite agony. His body arched in involuntary reaction as she struck, caught in the sudden frenzy of her assault. Her kiss was agony and it was ecstasy, a contact that danced through his senses and seared his soul. She drank quickly and she drank deep, savouring his anguish, and relishing every rich, red mouthful of his blood.

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