TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 6/?
AUTHOR: Pythia
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
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.

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

Nothing focused. Nothing made sense. Someone was speaking to him, and all he could hear was garbled noise, fading in and out. There was touch, but he couldn't feel exactly *where* - all but for the feel of fingers curled into his, and that seemed to come and go without rhyme or reason. Colours danced in front of his eyes. Even his sense of taste and smell was fluctuating, from strong, bitter flavours through overwhelming sweetness to absolutely nothing at all. He'd woken from panicked dreams to this strange, senseless world and a feeling that he was sinking into a bottomless pit, being dragged down, being dragged *away*.

It took everything he had to fight it. He closed his eyes, shutting out those vague swirling colours, and pushed away all thought of everything but the pressure of the hand that anchored him. Slowly - *far* too slowly - sensation consolidated into more recognisable perceptions. Not with absolute clarity perhaps, but enough to focus on, enough to make some sense of his world. There *was* someone holding his hand - someone with gentle, delicate fingers. The same someone whose voice was murmuring at him with anxious persistence. He thought he recognised the voice - but the words were harder to make out; they were muffled and blurred, like the sound from a badly tuned radio.

"Giles? … you … me? Let … know … can hear …"

He fought through the miasma of his fractured self and somehow managed to squeeze the hand with gentle pressure; its owner squeezed back with far greater strength - and he realised who it was with a twisted smile. "Buffy?" he breathed, opening his eyes and watching a blurred blob loom over him in shades of pink and gold.

"Yes. *Yes*. You can … me? See?" Her voice faded away again. "He … hear …"

"Barely." His fight for focus was frustrating. He'd just about get one sense in order, and the rest would just disintegrate around it. There was one good thing about it though. The previous night he'd felt bruised and battered, nursing a crushed and painful throat. Now *nothing* hurt. He couldn't get his sensations together enough to register pain.

At least, that's what he thought - until something suddenly yanked at him from nowhere, something that pulled tight coils of agony through every inch of his existence. It was as if someone were trying to rip him apart, or tear him inside out; it was less than a second of sensation, but it hurt like *hell*. He gasped in pain and terror, feeling everything he'd fought for dissipate back into disjointed shreds and formless perceptions.

"Giles! *Giles!*"

He surfaced again with desperate effort. He suspected he'd just clenched his hand hard enough to break bones - had the hand which held his *not* been that of a Slayer. Even so, it must have hurt.

"I'm - still with you. I - I think …" He wasn't entirely sure. He thought there might be other people in the room, but they were beyond the confusion of his senses. It didn't really matter that much. He suspected he didn't have much time - and he had to warn Buffy, tell her that the vampire had done this to him. That brief moment of pain had been familiar - a match to the feel of phantom fingers digging through his skull. She'd cast some kind of spell over him. Stolen something, just as she'd threatened.

Buffy had to know how dangerous she really was.

There'd been a memory lurking - somewhere in the dissonant world of his dreams; something about an ancient vampire sorceress and a time when she had been unleashed to threaten the world. He couldn't quite chase it down, but it was *there* - and he knew it would help, knew it might lead to a way to defeat her …

Buffy was trying to talk to him again; he was hearing only one word in three - or was it four? He pressed her fingers to get her attention, and he sensed her dip towards him as she leant in to catch his effort filled words. "Spell," he whispered, unable to summon more from his voice than that. "She - did this. Sorceress. *Old*. Dangerous. Be careful." The reference he'd been wrestling for swam into his mind and he grasped it with determination. "Ask - Eva. *Koenigsburg* …"

The pain surged back, another savage tug at his existence. His perceptions shattered under its impact, spinning him into a whirlpool of sound and fury, a storm that battered at him without respite. He inwardly howled in protest, fighting to hold on, to cling to the hand that anchored him - but even that was swept away.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm sorry, Miss Summers, but we *must* sedate him."

The doctor was signalling to the nurse, putting out one hand for a syringe while the other pressed down on his patient's shoulder, trying to keep him restrained. This convulsion was worse than the last. Buffy added her own strength to that of the doctor, holding her Watcher down as his body arched and shuddered under the impact of the sudden seizure. Giles' fingers were locked around her own, a tight band of pressure that she ignored, instead, focussing her energies on keeping him still, on using her Slayer's gifts to restrain the worst of the fit. It was a heart-wrenching task.

"Any news on the scan?" the doctor was asking, delicately sliding the point of a needle into the IV tube. The nurse shook her head.

"Not yet," she answered. "Want me to chase it up?"

He nodded, his attention focussed on his patient. Whatever it was in the syringe, it worked miracles; Giles went limp, the tension draining away from his frame and his grimace of agony relaxing into slack oblivion. Buffy wasn't sure which was worse. The fits were frightening, but the empty absence which replaced them was heartbreaking. The doctor seemed to think so too; his eyes betrayed his concern despite an attempt to keep his expression neutral. He checked the soft bleep of the heart monitor and then confirmed its message with his fingers, seeking the rhythm of his patient's pulse under bruised and darkened skin.

"It's - bad, isn't it," Buffy said, reading the look that chased across his face. He looked up at her - and successfully fought for a smile.

"Early days yet, Miss Summers. Don't look so worried. Soon as we figure out what's going on, we'll - do what we can. Tell me," he asked, glancing up at her mother, who'd moved to wrap her hands over Buffy's shoulders. "If you know. Does he have a history of epilepsy? Anything like this happened before?"

"No." Buffy's denial was wary; her mind had skittered through past encounters and what little she knew of Giles' past. She didn't think demonic possession counted. But it might … "I- I don't think so."

"I can check," Wesley volunteered from the doorway. "I have - links with his family. Back in England."

"Would you?" The doctor looked relieved. "That would be helpful. If there's a medical history …"

"I'll see what I can do. Buffy - I really think we should be getting you back to school. Mr Giles is in good hands and - there's nothing you can do here. Not for the moment, anyway."

"No," was her immediate protest, her hand tightening on the fingers still curled within her own. "I don't - "

"He's right, Buffy." Her mother's own grip tightened, conveying sympathy, offering her comfort. "Mr Giles knows you have work to do. I'll sit with him for a while if you like. And you can come back later - if that's all right, doctor?"

"Yes, yes." The doctor was examining notes, frowning over what they told him. "I think so. It may help," he added, smiling at Buffy's concern, giving her the whole 'best bedside manner' look. "Sometimes - in cases like this - a familiar presence, a friendly voice can anchor the patient. Help them focus, call them back."

"We can organise a rota," Wesley suggested sympathetically, trying to surreptitiously jerk his head towards the exit. He wasn't quite signalling 'I want to talk to you *now,*' but it came pretty close. Buffy sighed, realising that he was right. Her mother too. She *did* have work to do. She had to find the vampire that had done this - find her and slay her, before she hurt anyone else.

It was what Giles would want her to do …

"I have to go," she told him, leaning forward to whisper the words, hoping he could hear her. "But I'll be back, I promise. Don't go anywhere, okay? Stay with me, Giles. I need you …" She slipped her hand out of his, gently laying it down on the covers and letting go of it with reluctance.

"He'll be fine, Buffy." Her mother's lie was oddly comforting; she smiled at her as she stood up, and let her slide into her place on the bedside chair. "I'll call you if - "

"Thanks." Buffy didn't want to go there. Nothing was going to happen. *This* wasn't happening.

Except that it *was*, and it was all her fault. If only she'd been paying attention. If only she'd realised …

"So," Wesley said briskly as the elevator doors closed in front of them and they were alone for a moment. "Next steps. We really haven't got *that* much to go on. Those tattoos you described might get us somewhere, I suppose, but - uh … Did he say anything that might help? A name, a reference, anything like that? We're going to need some direction here."

Buffy, who'd been trying very hard *not* to think about what had just happened - about the horror of watching someone you love wracked by the throes of a life threatening fit - gave him a look of total disbelief.

"Yeah, *right*," she reacted. "Just follow the yellow brick road …"

"What?" the Englishman questioned, looking utterly bemused. "I'm sorry Buffy, but - "

"No," she said tightly, rounding on him with determined fury. She wasn't really mad at *him*, but he was there, and she had to vent at someone. Anyone. "You're not. You're not *sorry*. This is just - *business* to you, isn't it. Giles is back there, fighting for his life, fighting - god knows *what* - and you - *you* stand there, going by the manual and working down the checklist … *God*, don't you care? Don't you give a damn? I may not be Dorothy, and I've never been to Kansas, but - it seems I've got one Watcher with a misfiring brain and the other one without a heart … And we have to find the wicked witch, before she kills anyone else …" Her emotions were catching up with her. She wrestled for self control, feeling the guilt and the anger rip through her, shredding her soul, and clenching her heart with pain. "If he dies," she breathed, finding a point of bleak and bitter calm in the middle of the storm, "it will be *my* fault. I let her get to him. I was right *there* and she - she - " She made herself take several deep breaths. She had to use the anger, not let it cripple her. "It's a spell," she announced. "He said it was a spell. Something she did. He said she was a sorceress. That she was old - and dangerous. And he told me to be careful …"

Wesley was watching her warily; her outburst had clearly shaken him. She wasn't sorry for that. He had to learn. Her life wasn't an intellectual exercise, something to be studied in books and discussed over tea. It was *real*. It was dangerous. And it was her destiny. It had been a lesson she, Giles and the Scoobies had learned together. He had a little catching up to do.

"He was right about that," he said cautiously. "But a spell? That doesn't make sense. Why go to the trouble of calling on power and then attack your victim anyway?" The elevator doors opened and they spilled out into the day, heading out into the hospital lobby and the car park beyond. "You're sure that's what he said?" Wesley asked thoughtfully, once it was safe to speak again. "Was there anything else?"

Buffy shrugged. "Just a name. Eva somebody - Curnings … Curnisbuck … Curnings…"

"Koenigsburg?"

"That's the one." She wasn't sure she'd heard it right. Every word had been a struggle …

"He's delirious." Wesley opened the car door and gestured her in. She climbed into the passenger seat, giving him a doubtful look. Giles hadn't sounded delirious. He'd sounded desperate. "He must have seen me and - well," he dismissed off handedly. "We were planning to visit the Koenigsburg exhibition this weekend. Fascinating collection. Artifacts from all over the place. India, China. Africa, South America … All collected at the turn of the century and then locked up for decades. Fall of the Iron Curtain, you know?" His smile held echoes of Giles' enthusiasm for things old and dusty and long forgotten. "Uncovered a lot of strange things in Eastern Germany. But I doubt it has any connection with your mysterious vampire. She doesn't sound very German." Buffy frowned, abstractedly massaging her fingers as she thought about what Giles had said. His hand had clenched around hers with decided force - but before that, before the fit had claimed him, his grip had been one of gentle insistence. He'd definitely been trying to tell her something …

"This exhibition," she asked. "Is it at the Museum?"

"Yes." Wesley glanced at her thoughtfully. "Is that important?"

"I don't know." There was something … oh, yeah. "It might be. The policemen said - last night, the policeman at the hospital - he said there'd been two bodies. Both with their throats torn out. One was near the Zoo - but the first was somewhere near the museum. And we have a vamp with tribal type tattoos, messy eating habits - and an exhibition of old stuff … *including* stuff from Africa? We need to check that out."

"Well," he allowed, trying hard not sound dismissive, even though that's exactly what he was being. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I don't expect you to find anything, but - I could write you and Willow a visit slip for this afternoon. School field trip, so to speak? The rest of us will hit the books." He paused at a junction, taking the opportunity to give her an encouraging look. "We'll find something, Buffy. And - we'll organise that rota. Make sure Giles isn't alone when he wakes up."

'When', not 'if'. Buffy found him a grateful smile. Maybe her tin woodsman had a heart after all.

NEXT