Soul Survivor
by Anna M.C. (annamc@ix.netcom.com)
Disclaimer -- Buffy the Vampire Slayer is not mine. : )
Rating -- um, PG-13, I expect.
****************************************************************

CHAPTER ONE - PROLOGUE

Coastal Mexico is beautiful at night.

This seemed the sole thought on the mind of the tanned young woman
wandering along the deserted strip of beach, lulled by the quiet
crashing of the surf and the distant echoes of a mariachi band,
punctuated periodically by soft shouts and muted laughter. Although she
was still close enough to hear the drunken merriment, still close enough
to see a couple kissing, silhouetted against an enormous bonfire, she
looked away, staring at the shimmer of sand and sea and sky. The
argentine patina of pure moonlight worked magic on those simple
elements, transforming them into something far more lovely than the
beaten-silver-and-turquoise ring which gleamed upon her hand. The ring
which that no-good cheating bastard Steve had bought for her just that
morning, a mere six hours before she caught him making out with that
little blond tramp.

So perhaps the beauty of nature was not the *sole* thought on her mind.
Elaborate revenge scenarios occupied a healthy chunk as well. It is,
however, safe to say that in between the scenic appreciation and the
bitter castration fantasies, thoughts of her imminent death did not
receive any appreciable level of attention.

Which was a shame, given what happened next.

"Hey. Susan." The voice was soft, low. She whirled around, and
smacked the young man full across the face.

"What do *you* want? Did Janice get tired of you already? Or maybe you
want your cheap damn ring back? Here! Take it!" She tore it off her
hand, hurling it violently and watching it land in a spray of sand at
his feet.

The young surfer only smiled, an oddly calm, beguiling smile. "I don't
want Janice, Susan. I only ever wanted you. You know that, don't
you?" He ran his fingers through her hair gently, a feather-light,
incredibly erotic touch. "Only you."

"What are you doing? I don't want . . ." She trailed off, breathing
heavily, as his hands stroked their way down her shoulders with an
agonizing slowness, tugging at the strings of her bikini. She was
angry. She didn't want him. Didn't want this . . . she moaned softly
as his lips honed in expertly on the sensitive spot right beneath her
ear. God, Steve had never managed to find that before, even when she'd
*showed* him. And he'd apologized for cheating before, but never this
well.

He drew back, riveting her with his eyes. They were incredibly dark in
the moonlight, appearing as if his pupils had completely swallowed up
the golden-brown of his irises. "Yes, you do. You want this. You want
me." Something strange in the husky rhythm of his voice, primal and
seductive as the rhythm of the sexual act itself.

And she lost herself within his kiss.

Thinking stopped, and dissolved into an ocean of absolute sensation.
Steve had always been a selfish lover: brusque, swift, taking what he
needed and expecting that she would find a way to do the same. Not
tonight. He seemed to read her mind, knowing precisely what she wanted
almost before she knew herself. The pleasure became almost too much to
bear, one wave building on the next until he had reduced her to a mass
of raw nerve endings, electric energy scarcely still confined in flesh.

In the end, it was hard to say precisely what set off her internal
alarms first. Probably the smell, oddly enough. On the shores of
Tijuana, the nose enjoyed a 24-hour all-you-can-sniff buffet of
everything from the sublime to the revolting. The sharp salt tang of
the sea mingled with the even sharper tang of nearby fish markets and
decaying seaweed, the musk-and-coconut savor of tanning oil on firm
flesh, and the rich, nutty aroma of roasting corn. A new odor crashing
the olfactory party seemed hardly likely to alert one's attention.

The abrupt absence of all smell, however, represented a completely
different story.

Not just the scents. The sounds disappeared as well, sinking deep into
a sudden cotton-batting thickness to the air itself. Her skin grew
cold, numb, detached from all sensation, even as her vision narrowed to
a terrifying tunnel. It was like being plunged into a vacuum - not a
"space, the final frontier"-style vacuum, but a Hoover-style vacuum,
cruelly sucking all the senses easily as so much dirt and lint.

She collapsed the instant she attempted to escape from beneath his
weight, her leg muscles dead and heavy as if someone had prankishly
stolen her appendages and substituted solid iron slabs. Looking up into
his face, she saw the briefest glimpse of the true visage of her
attacker, right before the shroud of blindness covered her completely.

If she still possessed a voice, she would have screamed.

If she still possessed a soul, she would have cried.

The ring gleamed in the moonlight, ruby drops upon the silver.

*********************

CHAPTER TWO

"I don't know. I still feel guilty," Buffy muttered, tucking clothes
into a duffel bag which already appeared in imminent danger of bursting
its overstuffed seams.

"For making us all bored and late because you procrastinated packing?
Oh, it's fine. Don't give it another thought." Crossing her arms and
leaning back sullenly against Xander's chest, Anya treated the Slayer to
a patently fake smile.

"Anya," Xander hissed, his own teeth clenched into an equally strained
smile.

She twisted her head around to look up at him, eyes wide with genuine
surprise. "What? I reassured her. That was tact."

Perched on her considerably smaller duffel bag, Willow rolled her eyes
and set her sharp chin on her palms, looking rather like a dejected
red-headed elf in her green sundress and leggings. "A veritable
fountain of sentiment. Next thing you know, she'll have her own line of
Hallmark cards."

Impatiently blowing a stray blond wisp from her forehead, Buffy paused
to tie her hair back in a scrunchie. "Xander, remind me again why we're
bringing Anya. Riley, pass me that bikini. And no, I don't feel guilty
for putting a vampire-shaped speedbump in your schedule. Is it my fault
I had to stay up half the night patrolling for our new fanged friends in
town? It would've been rude if I hadn't stopped by with a fruit basket.
And Mr. Pointy."

"Buffy the welcoming committee," Riley grinned, then got a good view of
the three square inches of blue fabric dangling from his hand. "Whoa."
Both he and Xander stared for a moment in reverent, hormone-soaked
silence.

Anya glowered at the two men in turn. "And it looks like she's gonna be
just as welcoming in Mexico." Elbowing Xander sharply, she twisted her
lips into a jealous frown. "That's the sort of behavior that keeps
vengeance demons in business, buddy. Remember, I still have
connections."

"Just give me that," Buffy sighed, snatching the tiny bikini and
stuffing it into the bag's tortured, obese depths, like one final,
fatal, "wafer thin" mint. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she
could've sworn she heard the seams creak audibly. "I just - it feels
*wrong* to be going away on a vacation, when Adam's still out there
somewhere. You know what Giles would say."

"Which is exactly why we're not telling him until we've reached
Tijuana," Xander enthused. "Right, gang? Are you with me? Oh, come
on, Will, don't give me that stern look. You can't guilt me. Okay, you
can, but we need this time off. I mean, it's spring break. Sacred
college tradition!"

"You're not *in* college," Anya reminded him with a sniff, snuggling
further into his arms.

Xander winced, wishing for the thousandth time that someone sold a
12-step soul handbook for recovering demons. At the rate his social
life was going, he'd soon be qualified to write it. "All right, if
we're gonna get technical, sacred generic young person tradition. Even
among us non-collegiate types. Think about it, how often do we get a
chance to go on vacation anymore, now that we've all embarked upon that
pesky journey to responsible adulthood?"

Anya pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, since you're unemployed,
you're sort of on vacation all the time-"

"Thank you, thank you for your insight, Anya. I mean, *besides* me.
Buff, you're working yourself into the ground. It's starting to show.
Look at those dark circles under your eyes."

"I have dark circles?" Buffy stared into the mirror in a state of panic
resembling that normally reserved for the Hellmouth's annual
near-apocalypse. "Riley, you never told me about the circles!"

He patted her on the back reassuringly, impaling Xander with a
"now-you've-done-it" glare. "I don't see any circles. No geometric
shapes of any kind, dark or otherwise. Xander was just joking. Weren't
you, Xander?"

Flashing Riley a "please don't hurt me" ingratiating grin in response,
Xander did his best to extract his Reeboks from his mouth without the
aid of heavy equipment and skilled engineers. "That's me, good for a
million laughs. And good for a million more, if you don't rip my tongue
out or anything. Please."

Taking a deep breath, Riley continued speaking to Buffy cautiously as a
giraffe in a roomful of starving vampires. "But, um, it is true that
you've been under a lot of strain lately, with Faith and all - not, not
that you're looking any less fabulous than you always do - and, you
know, maybe a few days off might do a lot to get you back into peak
fighting condition. All reports from captured hostiles indicate that
Adam's in a waiting mode. You need to be at your best to take this guy,
Buffy. Some R&R would do you good."

"Maybe you're right. If a bit overly military in your metaphors." She
embraced him affectionately. She seemed small and delicate in his arms,
dwarfed by the muscular solidity of his corn-fed Midwestern stature. A
deceptive contrast, considering how she could probably tear out his
spine and use it for a skipping-rope if she liked. Luckily, he had no
problem with female authority figures. Truth be told, it turned him
on.

"What? That's what *I* said. How come when G.I. Joe over there says it
it's somehow better?" Xander grumbled, resting his chin atop Anya's
head.

Willow stood, swinging her duffel bag over her shoulder and bracing her
slender frame against its weight. "The magic of tact." She exhaled
heavily, and did her best not to look overly glum, struggling against
the increasingly frequent resurgence of the "It's My Pity Party and I'll
Whine if I Want to" Willow from the pre-Oz era. Catching a glimpse of
herself in Buffy's mirror, she cringed at the sight of the worry wrinkle
slashed sharply between her eyebrows - far more conspicuous than Buffy's
so-called dark circles, yet entirely overlooked by Doctor Xander, Stress
Therapist. She knew instinctively it set the tone for days to come:
unnoticed and superfluous, unless someone needed her to cast a spell to
heal a hangover, or a case of Montezuma's revenge. Three days in
Tijuana as a fifth wheel. Whee. Pass the tequila. And, knowing her
luck, the worm. "I still think we should call Giles before we go. Just
to make sure."

Xander shook his head emphatically as he stepped away from Anya and
hoisted both their duffel bags, ruffling Willow's copper hair with
exasperated affection. "Nag, nag, nag. Will, I thought you were the
Net Girl. Miss Technology. Why are you so tied to outdated standards of
communication? We'll be less than a day's drive away. If Giles needs
Buffy, he can beep-"

The sound cut him off, loud and shrill and repetitive, the aural
equivalent of an insistent tap on the shoulder. Buffy reached into her
pocket with an air of resignation. For a moment of silence, they all
stared resentfully at the small black object in her palm, beeping
madly.

Only Willow indulged in a tiny, smug smile, green eyes glinting with an
impish vindication as she smoothed her tousled pixie cut back into
place. "You were saying?"

**************************

"Oh, yes, come in, come in. Glad you could make it so quickly." Giles
stepped back and absently polished his glasses, bracing the door open
wide to let them trudge dispiritedly inside. "We have an, ah,
situation."

"When is it *not* a situation?" The acerbic Cockney voice rang out from
somewhere behind Giles, in the vicinity of the kitchen. "Wake up and
smell the Hellmouth."

"Oh, great. What is Hostile Seventeen doing here?" Riley snapped.
Spike's escape from the Initiative and subsequent evasion of all Riley's
best tracking efforts still rankled badly. Not to mention Buffy and
Spike's "wedding plans."

The vampire ambled over arrogantly, looking Riley up and down with eyes
that made glaciers look warm and fuzzy. "You know, here in the civilian
world we have these really brilliant inventions called 'names.'
'Spike.' Say it with me, now, 'Spike.'"

Giles rubbed his eyes tiredly as Riley muscled up to the punkish
vampire, like some emblematic battle between the impossibly wholesome
and the impossibly deviant. "Yes, and Spike was just leaving. Weren't
you, *Spike*?" Riley spat the name.

"Actually, I thought I'd watch a little telly first. Won't be any
bother, you just run along and do your slaying." He sprawled out
comfortably on the shabby couch, long, booted legs stretched out in
front of him and crossed at the ankles. "Where's the remote?"

When Giles spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "Get your boots off my
coffee table."

"You know, your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, mate," Spike
sighed, crossing his arms behind his frost-blond head. "I'm being
treated like Judas of the demons, thanks to you - not that Judas was a
bad bloke, necessarily - and *you* asked *me* here, still don't know
why, so the least you lot can do is spare some lousy Tupperware and an
hour of quality programming."

"Um, I'm probably going to regret asking this, but . . . Tupperware?"
Willow arched her eyebrows higher than Buffy's hemline. "Not to
mention, Giles, since when do you like to hang out with Spike?"

"Well, in answer to your first question, Spike says the blood doesn't
microwave properly in the containers the butcher gives him. Bits of it
stay . . . oh, how did he put it . . . 'cold and clotty,' I believe was
the particular turn of phrase he used. That was the point I turned off
the cooking show I was watching."

"Good thing, too. Bloody boring. Besides, I've seen your cooking.
It'd take black magic to make it better, not televised recipes."
Extracting a cigarette from the pocket of his duster, he patted his
other pockets for a lighter, then glared openly at Giles when he
snatched the cigarette from his lips. "Hey! That's mine!"

"Yes, and the Tupperware is mine, but it appears that personal property
is no longer sacred in this house. No smoking in my living room.
Ever."

As Xander motioned frantically at his watch, Buffy stepped between Giles
and Spike. "You know, as much as I hate to interrupt this gay banter,
think you could tell me why you beeped? And why Platinum Boy is back
pulling a Kato Kaelin on your sofa?"

Spike grinned maliciously, upper lip curling back into a contemptuous
sneer. "Like *you're* not a dye job. Never seen such black roots. Not
to mention the, ah, evidence of your natural hair color I saw during our
engagement . . . "

Buffy stopped Riley's aggressive advance with one hand planted firmly on
his chest. "No. You don't get to kill him. *I* get to kill him.
After Giles explains what we're doing here."

Giles stared at her blankly, as if she were a book in which he'd lost
his place. "What? Oh! Oh, yes. Extraordinary thing, really. There's,
there's been a murder."

Xander sighed, and plopped down on the couch beside Spike, pulling Anya
down to sit in his lap. "Around here, that's about as extraordinary as
a Big Mac and fries."

"Trust me. This one is . . . special." Giles picked up a silver and
turquoise ring from the countertop, rubbing his chin abstractedly. The
silver finish had been dulled with what looked like spots of rust.

"Boy, don't make rings like they used to, eh? What is it, iron? Some
schlub trying to palm that off on his girlfriend as the real thing? Not
that I would ever do that, of course," Xander reassured Anya, his voice
somewhat high and strained due to the sudden strangling pressure of her
nails digging into his thigh.

"What, are you blind, you prat? That's blood." Spike snorted
disgustedly.

"Oh, well, excuse those of us whose senses aren't as single-mindedly
attuned to red corpuscles as you," Xander huffed, digging into the bowl
of snack mix on the coffee table. Spike ducked a flying elbow as Xander
shifted position, his movements broad and jerky in the
all-elbows-and-knees fashion of abnormally prolonged adolescence. "So
what's the story on the ring?" Xander asked through a muffled mouthful
of pretzels, munching loudly. "Is it a magic talisman mystically linked
to an evil demon?"

Giles regarded him sternly. "You've been watching far too many movies.
No, it's just a ring. This belonged to a girl whose body was found last
night. Her eyes had been gouged out, and her soul had been . . .
devoured."

Buffy blinked, hazel eyes wide with revulsion. "Ugh. That's a new
one. Any idea who our baddie is? And what part of town?"

"That's the other extraordinary thing. It didn't happen here, it
happened in Mexico." He regarded Xander curiously for a moment, who had
commenced choking violently on his snack mix, spewing a hail of pretzel
shrapnel far and wide, then turned his full attention back to the
Slayer. "Buffy, I, I hate to ask this of you. I know you're terribly
busy with school, but . . . I think this may be something truly vital.
Do you think there's any way, any way at all, you might be able to
travel to Mexico immediately? You do have some time off for your, ah,
spring recess."

Glancing up from where Anya was performing an incompetent Heimlich
maneuver on him, Xander managed to gasp out, " You know, I have a hunch
she just might be up to that. You know Buffy, always putting slaying
first."

Giles chewed his glasses thoughtfully. "Yes, you're, you're right. I
am asking a lot. You know, perhaps I should just try to handle this one
on my own -"

"NO!" Buffy yelled, making frantic finger-across-the-throat motions at
Xander behind Giles' back. "I mean, no, I'd be glad to do that for
you! I'm the Slayer, right? Slaying's what I do, to heck with
artificial national boundaries."

He shook his head. "No, Buffy, this is another culture, a largely alien
one. I'm far better equipped than you -"

"Why, because you wore a silly sombrero and a serape for Halloween?
Come on, Giles, you're about as Hispanic as the Tower of London. And,
hey, I'm enrolled in Spanish this semester, it'd be a good chance for me
to get some practice, right? I've really gotten good at it, too, listen
to how good I've got. Willow, ask me how I feel, in Spanish."

"Como estás?" Willow asked dutifully. Tutoring Buffy through French had
been . . . interesting, in the same sense that natural disasters and
virulent social diseases are interesting. Tutoring Buffy through
Spanish promised to be downright *fascinating.*

"Estoy buena." Buffy responded triumphantly, and shimmied her hips in a
little victory dance. "See?"

"Um, Buffy . . . " Willow struggled to suppress a smile. "It's 'Estoy
bien.'"

She wrinkled her nose, shrugged elaborately, and waved one hand in a
dismissive gesture. "Bien, buena, what's the difference?"

"Well, 'Estoy bien' means "I'm fine." 'Estoy buena' means . . . well,
'I'm good.'" She heaved a long-suffering sigh at Buffy's look of blank
incomprehension. "As in, 'Watch out, boys, I'm *good.*' Let's just say
you'll make a lot of 'special friends' there *really* quickly if you
walk around saying 'Estoy buena' a lot. Especially if you . . . um,
bounce like that while you say it."

"Oh." She looked crestfallen, as Riley coughed discreetly. "You know,
Willow, you're not helping my argument here."

Giles shook his head. "This only goes to prove my point. This is a
strange country, a strange language - I shouldn't even think of sending
you down there to handle a chupalma."

"Chupalma?" Xander's eyes lit up with recognition. "That's the monster
that sucks the life out of goats, right?" He bridled defensively under
the collective weight of their suspicious expressions. "What, am I the
only one who reads tabloids around here?"

"I believe that you are referring to a 'chupacabra,' Xander, a rather
quaint, relatively recent Mexican legend about a, a so-called
'goat-sucker,' created to explain unexpected livestock losses. This is
a 'chupalma,' a 'soul-sucker.' Far less quaint. You might say it is
the chupacabra's far older, far nastier, very real big brother." Giles
had opened one of his massive old tomes as he spoke, flipping the pages
open to a bookmark reading "Librarians Do It with Dewy Decimals," a
typically tactful birthday gift from Anya. "Here is a picture of our
suspect."

"Oh, Giles, I warned you about drinking tea too near your books," Willow
chided, forehead furrowing with disapproval as the worry wrinkle
assiduously lobbied for promotion to a hatchet scar. "You've smeared
the picture."

"That *is* the picture," Giles explained, nodding at the formless brown
blob. "The chupalma is a shapeshifter, a, a special sort of incubus,
with no true form of its own. It usually takes on the form of a
victim's, um, lover, and extracts the soul out through the eyes in a
moment of - ah, passion, when the victim's energies are most intense."

"Boy. Just a gigolo." Xander whistled softly. "I'll avoid the obvious
'love is blind' pun in the interests of taste."

"Yeah, talk about loving 'em and leaving 'em. All right, how do we kill
this creep?" Buffy looked up at Giles expectantly.

"Well, the chupalma only gets a chance to rise once every two hundred
years, on the week of the vernal equinox - commencing last night, to be
precise. Its lair lies in the Montañas de Muerte - Death Mountains.
It's an odd extension of the Hellmouth via a supernatural seismic fault,
near Tijuana."

Xander pumped his fist in the air. "Tijuana! Yes!"

Giles stared. "I'm sorry?"

"Um, he's just happy that he, that he guessed right. Right, Xander?"
Willow nudged him violently in the ribs, paralleling Anya's earlier jab
to create a spiffy set of matching bruises.

"Yes! Yes. Very much of the happy. For the guessing. Yes." Xander
nodded and grinned insanely, as Riley's lips twitched with repressed
laughter.

"Oh." Giles looked unconvinced, but continued nonetheless. "As I was
saying, its last rampage was ceased by the monks of the Order of San
Miguel. They confronted it in its cave, and bound it for another 200
years. Actually, it was a monk from the Order of San Miguel who
delivered the ring and the message to me this morning."

"Okay, so the chupalma lives in the Hellmouth suburbs, and doesn't get
out much. I've got that. I think the operative question now would be .
. . *how* did the monk guys bind it? And why can't they do it
themselves this time?" Buffy smiled sweetly.

"That is the interesting part. You see, the chupalma has the power to
kill anything with a soul that touches it, if it so chooses. So, they
forced another soulless demon, a weak, enslaved demon, to mark the
chupalma with the magic sigil. Unfortunately, the Order of San Miguel
no longer has a magic user strong enough to enslave the necessary
demon."

"So what we need is a weak, enslaved demon, right?" Willow mused,
eagerly latching onto the opening for her talents which the welcome
words "magic user" had provided. "Where would we find . . . oh."

Six heads turned in perfectly synchronized unison, and focused on Spike.

"No. Oh, no. Don't you even stare at me - bugger this! And I am *not*
enslaved, or sodding weak, I'm just - homicidally challenged at the
moment." He commenced a furious pacing. "You think bribing me with
Tupperware's enough to make me drop everything and go to Mexico? I
don't *think* so. Right. I'm out of here." Peeved, he yanked his
duster over his head as an improvised sunlight tent and slouched his way
over towards the door.

"That isn't everything, Spike. There's another bit of supernatural
activity going on near that 'Hellmouth suburb' which might interest
you. I received this yesterday, from an old acquaintance on the
Watcher's council. He feeds me information when he can." Giles offered
the sheaf of faxed paperwork to Spike, gesturing it in a rustling
invitation. "Go on. Look."

The vampire accepted the proffered papers cautiously, appearing to turn
a little paler as he read. "You really expect me to believe this, do
you? It's all a lie. Drusilla's smarter than that."

Giles smiled faintly, pressing his fingertips together into a steeple of
considered thought. "Spike, you are well aware that Drusilla is -
pardon the expression - nutty as a fruitcake. Don't believe the fax if
you wish. Check among your demon contacts instead - at least, those who
will still speak to you. The evidence all points to Drusilla rampaging
in that area, drawn by that same surge of Hellmouth energy that released
the chupalma. And as the expression goes, the natives are restless.
It's a Catholic country. They believe in crosses, and vampires, and a
nice, festive spot of mob burning. It's going to be Prague all over
again, Spike, if you don't do something."

Buffy crossed her arms in annoyance as she watched Spike study the
papers, his sculptured cheeks becoming tight and hollow as his jaw
clenched with worry and anger. "So we get to bring Spike along to
Mexico. Oh, this will be just *such* fun. I *love* hanging out with
demons during my free time. Not."

Spike laughed outright at that, throwing his head back in a sharp, nasty
burst of sardonic merriment. "Oh, really? Could've fooled me. Let's
see: You with Soul-boy, and I think that Ford bloke counts, he *wanted*
to be a demon. And Xander over there, what's his running score on demon
girlfriends now? Fifteen? Sixteen? I forget. And Red, such a shame
Wolfy won't be coming along to Mexico, I'm sure you'd have such good
times on the beach, having him chase and catch Frisbees in his mouth."
He stomped away from their little group to lean heavily against the
wall, right next to Willow. Looking sideways at her, he watched her
watching him. "Well? Where's your comeback, Red? Aren't you going to
insult me now? And stop frowning. Didn't your mother ever tell you
that your face will freeze that way? Just look what happened to me.
Let it be a lesson to you," he lectured, perfectly deadpan, vamping out
slightly in demonic illustration.

Shrugging matter-of-factly, she shook her head, red hair bobbing, lips
set into a resigned Willow-frown. "No. Don't have anything to say.
Scary thing is that it's mostly true." Her eyes grew distant, wistful,
clouded with an emerald mist of memory. "And you don't even know about
the demon robot I dated on the Net."

He stared at her incredulously, then broke into a low chuckle. "Tell
you what, luv. I find Drusilla, you find Wolf-boy, we lock 'em in the
same room and sic fire ants on 'em. What do you say? Is it a date?"

Her frown quirked into a wry, sheepish grin. "You know, the other scary
thing is that's the closest thing to a conventional romantic proposition
I've had in a long time."

Immediately, Anya shot out of Xander's lap and balled her fists on her
hips. "Isn't that just like a man! I'll have you know he already fed
me that same line, only it involved eviscerating Xander and staking
Dru."

"Hold it. Wait a minute. You - you two based a date on *eviscerating*
me?" Xander's voice trailed off into a high-pitched squeak of
indignation as he retreated several paces away from Anya. "Whatever
happened to dinner and a movie?"

"Oh, come on. I didn't accept," Anya reassured him. "Obviously. You
still have all your viscera intact."

"Trouble in paradise again, I see? That's spring for you. Demon love
is in the air," Spike winked. Perhaps recalling the several hours of
hell she owed to Anya, even Willow snickered slightly at Xander's
newfound paranoia.

In the meantime, the conversation between Buffy and Giles had
continued. "No, Buffy, I'm coming along. If this creature is not bound
before the week is out, it will be impossible to contain for 200 more
years. The devastation it could wreak would be immeasurable. It will
gather strength with every feeding, and the next few days will be ideal,
what with students heading there for spring break. Traipsing off to a
foreign country, drinking, parties - it amazes me how irresponsible some
young people can be."

Pausing in his attempt to surreptitiously scrape congealed pretzel bits
off Giles' wall, Xander clucked his tongue in sympathy at the wicked
follies of These Dang Kids Today. "Boy, isn't it just amazing, though?
Okay, so Giles and Spike are coming along. Oh boy. Well, then, I think
Anya and Riley and Willow and I should come, too, right? Strength in
numbers and all that? Hurrah for the Scooby Gang?" Xander winked
exaggeratedly at Riley.

"Oh. Yeah. And, um, I can requisition a van from the Initiative for us
to take. Plenty of room." Riley sweated nervously, unused to lying to
authority figures.

Giles considered the offer. "That's very kind, Riley, but government
requisitioning processes being what they are, I doubt you could get
something in time for us to leave immediately."

Riley sweated harder. "You might be surprised."

"Yeah, it'll work fine. When we get to Mexico, I'll room with Anya,
Buffy rooms with Riley, and - um - you and Spike can room with Willow."
Xander grinned broadly, bouncing with the nervous, frenetic energy of
the genetically incompetent liar. He looked as if his nose - or quite
possibly his ears - might start growing at any given moment. "Works out
great."

He yelped as Willow snagged him by one oversized ear, twisting it
savagely. "Oh, thank you," she hissed. "Don't let's assume Willow just
might meet a guy and want to take him back to the privacy of her own
room for a night of meaningless passion. Oh, Willow would *never* do
anything like that. Let's just put the ex-watcher and the demon in with
her."

Xander did a double take, rubbing his sore ear. "Come on, Will - I
mean, you wouldn't, would you?"

She balled her fists with frustration. "Well, no, but, I mean, the
point is, I *could,* if I wanted to. At least give me that much."

Xander shrugged. "Okaaaaay. Next time I'll give due consideration to
the possibility that Willow *could* be an amoral tart if she wanted to
be. 'Estás buena' and all that. Happy?"

"Yeah." She crossed her arms and nodded firmly with satisfaction, until
his words sank in. "Heeeey!"

"So, what're we waiting for? I say let's hit the road. I'm all packed,
duffel bag and Twinkies in the van!" Xander turned towards Giles and
rubbed his hands together eagerly, then froze as he saw Buffy's
murderous expression. "Packed? Did I say packed? I meant, um,
stoked! I'm all stoked. Ready to go. Yep. That's what I meant! Just
meant stoked, and psyched, and oh God, I'm not fooling anyone, am I?"

"Packed?" Giles cocked his head in puzzlement. "Hmm. You know, come
to mention it, you are dressed rather for a holiday outing. Good lord.
You weren't planning on going on vacation, were you? Without letting me
know?"

"Giles! Would we do that? Never! Would we do that, Riley?" Buffy
looked to Riley for support, who opened and closed his mouth in a fair
imitation of a panicked fish.

"Hey," called out Spike, who'd wandered over to peek out the window,
taking care to avoid the sunlight. "There's a bloody huge van out
here. And it's full of duffel bags."

"I told them we should call Giles. Didn't I say that? Hmmph." Willow
collapsed on the sofa, nodding self-righteously.

"Giles, I - I didn't think you'd let us go." Buffy bowed her head
ashamedly. "But Xander mostly talked me into it."

"Oh, sure, sell out my man," Anya retorted, putting her arms around him
protectively.

"I'm sorry, Giles. Can you ever forgive us?" Buffy gazed up at him
soulfully with her best puppy-dog eyes.

"Well, it'll be a wrench, but . . . I suppose so. Come on, I'm packed,
right down to my Bay City Rollers tapes. Get in the van. I've called
your motel already and added another room reservation for Spike and
myself."

Xander blinked slowly, processing this information. "You called . . .
you called our motel . . . Wait a second. You *knew* we were *going*?"

Giles smiled innocently. "Why, yes. Anya dropped by last week asking
for maps of Mexico. Said she hypothetically needed to know how to get
to Tijuana if she ever hypothetically went there with all of you on
spring break."

Xander buried his head in his hands. "Anya, I told you to get the maps

from a gas station."

"Come on. They wanted me to pay actual money. Giles gave them to me for
free." She smiled the smug smile of the thrifty.

Spike ran one hand over his cropped blond hair. "Let me get this
straight. You're just jerking them around for guilt purposes? There is
no bloody chupalma?"

"Oh, yes, there most certainly is. I never joke about the
supernatural. It was all just a lovely coincidence. Sometimes, even in
the midst of death and demons, the stars align just right for one,
brief, shining moment of massive, perfect guilt." Giles removed his
shirt and tie, revealing a casual polo shirt beneath, hoisted his tartan
plaid luggage from where it was hidden behind the sofa, and fumbled for
his house keys. "Shall we go?"

Spike just stared. "You know . . . you're quite a piece of work,
Ripper."

Giles grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment, Spike."

*************

CHAPTER THREE

By the time the sleek black van rolled to a halt beneath the cracked and
peeling sign of the Playa de Luna Motel, the sun already burned low on
the afternoon horizon, threatening to quench its flame within the waves
below. Slowly, like the disemboweling of some gigantic sea beast, a
fleshy tangle of grubby, grumbling forms spilled out the sliding side
door, while Riley and Buffy emerged from the driver's and passenger's
sides, respectively.

"I do *not* drive like an old woman," Riley muttered defensively,
indulging in a petulant flourish of unnecessary door-slamming to
punctuate his point.

Stretching his cramped limbs with the crippled caution of a heretic
recently freed from Torquemada's rack, Xander directed an exaggerated
stage whisper towards the equally irritable Anya. "If the orthopedic
shoe fits . . ."

Even Buffy cracked a smile as Riley bristled with palpable indignation.
"Hey! Trust me, we do *not* want to get stopped by the Mexican police
for speeding! They do body cavity searches for anything remotely
illicit -- you want to try explaining why we've got crosses and stakes
and garlic and a cooler full of blood, not to mention some solar-phobic
English guy with dental problems buried underneath the duffel bags?
Look, I got you here in plenty of time. It's still daylight-"

"Barely," Anya corrected, biting her lower lip and furrowing her brow
with concentration as she performed a vigorous pressure-point shiatsu
upon a blissful, slack-jawed Xander.

Directly behind them, Willow belatedly tumbled from the van, scrabbling
at Giles' shoulders to remain upright, a pained urgency coloring the
trademark hesitant inflections of her voice. "No feeling in legs, no
feeling in legs. Help now . . ."

As Giles hastily propped Willow up against the running board, Buffy
turned on Riley, her blond ponytail swinging aggressively. "Okay, jury
is in. You drive like an old woman. Come on, let's get registered.
Giles, you come along. If they see a responsible adult, maybe they'll
lower the deposit."

With Riley still protesting strenuously, the three of them limped their
way over to the shabby registration office. As Anya and Xander
cheerfully groped one another under the transparent guise of mutual
massage, Willow concentrated on restoring the circulation to her own
calves. Riley had been most emphatic about entrusting the wheel of the
van to no one but himself. "None of you are used to driving a vehicle
this large, on bad roads, with such a significant weight load to factor
in," he'd lectured, oblivious to the way Xander mimicked his portentous
manner, complete with finger wagging, until they all twitched with
spastic snorts of half-repressed merriment, defiantly disregarding the
frigid weight of Buffy's disapproving gaze.

Flexing her knee, she groaned as it cracked with the distinctive popping
snap of an icy river seized by a sudden spring thaw. "Owie owie
owwwww!" Boy, how she'd love for Oz to show Riley a thing or two about
burning rubber in a van packed chock full of equipment, drunken band
members, miscellaneous groupies, and -

No. No Oz-thoughts. Oz-thoughts *bad.*

Sighing, she shifted her attention from one leg to the other. When all
was said and done, the Oz-thoughts came fewer and father between these
days, probably due to the clamoring distraction of the Tara-thoughts.

No. No Tara-thoughts. Tara-thoughts even *worse.*

She'd wrestled with a guilty feeling of relief when a slump-shouldered
Tara, eyes characteristically downcast, had stammered an apologetic
explanation of how she'd already promised to visit her cousin for spring
break. With the emotional distance born of physical distance, she
winced at how effortlessly the girl could inspire both guilt and its
emotional cousin, pity. This literal "guilt trip" by Giles revealed
itself to be the feeble graspings of an amateur by comparison. Touched
by Tara's loneliness and awkward insecurity, Willow would instinctively
reach out to comfort what essentially seemed a magnified reflection of
her own vulnerabilities. She flushed with triumph whenever she
succeeded in coaxing that perpetually dejected, whipped-puppy
countenance into a shyly wistful smile, redolent with a hero-worship
calculated to warm the soul of someone who had spent the best years of
her life standing meekly in the shadow of the Slayer's glory. Half the
time, Willow found herself saying and doing almost anything to earn that
smile.

Almost anything . . .

Anyway, at the time, it had all seemed heaven-sent: a chance to be
alone with old friends again, to take a much-needed vacation - from
reality, as much as anything else - and insist, with a fiercely
single-minded conviction, that nothing had changed.

Insert bitter laugh here.

The sinking feeling had begun this morning, and was finding new internal
depths to scuba-dive into with every passing minute. Already, after
hours cooped up in that damn van, she was painfully aware of how her
desperate attempt to recapture the old rhythms only highlighted how
discordant their emotional harmonics had become. It felt like trying to
squeeze into a favorite childhood outfit, only to discover how unchecked
growth spurts had ravaged the familiar comfort factor into something
strained and threadbare. All the delicate dynamics, all the
relationships had shifted almost beyond recognition, and "alone" had
proved to be the only salient part of the "alone with old friends"
equation. Such was the way of the world. As much as her inner child
longed to wrap them all up in some protective stasis spell, a witchy
shrink-wrap forged against the ravages of time, she knew it wouldn't
work. Change was life. Adapt or die.

Speaking of death . . .

"Spike? Are you okay in there?" Hesitantly, she tilted up a duffel bag
and offered a lopsided smile to the blue glare slicing through the
shadows.

"Oh, I'm just brilliant. Smashing. It's the only bloody way to fly,
this is." He uttered a muffled "oof" as Willow released the bag,
automatically cringing back to avoid being soaked by the acid flood of
pent-up sarcasm.

"I know. I don't feel so great myself. Kinda cranky, and crampy, and
sweaty, and skanky - hey, sorta sounds like, um, dwarves from the bad
side of town!" Her earnest attempt at stiff-upper-lip cheerfulness
collapsed in the face of that unblinking stare. "I'm sorry. I know
it's probably kinda claustrophobic, but it's no worse than a coffin, and
you've been in plenty of those, and it's not like you're gonna
suffocate, since you don't breathe anyway, and why the heck am I
apologizing to you? What the heck is *wrong* with me? There is no sane
reason on earth I should feel guilty, or, or sorry for you! You, you
threatened to rearrange my face! We're not friends!" She angrily shook
herself out of her cringe, flailing her arms about and knitting her
brows into a presumably hostile scowl. Unfortunately, her knitted brows
conveyed about as much genuine threat as the brandishing of a knitted
baby bootie. Somewhere, deep down inside her DNA, lurked the dreaded
Pink and Fuzzy Gene. There was no known cure, aside from vampirism - a
clear-cut case of the cure being worse than the disease.

Cautiously, Spike's head and shoulders surfaced up above the duffel sea,
somehow contriving to exude a sense of being cool, casual, and utterly
in control even while looking like the victim of a freak industrial
accident during a Samsonite commercial. Somewhere, deep down inside his
own DNA, lurked the Urbane and Leather-Clad gene. At that particular
moment, Willow hated his guts for it. "Well, give the witch a prize.
That is *exactly* what I've been telling the whole damn bunch of you for
weeks. I'm not your bloody friend - any of you! I'd drink you dry and
crush the rest like an empty beer can if I could. Don't forget it for a
minute." Wrinkling his nose with revulsion, he pounded on the side of
the van with the heel of his hand, startling Anya and Xander into
disengaging their lip-lock. "For the love of hell, would you two break
it up before we turn a fire hose on you!" Propping himself up on one
elbow, he rummaged for a smoke. "Now, I'm not sure what set off your
little PMS moment, luv, but here's a spot of free advice, from one
non-friend to another: never waste your time on guilt *or* pity.
You're just playing into people's hands. I've never seen anyone so - so
pathetically easy to manipulate as you lot." He capped it all off with
an insolent smirk, complete with a cigarette centerpiece. "Got a
light?"

Glowering, Willow deliberately shoved aside one duffel bag to release a
rogue ray of sunshine streaming towards his face. She paid tribute to
his evil smirk with one of her own as he dived back underneath the
protection of the canvas, his sangfroid dissolving into a scorched,
undignified yelp of "Bloody hell!"

Patting the smoking pile of duffel bags in a mock-comforting manner, she
sharpened her voice into a virtual stake. "Thanks for the warning,
Spike. I'll keep that in mind. But you should probably be glad we're so
'pathetically easy' to manipulate, or you'd still be a science
experiment, wouldn't you?" Clambering back out of the van, she
sauntered past a dumbfounded Anya and Xander, taking deep, exhilarating
breaths of the cool sea air. She felt better, actually. And not a bit
guilty, or sorry.

"So put *that* in your cigarette, and smoke it. Hmmph."

*************

Emerging from her room, Willow locked the wobbly door behind her with a
quiet click. It wasn't the Ritz, by any means; the bed had a disturbing
tendency to act like a reverse Murphy if you sat on the foot of it, the
head of the unbalanced frame flinging forwards like a catapult, and
she'd seen an unidentified human hair on the clearly used bar of soap in
the shower (to say nothing of the state of the toilet). Still, it was
her own space. Xander's brilliant proposition notwithstanding, she
wouldn't be roomies with Giles or Spike. Depressingly enough, though,
it probably wouldn't have put much of a cramp in her lifestyle if they'd
been there. In all honesty, she couldn't envision herself ever
indulging in the "night of meaningless passion" she'd threatened Xander
with just for the pleasure of seeing his eyes pop. Smiling faintly, she
closed her eyes, listened to the mariachi band playing on the nearby
beach, and recalled their old high school game of Anywhere But Here.
"I'm in a quaint little seaside cantina, and I'm finishing my drink, and
a voice asks me if he can buy me another, and it's . . . ."

The name sprang to mind before she could even think about censoring it.
*Oz.*

"It's who?" Buffy inquired with a mischievous smile, ambling over to
join Willow on the patio with Riley firmly in tow. "Don't keep me in
suspense."

Willow grinned wryly in answer, fidgeting with a ragged strand of red
hair; its frayed ends bore the ravages of far too much nervous
twisting. "Who else? John Cusack."

"Still carrying the torch for John? He doesn't know what he's missing,
I tell ya. All that thwarted passion, building up." With a sage nod,
Buffy released Riley's hand. "And on the subject of passion, and
thwarting, I'll be right back - gotta go pound on Xander's door. If I
know Anya, when Giles said 'meet here in five minutes,' what she heard
was 'You have five minutes to squeeze in some nookie.'" As she and
Riley exchanged empathetic, amused, and fundamentally lustful glances,
Willow contemplated her bright red sneakers and tried not to remember
her breathless, late arrival with Oz on graduation day. Heart aching,
cheeks flaming brighter than her shoes, she relived the romantic reasons
for their tardiness. *Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to
drink,* she mused, thinking of the happy couples all around her. In a
weird way, she sort of knew how Spike - William the Currently Bloodless
-- felt.

As Buffy jogged off, Willow and Riley regarded one another awkwardly.
"So," he finally ventured. "You're . . . doing okay now? With the . .
. breakup thing?"

Subjecting the much-abused strand of hair to manipulations probably
illegal under the terms of the Geneva Convention, Willow shuffled her
feet. "Yeah, mostly. No uncontrollable urges to go postal with
dangerous spells, or anything."

"Ah. That's good." Silence again. "Because, you know, breakups can be
. . . bad." He grimaced at the sound of his own inanity. "God, there's
years of psychology at work for you. Wait'll I get my master's degree,
then I can say things like '*really* bad.' Oh, and make that concerned
sort of frowny face."

"But then you'll charge extra." She liked Riley, despite his geriatric
driving. He was sweet and solid, like a Hershey bar. Good for Buffy,
especially after her checkered romantic history. Checkered with
corpses, mostly.

Hair mussed, panting slightly, and surreptitiously readjusting their
clothing, Xander and Anya arrived immediately behind the returning
Buffy. "Giles isn't here yet," Anya noted with more than a trace of
resentment. "We still had time." On cue, Giles rounded the corner, a
hefty bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. "Damn."

Xander immediately gestured toward the beach. "Hey Giles, did you pack
your guitar? There's a mariachi band out there. You guys could jam!
'Da da dum, la vida loca. . . . '" Blithely inflicting hummed snatches
of Ricky Martin tunes upon them, he spun the giggling Anya around in an
improvised little dance.

"Yes, thank you, let's all mock my musical pursuits as often as
possible, shall we? Now, everyone in the van. We only have a bit of
daylight left," Giles observed, prompting a muttered exchange of "Old
woman" and "Am not" between Xander and Riley, "so we must move quickly
before another victim dies tonight." An imperious glare over the rims
of his glasses cut short a subsequent exchange of "Your fault" and "Is
not" between the two young men. "We need to stop by the Order of San
Miguel first for clarification of a few points about this ritual, then
we'll come back here for Spike and go . . . um, yes, Willow?" he
inquired, his concentration shattered as she frantically waved her hand,
classroom-style, for attention.

"So, we're not taking Spike with us right now?"

Giles blinked, puzzled by her evident concern. "No, he thought the
possible exposure to sunlight was an unnecessary risk, and I could see
his point. We don't need him yet. Why do you ask?"

"So, basically, we're leaving him alone and unguarded here in a motel
room, and trusting him to wait for us, when he knows that Drusilla's out
there somewhere?"

"Well, um . . ." Giles swallowed hard. "Damn."

******************

The six of them burst into Giles' room at almost the same moment, a
rather neat trick considering the size of the doorway. Save for the
lingering, pungent aroma of lightly singed vampire, it was deserted.

"I can't believe it - I can't believe I could do something so *stupid!*"
Giles groaned, leaning out the window to scan futilely for any sign of
Spike in the crowded streets. "I can't believe that I forgot precisely
who and what we're dealing with."

"You started thinking like he was our friend," Willow shrugged, placing
a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Easy mistake to make. I've made
it too. Until someone . . . sort of reminded me differently."

"Without him, we can't perform the ritual - damn it all to hell!" he
snarled, slamming his fist into the plaster in a chilling reminder of
the Ripper lurking not-so-far beneath the cultured surface. Breathing
deeply, he struggled for control. "You four," he ordered, "get out
there. Find Spike. I can't imagine it should be an overly difficult
task to track the progress of a man scuttling along, hunched over in a
smoking duster. Willow, you're with me - you appear to be the only one
of us with your wits about you. We need to get to that monastery
*now.* We'll meet back here in one hour."

With many a worried glance up at the sinking sun, the group dispersed to
commence their race against time. Scanning her puny mental catalogue of
spells, Willow desperately wished her magic had the power to stave off
the night . . .

And blocks away, in the bowels of a deserted building, the ruby glow of
a lit cigarette pierced the artificial night. Nursing his burns, a lone
vampire impatiently awaited the coming of true darkness.

************

CHAPTER FOUR

A very famous old expression informs us that "the devil is in the
details."

Most of the time, the battle-scarred members of the Scooby gang would be
inclined to disagree. They would inform you, politely but firmly, that
the devil - and his demons - seem quite comfortable cavorting in the
realm of the in-your-face obvious, without needing to muck about with
minor points. Just once, in fact, they'd adore the chance to face an
anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, detail-obsessed demon. Probably
easy to mess with its mind, for one thing. "Oh, look, you've got
something - or possibly someone - stuck in your teeth. Here, use my
compact - oh, silly me, no reflection!"

In this particular instance, however, the old saying held true. In
theory, it should indeed have been quite simple to ask people if they'd
noticed what essentially resembled Billy Idol on the verge of
spontaneous combustion; in actual practice, however, the proposition
turned out to be a bit more complicated, thanks to one particularly
infernal detail: the language barrier.

******************

With a loud groan of annoyance, Buffy abandoned her interrogation of a
very perplexed pedestrian and stomped back to Riley for a proper pout.
"I'm not getting *anything* useful out of these people! God, how could
they have missed seeing him?"

Relaxing from his habitual military "at ease" posture, Riley enfolded
her slight frame in a comforting embrace. "Well, I'm no linguist, but
somehow I doubt that 'El hombre que smoko y burno' is exactly textbook
Spanish. C'mon, Buffy, they don't have a clue what you're talking
about."

Jerking away, she turned her exasperation upon him as the closest - and
only English-speaking -- easy target. "Oh, so now it's all *my* fault
for speaking crappy Spanish. Well, what about you, Mister Elite
Commando Guy? Didn't they make *you* take any language classes? And if
the government waived your liberal arts requirement just because of the
demon-slaying stuff, I'm gonna be *so* cheesed off. I never got any
favors."

He shrugged sheepishly. "French. Four years of it. If you can find
any Parisians skulking around here, I'm your man."

This mention of his Gallic talents prompted a disgusted exhalation from
Buffy, vehement enough to have warmed the Limey hearts of her former
Watcher's Council. "French? How useless is that? I mean, *I* took
French 'cause I thought it'd give me a fashion edge, but what's your
excuse? Were they preparing you for some big top-secret invasion of
Quebec or something?"

His face grew stern. "I'm not at liberty to discuss those plans."
After skipping a beat to allow her dumbfounded double-take to evolve
into outright alarm, Riley indulged in a broad, self-satisfied grin.
"Just kidding. Had you going, though, didn't I?"

"You're a riot. Come on." Seizing him by the elbow, she towed him
through the maze of market stalls dotting the alley. "Spanish or no
Spanish, I *am* going to find Spike." Suddenly, stopping so abruptly
that he nearly plowed into her from behind, she honed in on a small
display stand, an expression akin to lust flitting across her features.
"Right after I look at these purses - ooooh, God, that's real leather.
And look at those prices - Noooooo!" Her consumer frenzy trailed off
into a bereft wail as Riley grimly dragged her away. "All right.
Fine. Deep breathing. I'll stay focused." Squaring her shoulders
resentfully, she stalked down the alley with a hunter's tread, the
murderous glint in her eye prompting normally unctuous merchants to
swallow their rehearsed sales pitches and shrink back into the shadows.
"Here, Spikey Spikey . . . I won't hurt you . . . *much.*"

***************
Huddled dejectedly by an ornamental fountain, Xander and Anya had fared
no better. "I thought you said you took a year of Spanish in high
school," she reproached him, leaning her head against his shoulder and
trailing her fingers in lazy swirls through the cool water.

"I did! I did, but I got kind of, well, distracted, you know? The
teacher, Ms. Gutierrez, she was really . . . " Beginning an
enthusiastic pantomime of the universal male sign for "stacked," he
thought better of the gesture upon catching sight of Anya's narrowed
eyes, aborting the action into a flamboyantly casual crossing of his
arms instead. "Um, boring. Yeah, really, really boring. Regular
yawn-a-thon. About all I can remember is 'Me gusta la playa.'" He
raked one hand through his disheveled black hair, clenching the other
into a frustrated fist. "God, for all the good we're doing, we might as
well have stayed in bed back at the motel." Hastily grabbing Anya's
wrist, he halted her eager, hormone-fueled retreat. "I was speaking
rhetorically."

Anya's retort was cut short by the unsolicited advance of a small,
grubby-faced urchin clutching a package of Chiclets. Gracelessly
thrusting the gum into first her face, then Xander's, the child fixed
his own face into an air of pathetic pleading. Given how downright
Dickensian he already appeared in his patched and tattered clothing, it
didn't take much effort. "It please señor to buy the chicle, sí?"

Xander laughed nervously, his features freezing into the violently
uncomfortable, manic cheerfulness of the middle class when confronted
with abject poverty. "Well . . . ah . . . I already have some gum . . .
but . . . " He glanced over at Anya, clearly shooting him an avenging
Jacob Marley look at his nascent Scrooge-osity. "But you can never have
too much gum, that's what I always say." Digging into his pocket to
produce a fistful of change, he offered it, palm upward, to the child.
"I'm not too good with the conversion stuff, so if you'd just take what
it's worth . . . and, incidentally, you haven't seen a pale blond guy -
about yay tall, probably on fire - running by, have you?"

The boy's pathetic air proved to be as thin and superficial as his
facial coating of grime, a hardened, mercenary edge gleaming through
from underneath. Snatching at least ten times the value of the gum, he
scampered away, shouting out an "Oye!" to the busy streets. Within ten
seconds, a veritable horde of street children had responded to the
signal, pouring out of every nook and cranny to advance upon Anya and
Xander like a Biblical plague of Chiclets.

"Xander? How much change do you have?" Anya pleaded, backing up as far
as she could without tumbling into the fountain itself.

"Not nearly enough. So I'd say . . . let's make like Speedy Gonzales,
right about . . . *now!*"

************************

Willow had, it must be admitted, never actually seen a monastery. She'd
seen pictures, though, and thus had formed a definite conception of the
archetype. It would be sort of like the old library on steroids:
quiet, studious, stuffed with lots of dark wood and dusty books and an
indefinable atmosphere of the otherworldly, a sacred space poised on a
liminal plane between the world of the everyday and the world of the
occult.

Therefore, the satellite dish came as something of a surprise.

"*This* is a monastery?" she whispered to Giles, taking in the freshly
white stucco walls dotted with busy workmen and the sound of hammering
and sawing mixed in among the potted geraniums and the creeping
bougainvillea. Her eyes widened further at the sight of the casually
clad young monk ushering them in; the closest he came to traditional
monk garb was a tiny spot of male-pattern baldness atop his head - and
that was due to the ravages of nature, not a conscious commitment with a
razor. Still, something in his defiantly ascetic countenance, the cold
fire in his eyes, suggested he didn't quite hold with all this
new-fangled nonsense, and would have been far more content merrily
scourging himself for his sins within the dank confines of some silent
cell.

Giles peered with some consternation at the desktop computer visible
through a half-open office door. It had the aggressively sleek new
lines of something with more RAM and ROM and other intimidating letter
combinations than he was entirely comfortable with. "Yes, well, I'd
heard that Brother Sergio embraced new technology, and a sort of more
contemporary new image for the traditional orders, but I hadn't fully
realized . . . I mean, Brother Juan, the, the Abbot of the Order, he's
something of a Luddite, really. Makes me look rather like Bill Gates,
if that gives you some idea. Still deeply suspicious of running water,
I believe." He examined their escort more closely. "I say, aren't you
. . .ah . . . Brother Carlos, is it? The one who brought me the ring
this morning."

"Sí." Chilly and monosyllabic, the answer did not invite further
conversation. It was the answer of a man who still, deep down, devoted
his soul to a vow of silence.

"You made good time on your return trip. Then again, you didn't enjoy
the privilege of having Riley as your driver." Giles' expressive mouth
quirked upwards at the corners. Here Buffy had tormented him for years
about his fuddy-duddiness, his pathological restraint, and now she found
herself mated with Captain Caution. Poetic justice was a beautiful
thing.

"Ah, Mr. Giles. So good of you to come so quickly." A tall, lean
figure rounded the corner, palm outstretched for a firm handshake, and
Willow found herself broadsided by the sheer magnitude of his charisma.
His looks were nothing to sneeze at, certainly: a muscular, tanned, and
energetic build, dark hair curling into precisely the sort of
Xanderesque forelock that always sent her weak in the knees, and a
ladykiller Latino grin packed full of more strong white teeth than
seemed entirely decent or respectable. However, it was the eyes that
clinched it, those black eyes flashing with the force of absolute
intelligence. Ay, Chihuahua. Snapping her jaw shut, she furtively
checked the corners of her mouth for signs of drool. She should be
ashamed of herself. After all, the man had no doubt taken a vow of
chastity. Still . . . if they were so dang modern around here . . .

Bad Willow. *Bad.*

"Brother Sergio. Always a pleasure. I see that things have . . .
changed. Rather drastically, in fact." Giles stole another furtive
glance at the computer, as if he was afraid it might take it into its
silicon brain to attack him while he wasn't looking.

Sergio's smile widened, prompting a subaudible squeak of longing from
Willow, which she hastily camouflaged as a cough. "Do call me Sergio.
I have dispensed with the use of titles some time ago. I hope you
approve of the changes, Mr. Giles. The Abbot has become so involved
with his charity work with the street children, especially of late, that
the practical running of the monastery has essentially become my
business."

"*Business* is the correct word. This place has lost its soul," the
sullen Carlos muttered, his pinched features tightening with defiance.
"We could have handled the chupalma ourselves. Once, we would have done
so, without outsiders."

"Now, Carlos," Sergio chided gently, his rich baritone transforming the
rolled "r" in the man's name into something sensuous enough to qualify
as a breach of the chastity vow. "I know that you and I do not see eye
to eye on many things - especially my summoning of the Slayer - but at
this trying time we must attempt to put aside our philosophical
differences and work together. And Mr. Giles hardly qualifies as an
outsider; he has been a friend of the Abbot for years." Turning to
Willow, he drew her limp and unresisting hand up to his lips. "And you
must be the Buffy I have heard so much about. I am charmed."

As Willow's heart crashed back down to her shoes, Giles corrected his
misconception. "No, no, actually Buffy is . . . um, busy elsewhere at
the moment. This is Willow, Willow Rosenberg. She has, ah,
considerable magical abilities, although she is still something of a
novice. She will be assisting me with the binding ritual for the
chupalma."

Sergio didn't bat an eyelash, effortlessly redirecting the flow of his
charm in midstream. "Ah, Willow, how could I have made such an
appalling mistake? Your reputation as a spellcaster precedes you; the
Abbot has often spoken of the letters which Mr. Giles has written,
filled with his enthusiasm for your astonishing prowess. We consider
ourselves quite fortunate to have obtained the services of such a
powerful user of the arcane magicks."

Willow's hand stayed raised for a full five seconds after he released
it; all at once, she noticed it hovering there of its own volition, like
a puppy's paw pleading for attention, and she jerked it back abruptly.
Blushing hard enough to burst a blood vessel, she stood stiffly, the
agony of embarrassment becoming a steel rod inside her spine. "I'm . . .
I'm not all that good of a witch, really. I mean, I'm okay, but . . .
I'm not exactly anything to write home about. Even though Giles did.
Write about it, I mean. Although he didn't really write *home,* as, as
such . . . um, never mind." She closed her eyes and wished for the
death she'd cheated so many times before to come and claim her on swift
wings.

Carlos stiffened, apparently assaulted by his own steel rod of righteous
indignation. "We do not condone the use of that word - 'witch' -- in a
house of God." He spat out the offending noun with evident distaste,
like an accidental mouthful of meat on Friday.

Anger lessened the intensity of her mortification, and she seized upon
it eagerly for the slender thread of dignity it afforded her. Thrusting
out her chin, she launched into an adorable Willow-diatribe at the
hapless Carlos. "Well, I'm so sorry to offend you, but that's just sort
of what I am! A witch. Witch, witch, witch! You're gonna hear the
word a lot, as long as I'm around. So, you better get used to it! You
know, I'd have hoped you guys got over your whole 'issues with female
power' thing by now, 'cause I'm not really interested in being burnt at
the stake, you know? I'm, I'm here to do *you* a favor, putting *my*
life on the line to get rid of *your* evil guy. And, um, just for the
record, I'm a *Jewish* witch. So there's a double whammy for you."

Carlos appeared once again to be awash in nostalgia for the good old
days - good old days which encompassed such sentimental objects as
thumbscrews and iron maidens. "They say you have helped fight vampires.
Then surely you know that the cross, the holy water, these are the only
things that evil fears. Has a Star of David ever warded off a vampire's
bite? How can that fail to show you that the way of Christ is the one
true way? Do you not see the error of your people?"

She met his accusing eyes unflinchingly. Technically speaking, she'd
been dabbling in Celtic spellbooks and goddess lore a lot more than the
Torah recently, but she'd be damned if she'd stand idly by for that
little fit of anti-Semitism. "Maybe I just haven't met a Jewish vampire
yet. Which, by the way, should tell *you* something - *my* people stay
decently buried. I'd say that gives us one up on *your* people. So,
yay us!"

Willow's nerves twitched with shock and pleasure at the sudden,
unexpected contact of Sergio's arm around her shoulders, offering a
congratulatory embrace. "Well said. You must forgive Carlos - he is a
bit . . . passionate at times in his otherwise laudable devotion to our
faith." Amusement glinted plainly in those uncannily black eyes. "As
are you, I see."

Giles nodded in agreement, the laugh-lines crinkling round the edges of
his eyes. "Willow can be quite . . . fervent. About many things." His
subtle wink reassured Willow that he by no means disapproved of said
fervency. "So, not to appear, ah, rude, but may I speak to the Abbot
immediately, please? There are, um, several rather important details I
need to consult with him about, and I'm certain I don't need to tell you
time is of the essence. Come sundown, someone else will die. As it is,
we've run into a bit of a . . . a snag, really. Our enslaved demon is
somewhat . . . unenslaved at the moment. Ran off looking for an . . .
an ex-girlfriend, I suppose is the best way to phrase it. A vampire
named Drusilla - there have been rumors of her presence here." As
Carlos obviously girded up his loins for a new round of condemnation of
their gross incompetence, Giles quelled him with a single, highly
Ripper-esque look. "Buffy and several others are tracking Spike, the
demon in question, as we speak. I have no doubt they will recapture him
- they probably have, already."

Much to Willow's disappointment, Sergio withdrew his arm and stepped
away from her, approaching Giles with a face grown suddenly grave.
"About the Abbot . . . there is something you should know, and no easy
way to tell you, I fear. I asked Carlos not to inform you this morning,
as I felt I should tell you myself upon your arrival, in light of the .
. . friendship between yourself and the Abbot. I . . . perhaps you
should sit down."

Giles snatched off his glasses, scanning Sergio's face for a hint of his
ominous meaning. "Has, has something happened to Brother Juan?"

"I am afraid so." Sergio leaned gracefully against a latticed window
frame, the slanting rays of sunlight painting squares of gold upon his
white shirt and slacks, and patterning his handsome face into the
shining bits and pieces of Byzantine mosaic. "You know how dedicated he
is to his work with the street children. Two weeks ago, while walking
the Camino Real to offer food and clothing, he . . . he disappeared. He
has not been seen since. The police have found no trace."

"I'm so sorry, Giles," Willow whispered, clasping his hand as the
librarian appeared to draw in upon himself, collapsing into a chair with
lips and eyes shut tight.

"Thank you, Willow. I'm, I'm all right." Breathing deeply, he replaced
his glasses, swallowed the sorrow, and reflected briefly on the
extraordinarily high body count which had gradually decimated his list
of friends. If being a Watcher had been lonely, the prospect of
becoming a sole survivor seemed far lonelier. "A victim of crime? Just
when you think this cesspool of a city has sunk as far as it can . . .it
springs a surprise on you."

"It is possible, but . . ." Black eyes met Giles' blue ones in a frank
appraisal. "You do not believe that any more than I do. We both know
that Juan could take very good care of himself against anything
mortal." As he tilted his head thoughtfully, the sunlight only
accentuated the shadows haunting his expression. "The truth is . . .
many street children had begun to disappear several days before him. He
was asking questions. He had heard about a . . . a cult of the Dark
Madonna, come to feed upon the Hellmouth surge. Come to feed upon the
children."

Giles lurched forward in his seat, the strong lines of his features
harsh with fury. "The report from the Watcher's Council - of course!
It mentioned children."

Willow looked from one man to the other in puzzlement. "Um, of course .
. . what?"

Perhaps it was only the fading light, but Giles' cornflower blue eyes
suddenly seemed far more suggestive of a midnight sky than Sergio's.
They were stained with memories of a cruel hypnotic parody of Jenny
Calendar, of a sloe-eyed beauty who had metaphorically picked apart his
brain with delicate fingernails, then feasted on the pain with demented
delight.

"Drusilla."

***********

The slight, weaselly vampire slammed hard into the ramshackle planks
boarding up the window, raising up a cloud of dust which for one
horrible instant he believed to be the ashes of his own impaled corpse.
"No! No más - I swear I have told you the truth, I never heard of a
Drusilla in my life. Certainly not here."

Scarred eyebrow arched skeptically, Spike seized up a bit of debris from
a nearby heap, then smirked in vicious recognition. "Well, what have we
here. An iron spike! Makes me all misty-eyed and sentimental, it
does." He swaggered over, cheerily tossing the weapon from one hand to
the other, leather duster billowing and snapping in his wake like a set
of dark wings. His luck was looking up. Just when he'd resigned
himself to an uneventful stretch of waiting, his sharp senses had
detected the telltale traces of a vampire's lair: the scent of blood,
the signs of human movement and habitation without the residue of human
warmth. He'd shifted around a few packing crates, and voila! Out this
one had scurried like a cockroach routed from a kitchen crack. A nice
little one, too. Almost too easy.

Taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette, he casually ground the
remains out smack dab in the middle of the smaller vampire's forehead,
sneering appreciatively at the aroma of burnt flesh and the sweet music
of agonized screaming. It was a refreshing change to be on the
*dealing* end of those sensations again, rather than the receiving end.
"Now, mate," he hissed, game face displayed in all its full reptilian
glory, "We both know this can't kill you." He brandished the spike in
illustration. "It takes wood for that. *But,*" he continued, more than
a trace of braggadocio creeping into his voice, "I think we both know
I've got at least two dozen interestin' ways to use this that'll make
you *beg* for death." The tip of the iron rose inexorably, pausing just
short of piercing one of the vampire's bulging, terrified eyes. "Care
to try a few? Or d'you find your memory's gettin' sharper, pardon the
pun? Hmm? We'll try one more time. Noticed a Drusilla hereabouts? A
real looker, dark hair, has visions, chats up the furniture, crazy as a
bleedin' loon?"

If the vampire cringed any further into the wall, his molecular
structure would merge with it. "V-visions? Like . . . prophecies, you
mean?"

"Yeah, that's it." His lips hardened into a tight line, eyes the same
color as the iron in his hand. Only when Spike was truly pissed did it
become apparent precisely how much his face could parody a death's head,
the pallid skin stretched just a bit too tightly over those magnificent
bones. Pale as leprosy, he was, and just as apt to make bits of you
fall off in unexpected and quite painful ways. "Prophecies. Visions of
the future. Like, say, if she was here, she'd predict your eye gettin'
rammed straight into the back of your skull - only, she'd say it more
poetic. And she'd be right." His fist tightened menacingly in
preparation for the execution of his promised threat.

"No! Espérate! Wait! I . . . there is one such as you describe, newly
arrived. Three weeks at most - she, she does not go by that name, but
I, I think it might be her. I-in the mountains - she is there, with her
followers."

The iron spike lowered reluctantly. He'd dearly love to stab the little
blighter, if only because he appeared to use Angel-style hair gel.
Either that, or he hadn't bothered to wash it once since being turned.
"No. No thinkin'. It had better *be* her, or you won't be in the shape
to do much thinkin' anymore, right?"

The cowed vampire nodded desperately. "I - I'm sure it's her. She
prophesies great things for the Dark Ones in the coming days. I have
been to her cavern before, and been blessed by her kiss. After dark, I
will take you to the Dark Madonna, and her new consort."

Kiss?

Consort?!

Without warning, a streak of silver flashed through the dimness, slicing
a swath of white-hot pain. The rats scrabbling in the corners twitched
their whiskers with interest at the distinctly organic, gelatinous,
squelching sound, as well as its accompanying strangled screams.
Iron-cold and iron-hard, Spike's voice stabbed after it. "Good. I'm
sure you'll only need one eye to find it, then."

******************

CHAPTER FIVE

Both Giles and Willow loved knowledge. Books formed their shield, their
sword, their armor, the very substance of their lives - or overall lack
thereof, as the uncharitably minded would profess. As a result, few
things could rankle worse than an accusation of ignorance.

Except, of course, incessant confirmation of it.

After approximately fifteen minutes of conversation with Sergio, Willow
and Giles were still uncertain if the first words of the binding ritual
would actually immobilize the chupalma or merely trap it temporarily in
a tangible, non-mutable form; only the missing Abbot would have had
sufficient knowledge of the Order's occult past to hazard an educated
guess. They were, however, both certain of one thing.

They both hated Carlos with a passion.

The dour young monk seemed to combine Angel's broodiness, Spike's
hostility, and Principal Snyder's wholesale misanthropy into one
festering package. Willow wondered privately if he'd joined the
monastery just because he lacked the social skills required to survive
in the world at large.

"Fine. Even presuming you can find your 'misplaced' demon," he sneered,
"The chupalma will never be in that cavern - not this late."

Giles gritted his teeth. "Sunset is still over an hour -"

"Oh, come now! What have you been reading, Lycaeus' 'Black Codex?'"
His face grew smug at the librarian's defensive expression. "If you had
bothered to consult a real authority - such as Brother Osgard's
'Chronicle of the Occult' -- you would know that once the chupalma has
fed, it may move around during daylight hours at will. It cannot kill
while the sun yet shines, but that is all. The chupalma probably walks
the beaches at this very moment, looking for a likely meal of nubile
flesh to attack the instant that the light has fled."

Sergio sighed heavily. "Carlos, Osgard's text is . . . highly
apocryphal, to put it kindly. A pack of lies by a raving lunatic, to
put it not so kindly. The chupalma will be in that cavern. And what is
more, I believe your demon - Spike, is it? -- may be headed there as
well."

Willow raised one auburn eyebrow. "I think it's time for a 'huh?' from
this corner."

"Actually, I, I second that 'huh,' most emphatically," Giles stammered,
reflexively polishing his glasses yet again, as if hoping that the
visual clarity might cut through the mental fog.

Sergio stroked his chin reflectively, while Carlos sulked and moped his
way over to the enormous fireplace. "You say Spike seeks Drusilla. You
also say that you believe Drusilla to be the Dark Madonna I have
mentioned. Last night, there were mutterings on the street that the
Dark Madonna's consort had finally manifested himself, after weeks of
prophecy - that it marked the beginning of a new age. She is also said
to dwell within a cavern. You are a formidably intelligent man, Mr.
Giles. I doubt I need to spell it out for you."

"Drusilla and the chupalma?" Willow yelped. "Now, that's a match made
in a Hellmouth."

"Oh, good lord." Shaking himself out of his pose of dumbfounded horror,
Giles rose briskly, the superficial assortment of nervous tics and
twitches fading in favor of a core of cool professionalism. "The matter
of the, ah, virgin blood. Do you keep any on hand? For the painting of
the sacred sigil." Ignoring Carlos' disapproving assessment of her
obviously non-virginal state, Willow considered the obvious difficulties
entailed in entrusting Spike with that particular sort of pigment.
Instead of playing Picasso on the chupalma's hide, he'd probably snork
down the entire stock, if they didn't keep an eye on him.

Sergio's generous mouth suddenly insinuated itself into a sly grin,
inciting Willow to reflect instead upon the myriad health benefits of
bracing cold showers. "A stock of virgin blood? In a manner of
speaking, yes." Beckoning to Carlos, he offered him a penknife from his
right pocket, which the young man reluctantly accepted. Sterilizing it
within the glow of a votary candle flame atop the mantelpiece altar,
Carlos nicked his own wrist. "A container, Mr. Giles?" Sergio
requested.

Fumbling in his bag, Giles produced a small glass jar, which Sergio
opened deftly, holding it beneath the monk's wound to collect the
sluggish flow. Watching without comment, Willow's pale skin glowed
ruddy with mischief. "You know," she whispered to Giles, "I think I
understand his bad attitude a little better, now."

Distracted with thoughts of the apocalyptic union between the chupalma
and Drusilla - a champion soul-sucker and a champion blood-sucker -
Giles failed to register the joke. "You have precise directions to the
cavern, correct?"

Carlos snorted under his breath. "You will not find him in the cavern."
He appeared to be gathering his courage for an ultimate outburst. "That
ring is the only possible way to track his movements!"

Rolling his eyes in the manner of the long-suffering, Sergio heaved a
heavy sigh. "More of Osgard's nonsense. My apologies, Mr. Giles."

Carlos exploded. "It is not nonsense! Any metal object spattered
with the blood of the chupalma's victim becomes a sort of spiritual
magnet - it grows warmer the nearer you are to the creature. It is the
truth, I swear by the savior! When I touched it last night, I could
feel a - an intense warmth there, which faded as I drove away. The
chupalma was still in the area! For the love of God, Sergio, sometimes
the old ways have merit! Why are you being so stubborn? If you would
just agree to look at it, even once, you would see how the ring could
help." He fixed his most contemptuous stare upon Giles. "Do you even
have the ring with you?"

Fists flexing with the force of the subconscious urge to strangle, Giles
cranked the contemptuous quotient on his own British accent to maximum,
his enunciation sharp enough to impale the undead. "The ring is back at
the motel. As for Osgard, the Watcher's Council thoroughly discredited
that text three years -"

"That was a political decision, based solely upon Osgard's thorough
documentation of corruption in the twelfth-century Council. When I gave
you that ring, I assumed you would at least have the sense to know how
to use it!" The blood ran into the jar much faster now, driven by the
manic pumping of his heart.

"You stole the girl's ring?" Sergio snapped, clearly furious despite the
quiet control suffusing every word. "With all we have to accomplish,
you *insist* upon confusing the issues with utter nonsense. We will
discuss this later." Swiftly screwing the top of the jar back on
securely, he offered the crimson liquid to Giles, along with a crudely
drawn map retrieved from his left pocket. "This comes from the notes of
the Abbot himself. He had begun to prepare for the creature's return
some time ago." He cast one final, lingering glance at the waning
light outside the window. "I am confident that the Abbot will be with
you in spirit as well, Mr. Giles."

Folding the map with an awkward sort of reverence, Giles blinked
rapidly. "He - there's still a very slim chance he might be alive."
The staccato movements of a nerve in one smooth cheek betrayed his fear
that such survival might represent a fate far worse than simple death.
"Drusilla enjoys playing with her stronger, purer victims. And the
Abbot . . . well, Juan was one of the finest souls I've ever known."

Sergio smiled. "Quite."

********************

Four extremely shamefaced figures awaited Willow and Giles back at the
motel patio. "I presume that it would be a bit redundant at this stage
to inquire how you fared?" Giles sighed. "Never mind. I think we have
a plan, of sorts." They followed him like a ragged trail of ducklings
as he strode back to his room, retrieving the ring from his suitcase and
tossing it to a perplexed Willow. "Let's go."

"But I thought Osgard -"

"Was a quack? He was. But with everything against us, I'm not ignoring
any chances, no matter how preposterous or unlikely."

Nodding, Willow wrapped the ring in tissue and slipped it into her
pocket, shivering at the thought of actually wearing the gory artifact.
Xander perked up immediately, catching on to the implications. "So, hey,
the ring *is* mystically linked to an evil demon! I was right all the
time!" He sobered suddenly, struck by a thought. "Wow. Me being
right. I'd say that's a sure sign of an imminent apocalypse, wouldn't
you?" Shrugging philosophically, he rummaged in his bulging jacket
pockets. "Anybody want a Chiclet? I've got lots."

As usual, Giles ignored him, although Willow, Buffy and Riley cheerfully
accepted the proffered gum. "Now, at the cavern, try to keep your minds
clear. The chupalma . . . it isn't a mind reader, as such. It isn't
capable of analyzing your every thought. However, it *is* an expert at
detecting any strong emotions, and picking up associated images. That
can be almost as dangerous as out-and-out mind reading." Turning to
leave, Giles stopped short before the entranceway, contemplating the
black velvet painting above his bed, the donkey and flower cart glowing
with the vibrant pinks and oranges seen nowhere outside the Chernobyl
ecosystem. "And when this is all over, remind me to find out which one
of you chose this motel, and slap you severely."

Xander's exuberance faded, particularly in light of the fact that the
colors of his shirt pretty well matched the much-despised painting.
"We're on a budget, okay? And I'll have you know, this place came very
highly recommended from my Uncle Rory. Sheesh, what's with Bobby Knight
over there?"

Willow shushed him. "Drusilla might've killed a friend of his."

"Oh." Xander hung his head, defeated. "King of Cretins strikes again.
If you need me, I'll be in the van, slapping myself."

"Oooh! Let me do it! I love it when we do that!" Anya called out,
following one eager step behind him.

***********************

In the west, the sun slowly sank beneath the waves. Its waning light
ignited the ocean into a field of fire, bright enough to burn the eyes.
It seared the clouds flesh-pink, blood-red, hemorrhaging all the angry
colors of a living wound. It reflected off the mirror-brightness of a
sleek black van, traveling towards a darkened hollow in the mountains.

And as it sedately wended its way through a village street, passersby
could hear the swell of voices:

"Dammit Riley! Faster!"

********************

"It's locked." Nervously fingering the bandanna tied around one eye in
an improvised bandage, the small vampire looked up at Spike for further
instructions. Wincing, he huddled further down into his jacket. The
purple hues of twilight still seemed far too bright for his weak tastes.

Circling around the black jeep with an easy, confident grace, Spike
halted by the passenger's window. "Is it, now? Well. Fancy that. I
suppose we'll have to open it, then, won't we?" He smiled in a way the
other vampire had already come to dread. If Spike had only lived before
the infamous Marquis, the world would speak of "spikeism" instead of
"sadism."

Without warning, Spike grasped a fistful of the vampire's shirt and
slammed him headfirst through the glass. "See? Works a treat. Now,
unlock my side, and we'll be off."

**********************************

Trembling with rage, Carlos paced before the fireplace, shooting
venomous glances at Sergio's impassive back. The leaping shadows of the
open flames distorted his wan features into a demonic mask, every scowl
and grimace multiplied a thousandfold. Years of jealousy at his rival's
growing influence over the Abbot welled up and bubbled over in a living
river of pure bile, the Spanish harsh and sour upon his tongue. "You
think you know everything - you know nothing! You have always been an
arrogant man, but this - you cannot even stand to consider the
possibility that once, just once, I might be right?"

As the last ray of sunlight disappeared below the horizon, Sergio slowly
turned to face him . . . .

*And he had no face.*

The Sergio-thing's hands crushing his throat easily throttled his
strangled screams before any other monks could overhear. "If it makes
you feel any better, Carlos," it whispered, the words warm upon his ear
in an obscene parody of intimacy, "You are right."

The snap of shattered vertebrae echoed through the silent room, and
Carlos collapsed bonelessly upon the tile.

Effortlessly slinging the corpse over one shoulder, the chupalma strode
smoothly into the neighboring office, its liquid tread suggestive of a
creature formed to *flow,* fatal and elusive as pure elemental
quicksilver. Opening the closet, it flung the body atop the gray-faced,
day-old remains of Brother Sergio. As it closed the door, its hazy form
shimmered and distorted like an asphalt pavement on a sweltering summer
day, coalescing into something horribly familiar . . .

As it preened its hair and straightened out its leather duster, it
smiled a hungry smile. Drusilla's prophecy had been dead-on accurate,
even down to Spike's defection. With her help, he'd devour a Slayer's
soul before he saw another sunrise. Then no one, even if they painted
the entire bloody alphabet on him - literally speaking - would ever be
able to bind him again.

Moreover, the witch's spirited soul looked to make a lovely appetizer -
or dessert - for the celebration feast. The instant he'd touched her,
it had been a struggle not to take her then and there, to drink the
power surging just below the surface of her silken skin. She'd sensed
him, wanted him, with all the warped desire of a wounded heart. He'd
decided he would let her know exactly what he was, right before he
started. The fear would make the seduction far more difficult, but far
more rewarding, as well: an edge of pain upon the pleasure, honing it,
enhancing it, intensifying it into the sweetly ecstatic abandon of a
simple death-wish. Incandescent energy, flaring like a roman candle in
his arms. Fading into absolute oblivion.

Whistling cheerfully, a mirror image of Spike sauntered outside,
dissipating to a swirl of smoke among the stars.

********************************