Lydia read and re-read her draft.

If events are allowed to continue unchecked, it could spell the very end of the Council.

Maybe, she thought, it was a little hysterical towards the end, but she was writing for prosperity. She wanted them to know how very bad it was right now, and, if it was her time to die for the cause, this record would ensure she was remembered a heroine.

There was a little more time before she had to file the official report – she was ahead of schedule, of course, just like any good and trusted member of Council. Of course, who knew what would happen between now and Tuesday midnight? At least her paperwork was in order.

As she put the kettle on for tea, she picked up the neatly labeled file that arrived via FedEx from London yesterday.

Slayer Origin Myths

Before the water was hot, Lydia was deep into ancient crimes.

***

Slayer endurance or no, Buffy was tired after a day of learning the Fitness Factory’s computer system. It wasn’t the computers, though she knew she’d be in for a whole bunch of tech support calls before she learned her way around the database. Fatigue came tied up in a gift box from a store called Mystery. She’d finally cornered Jay around noon and he’d agreed to meet for coffee after the gym’s late afternoon closing. Coffee and some venti-sized revelations. Or so she hoped.

He’d been waiting at the Espresso Pump. Jay quietly paid for their drinks, then held a chair for her, as calm as if they were old friends, meeting for a friendly chat.

Once they were tucked up in a quiet corner, he began to talk, slowly and carefully, as if he’d rehearsed.

“Eliane Ward was a potential Slayer. A girl, like you once. Unlike you, she was identified by the Council and sent a Watcher. A young Watcher, inexperienced and eager. His name was Michel de Shaunde. They trained in Beauport, a tiny place in France, and they lived in a small cottage on the edge of their village. The year was 1320. It was not believed that Eliane would be called. While her age – anyone’s age, really – in those times was subject to records of questionable accuracy, few Slayers are called past their sixteenth birthday. By most accounts Eliane was eighteen when she was called.”

Buffy sipped her latte and frowned. History wasn’t her best subject under any circumstances. What did this have to do with her?

“By the time Eliane was called, she and Michel had married and had two children.”

At that, Buffy started. “She had kids? I didn’t know any Slayer ever ...”

“The Council strongly prefers it that way, of course. But think about it, Buffy. Through much of history, young women married and bore children in their teens. Potential Slayers used to be cloistered in abbeys. And put in service as priestesses to virgin goddesses before that. Locating Potential Slayers has never been easy, but the stakes have always been high. Your calling has infuriated the Council since the first. They’d believed that they’d finally located every girl.”

“Yeah, well, things haven’t gotten much better since then.”

“And so it was with Eliane. She’d been trained, but when she was called, she refused to serve.”

“For her children?”

“Yes. But it ended badly. Michel was imprisoned by the Council. Her new Watcher and son were killed by the vampire Tatoul.”

“Her son … you said children.”

“Eliane died, along with most of Beauport. Burned to the ground. To this day, no one lives on the original village grounds. The only survivor of the massacre was her daughter, Isabeau. Found untouched in the midst of carnage. Rumor has it that her first word was demon.”

Buffy smiled. “So she was a Slayer?”

“No.” He sat silent for a long minute.

“I didn’t mean to …”

“It isn’t that. This is a just a story I’ve never told another.”

“Oh.”

“Isabeau was raised by Michel, under the protection of the Council. She had no special powers, at least not physical powers. But she grew to be a young woman out of pace with her times. Forceful. Forthright. Michel never remarried. Isabeau’s closest companions were Potential Slayers – girls older than her that she admired; eventually, girls younger than her that she helped to prepare. In many ways, Isabeau became the first female Watcher – unofficially, of course.” Jay sipped his coffee, eyes cast downward. “And so she served the Council’s goals, and watched her friends die. We have her journals from the time.”

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing, actually. Everything went according to plan. It is, after all, part of the master plan that you die.”

Buffy recoiled. “Thanks for that reminder.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. We all die, and those of us agreeing to fight this particular battle die younger than most. But Isabeau grew angry – not over death in battle, a fate she found honorable, but over deaths to ritual and ceremony.”

“You mean the Council’s birthday present?”

“Yes. Isabeau’s dearest friend, a Slayer of exceptional abilities, died during her Cruciamentum.” Jay met her eyes, “Only a handful of Slayers survive the ritual, Buffy. Did you ever wonder why the Council would put their strongest warriors in harm’s way with little hope of defense?”

“I … no.”

“Because Slayers that reach their maturity become more difficult to control – both legally and practically.”

“They said it was a test of skills. I just … I figured most girls got through unless …”

With an impatient gesture, Jay interrupted. “Unless what? If your skills fade, you die. In the course of your ordinary duties, you’ll trip or fail to land a punch or be staked with your own weapon.”

Buffy blanched. “So Isabeau …?”

“She came to believe that the process of training young girls and using them under cover of secret was morally wrong. She convinced Michel of the same. They eventually left the Council, and we’ve worked in opposition ever since.”

“I don’t like the Council much myself, but does that mean you work with vampires and demons?”

“No. We work on behalf of all Potentials and especially all Slayers. We believe that there should be an opportunity for young women to refuse their duty; we believe that they should be compensated and cared for during their time of service; we believe that the more barbaric rituals designed to control their actions and limit their success should be abolished; most importantly, we believe that the veil of secrecy that prevents the Council from collaborating with other governments and resources capable of combating evil must be lifted, consequences notwithstanding.”

Jay’s accent gave his voice a razor edge. Buffy couldn’t tell if she was mesmerized by his voice or by his message. After a second, she decided it was both, but that this was no time for thrall. “Is that like a mission statement?”

“Actually, yes.”

“You’re telling me this because you want something from me.”

“Maybe.”

“So, maybe you should tell me what you might want.”

“I mean no harm.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“We’ve debated whether or not to approach you for years now. Since you rode off into the sunset after the Hemery High fire.”

“Took you a while.”

“We don’t normally contact Slayers. However, events are unfolding faster than we expected …”

“Don’t tell me there’s a prophecy.”

“You’ve been the Slayer all these years. Isn’t it apparent that there will always be a prophecy?”

“Listen, thanks for the coffee. And the whole anti-Council stance, fine, ‘cause hey, they’re not my favorites, either. But could I have some time to chew on this? Kinda a lot to take in.”

“You want to check up on me.”

“That too.”

“Very well.” He nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Right. So, um, bye.” Buffy beat a hasty retreat from the Espresso Pump, turning over this weird fragment of history in her mind. She knew the first thing she was going to do when she got home to Revello – call Giles, time of day in England be damned.

***

In the Earth, She felt the stirrings. The dimensions had been shifting and shimmering for many rotations now. This girl, the one that stole the essence of the proudest of the Fireborn, was alive to her true nature. And if She had any say in the matter, it was time for that essence to be returned.

Proserpexa stretched her limbs, feeling them take shape in the dimension she dreaded most. She quickly knocked into a barrier. For now, it was impossible.

But the warrior in her knew that it was only a matter of waiting, and her time was more generous than that of mere humans. Their conflict reverberated, reaching her tomb and sparking hope that a resolution was drawing near.

Soon she would be whole again.

***

“Giles!” Buffy was in his arms in seconds, squeezing the breath from him. “Sorry, sorry … I just … wow, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Buffy, sit down.”

“Willow, you have concern face. You all have concern face. What’s the urgent?”

“It might not be, as you say, urgent. But it is a concern. The vampire Britta? We believe she is in Sunnydale because of a prophecy.”

“Buffy, you should’ve told me. I could’ve helped.”

“Yeah. Well, we haven’t had a lot of … time,” she finished lamely, looking from her best friend to her Watcher, wondering if he could sense the tension.

“I’ve asked Willow to do some research … actually, I’ve asked her to break into the Council’s server and uncover classified records.”

“Piece of cake,” Willow added, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Actually, I’ve already got some of their less protected stuff – payroll, building schematics. Now I’m just trying to crack the archive.”

“What are we looking for?” Buffy dropped her bag and leaned over Willow’s shoulder, scanning the documents she’d printed and spilled all over the dining room table.

“I suppose I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t already have this information – or have never inquired in the past, Buffy, but we’re looking for the story of the origin of, well of Slayers.”

***

If she stretched far back in her memory, she could remember Sunday nights in the summertime when her parents were still together and she and Dawn were small. Or when she was small and Dawn was still cosmic energy. Whatever. Anyhow, Sunday would the one night her dad was home, sometimes, from junior executive duties long enough to sit down for a real dinner, a dinner that her mom would plan all week. No matter how she felt about trying asparagus or squash or paprika, Buffy tried whatever was on her plate because it was the rule if she wanted dessert. And little Buffy Sugar Fiend always wanted dessert.

When had it changed? Now Sunday dinner was pizza delivered to the Magic Box. She, Xander and Anya were clustered around the table. Giles stood behind the counter, next to Willow and her laptop. Dawn perched on the stairs to the loft, munching on her third slice of banana pepper and bacon and reviewing some of the tamer histories.

She’d mentioned the mysterious Jay and his story to Giles. He’d cleaned his glasses and said that he’d known about them, been warned during his training about the Anti-Council Faction, but thought that surely if they were legitimate, they’d have been to Sunnydale long before now. He’d promised to make some inquiries, but insisted they get to work on the matter at hand.

They didn’t know much, for all their looking. Willow had tossed out a reference to a temple honoring a demon goddess in Sunnydale destroyed by earthquake back in 1932. Something in the syllables – Proserpexa – hissed and coiled in Buffy’s brain.

Or maybe it was just being back in the Magic Box for an old-fashioned research party.

“Guys, I should patrol.”

“You want company, Buf?”

“No thanks, Xan. It’s been quiet anyway.”

Willow gave her a questioning look, but stayed silent.

Buffy slipped out the door, thinking that Willow had nothing to worry about. She was really just after something to hurt tonight.

***

“Out looking for big nasties, are we?”

“Yeah, I am.” Buffy bristled as the familiar figure emerged from the trees at the edge of Restfield. “You don’t count. Go away.”

“Make me.”

“Not worth my time.”

“Yeah? I figure you’ve already swept the other boneyards and found nothing to take it out on if you’re in my backyard, Slayer. ‘Sides, you couldn’t wait to take a bite out of me the other night.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

“No,” he snarled. “Think I have a better use for my mouth, but you’re too goddamned pure to admit what you’re really after.” He grabbed his crotch, a gesture both defiant and obscene.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pulled into a thin line.

And then she attacked.

She threw a vicious right hook, but Spike deflected it and got in a stinging uppercut to her jaw.

“Alright, then. Been a while, Slayer. Show me your claws.”

Buffy regrouped and landed a sharp kick to his gut, sending him into a tangle of duster against the door of an old crypt with an “Ooof!”

In another second, her stake was against his chest.

“Go ahead then, Slayer. Do your duty. End me.”

She didn’t move the stake, but she leaned in close. “That’s not what you want, is it, Spiiiike?” She nipped at his ear.

“We gonna play it rough, then?”

She pressed the tip of the stake just a tiny bit harder, piercing the skin and drawing blood.

With a growl, he flipped their positions, pushing her back against the splintering wooden door hard enough to send them both falling inside, the stake rolling out of her grasp.

“I don’t want this.” She pushed him away.

“Fine.” He stripped off his duster and tossed it to the floor.

“I don’t want you.”

“Sure.” He chucked off his boots.

“It’s wrong. It’s over.”

“Uh-huh.” His black t-shirt fell to the floor.

She was on him before he could tear his belt out of the loops, her hands pulling so hard on the leather that the buckle whipped against his abs as she tossed it into a dark corner.

“This just gonna be for you, then?” She’d forced his jeans to his knees. “Looks like a bad porno when the bloke leaves his socks on, pet.”

She wasn’t stopping, wasn’t talking, certainly wasn’t meeting his eyes. If it wasn’t so bloody intoxicating to be attacked by a Slayer – especially one not completely bent on killing you – he’d have protested – some.

Spike found himself shoved to the dirt-tracked floor, jeans bunched around his ankles, as the Slayer straddled him, pulling her denim skirt to her hips and shoving his cock inside with a merciless thrust.

“Can’t make it 24 hours, can you, Slayer?” She rode him at a bruising pace, eyes shut and hands clawing into his shoulders. “You horny bitch, you … can’t even admit it.”

Her eyes opened at that, burning with fury. “Shut up, Spike.”

“Make me.”

She smacked him, hard enough to send his head to the side, smashing into the dirt floor. He tasted blood in his mouth and hoped he hadn’t lost a tooth.

Buffy’s pace didn’t slow.

“Bitch,” he snarled.

“So?”

He could feel her muscles tensing. “Before you got dead this last time, pretty Slayer, you didn’t get wet for me. You and me, we could throw down for hours and you were all business. Ever since this last trip past the pearly gates? You want me so bad I can sense it a mile off. More. You stink of it, Slayer. Of the lust and the passion and the guilt.”

She rode him hard enough to break a man. Underneath her, Spike admitted that it didn’t exactly feel good anymore. But his words weren’t stopping her from finding satisfaction.

He’d almost like to.

“Hurry up already, Slayer. Haven’t got all night for you to get off.”

“Shut your mouth!” she barked, and Spike knew that she was close. Her clothing scraped his skin. There wasn’t much in this for him, but unlike his girl – for what he’d said about the difference between Buffy pre- and post- her most recent demise was true – he wanted her always, any way he could get her. Had for so long he couldn’t remember ever not wanting her.

She hit her climax a second later, and he took advantage of her distraction. As she crested the peak, head tossed back, he’d torn her top in half and pushed her camisole up to bare her breasts.

“My turn.”

He forced her to her back, pinning her legs with his weight and slipping down, taking her skirt with him, leaving her kicky suede boots and pushing her thighs apart.

“As I was saying about better uses for my mouth …” His tongue darted across her clit, flicking the nubbin, before his lips fastened around her, a quick little suck that got her hips arched so high he thought she’d break his nose. His hands reached to cup her ass, scraping her back on the ground and opening her to his greedy exploration.

She was anchored in his arms, twisting her hips but if it was to get closer or get away, Spike couldn’t tell.

And didn’t much care.

His tongue circled her clit, slow and rough. Buffy’s breath came in ragged gasps and when he paused to lick two fingers and shove them in her pussy, keeping the rhythm with his digits and his tongue, she let out a long, low wail.

A second later, Spike was covering her with his body, plunging in deep and careless. “I can give it or not, Slayer. You get that, yeah? It can be good for us both. It should be good for us both. Don’t fuck with me.”

He couldn’t see her eyes, but he felt the sting when she pulled back and slapped him.

“That’s really starting to wear on me, Slayer.”

She did it again.

And he vamped.

Didn’t mean to. Only fledges vamped when they didn’t mean to. But he’d lost control. His eyes went gold with rage, ridges protruded, fangs descended.

The look of disgust on Buffy’s face was absolute.

Horror washed over him in waves.

He crashed down onto her body, gulping for air, inhaling sanity. His face eased back to human features in a few seconds, but the damage was done.

“What are we doing?” she murmured.

“Buffy … I …” he eased up onto his elbows, “I …”

“You’ve raped women.”

“Yeah. Killed a few, too.”

“What you do to me, when we’re together, it isn’t so different from when you’re hunting, right? You listen for my pulse, for my heart to race.”

“I do.”

“Let me up, Spike.”

“Buffy …”

“Let me up.”

He pulled back, crawling off her. She wriggled free.

“I love you.”

“I never want to see you again.”

She pulled her tattered clothing on with as much dignity as she could muster, and rushed out of the crypt.

Spike broke into sobs, dissolving long before she was out of earshot.

And while she’d admit it to no one, especially not to him, tears were streaming down Buffy’s face as she headed home, too.

***

It was the worst possible moment on the worst possible night.

Her clothing hung from her. And she was shaken and stirred. Freaked out.

She’d done that. She’d been doing that for days now. Hurting him. Taking it out on him.

Was that all it was?

Buffy wasn’t sure. She just didn’t know anything about this kind of sex. Spike was right, much as she was loathe to admit it. Things were different this life around. She wasn’t tethered to the ordinary girl stuff, was less afraid of her power and her dark side.

This would not lead to the good.

Speaking of the not good, Buffy rounded the corner and collided with her waking nightmare.

“Slayer,” Britta hissed.

Buffy glanced around frantically. She’d lost track of her surroundings, hadn’t had the Slayer senses turned up. They were on a dark side street, just the two of them, with little chance of interruption.

With a flash of insight, Buffy realized that her nemesis wasn’t ready for this, either.

She drew back. Britta’s face was separated from human by inches; centimeters, even. Her mouth was a fraction too long, eyes a bit too slanted and feral. The girl was undeniably pretty, but frightening under streetlamp light – fierce and hungry.

Buffy struck a second before her opponent, landing a strong roundhouse kick to her jaw, sending her stumbling back a few feet.

Britta yowled and charged, an attack that Buffy barely sidestepped. They circled each other, seasoned fighters trained in the same techniques.

Then, in a flash of movement so fast she couldn’t anticipate it, Britta had her in a headlock. And was twisting.

***

Spike paced his crypt.

He’d gotten it together just enough to limp back home, light a cigarette and toss some vinyl on the record player.

And I’ve heard they now have the right to kill a man.

Remembered hearing that back in London not so many years ago. Song was about police brutality, but Spike made it about him and his Slayers.

Spike made almost everything about him and his Slayers when he was on the trail of the Chosen.

What had gone so bloody wrong? How had he come over such a freak? Couldn’t kill, sure, but plenty of bad guys left the dirty work to their henchmen. Hell, plenty of vamps with delusions of grandeur set themselves up as King Bee and dispatched minions to bring them tasty morsels on platters, just as they liked them. And, y’know, he’d seen the Godfather. You could be bad without doing a lot of killing with your own hands.

He was crying again.

***

Buffy had broke the hold, just barely, by maneuvering her arms to a position where she could twist away from Britta without snapping her own neck in the process.

They were back to circling now, Buffy having scored exactly three direct hits with fist and foot to Britta’s two strikes.

“I’m not going to kill you tonight, Slayer.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Arrogant.”

Buffy snorted. “But not wrong.”

Britta lunged and got in a mean one-two punch combination. Buffy saw birdies circling her head for a fraction of a second, then righted herself and launched her own attack.

She had Britta pinned against a wire fence in another second. “We could do this together, Slayer. Make it so no girl suffers again. You and me, we could end it together. Slayer and Vampire, allied.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

With a well-directed kick to the wrist, Britta sent Buffy’s stake flying.

“Fine. At least I know what kind of aberration I am – at least I know, Slayer.”

Buffy shifted her stance, protecting her injured wrist. “Yeah. You’re a demon. Not exactly a Double Jeopardy answer.”

With a lunge and a twirl, the Slayer drove her foot into Britta’s gut, forcing her back. Settling for a sharp left hook, she sent the vampire back into the fences.

“I know I am, but what are you, Slayer?”

They ducked and swerved, trading blows without changing positions.

“What’s that mean?”

“You think you’re a sun’s ray stolen? All that power, all that force – do you think it was handed down from a benevolent God?”

Buffy stumbled.

“It was stolen, Buffy. Your power – our power – was stolen from a demon. Just like me.”

The vampire had the advantage, but Britta wasn’t pushing it, hadn’t even bared her fangs. “Now, little girl, what does that make you, exactly?”

Buffy felt her heart racing.

Without another thought, she turned and ran for home.

***

“Is it true?”

Giles blinked in the dark, reaching for his glasses. “Buffy, what happened?”

She pulled her shirt closed with her good hand and cradled the other. “I fought Britta.”

“Is she-”

“No. She – she told me that I was made from a demon, Giles.”

“She did?”

“Is it true?”

Giles stood, straightening his t-shirt and running a hand through his thinning hair. “Based on our research thus far-”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Buffy crumpled into a chair.

“If you think on it, Buffy, it’s a logical explanation. Or as logical as any of this permits.”

“How? How did they do it?”

“There were powerful men.”

“Oh, that’s original.”

“Shamens, Buffy … before written history.”

“Logical? I kill what I am!”

“It isn’t so simple.”

“I can’t talk about this now.”

***

He’d heard the vampire’s words.

Spike had been half hysterical – okay, three-quarters wrecked - but still sane enough to know that blubbering in his bed like a nancy boy would lead to bad. He’d decided to head for Clem’s. Clem might have the intellectual capacity of a head of lettuce, but he was always stocked up on video games and crunchy Bugles.

Then he’d heard the fight and watched, transfixed.

Spike told himself that he’d have jumped in if Buffy were in real danger. But neither fighter was in a killing way. So he watched from a distance, and as Britta’s taunts carried on the night air, he listened.

Stolen from a demon. Just like me.

Spike had dropped to a convenient bus stop bench for a cigarette.

The revelation rang true. Even though Britta was clearly out to unnerve her enemy, it was obvious that she’d believed it. And it tracked – how would an ordinary girl end up all turbo-charged without channeling a bit of the darkness herself?

Spike finished his cigarette and reached for a second. He was aching from her assault, from days of her impossible attentions. Shelving his misery to go kneel at her side wasn’t exactly an option. He trusted that she wouldn’t do anything rash with her info – a research party, maybe. But she couldn’t very well try to cut it out of her, could she?

Yeah, this girl could.

“Damn and blast!” He stood up and headed after her, traveling the too-familiar path towards Revello Drive. “The things I do for you, Buffy,” he mumbled, and quickened his pace.

***

“She’s spooked, boys.” Britta spun to face the Trio. “And the stars align tomorrow.”

“Right. But they’ll hang there for a few weeks.”

“What’s your hesitance, Warren?” She sharped her “W,” her childhood accent slipping through. “Can you get the vitch or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, we can get her,” he glanced at Andrew and Jonathan. “We’ve got a plan. A good one.”

“Fine. Midnight at the clearing. The day after tomorrow.”