“There’s too much light,” Buffy said.

Giles watched from the doorway as Buffy stepped across the room and yanked the bedroom curtains closed. 

 “I’m going to try to call Astarte again,” said Willow.  “If she’s home, I can pick up those lizards’ tongues she was saving for me while you’re at your meeting, Buffy.”  She smiled briefly at Giles as she went out into the hall.

No sooner had Willow gone out than Anya stuck her head in, announced, “I’ve rounded up three of them, but some of the others are insisting they don’t have anything to wear,” and left.

Buffy was still fussing with the curtains.  “It will be dark soon,” she said.  “Only another hour or so.”  She sounded impatient.

Giles remembered when Buffy had loved the light, when she seemed to glory in the daytime as a refuge from the stress of being the Slayer.  But she was looking away from the window now, to the corner where Spike stood, as far as he could possibly get from the press of humanity that was parading through the room.  He was leaning against the wall, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, expression grim.  But Buffy’s look of impatience softened into anticipation as she smiled at him.

Giles found himself hoping Buffy only longed for night because it meant that Spike could move at her side without restriction.  But his stomach clenched as he watched her turn her face away from the sun to gaze at the vampire.  Has she come to see herself as a creature of the darkness?

Dawn marched in, dumped a pile of folded clothes on the bed, glared at Spike and Buffy, and left.  Giles wondered if he should comment on Dawn’s obvious hostility, but decided to save that discussion for a time when Spike was not present.  Instead, he tried to resume his previous conversation with the Slayer.

“I thought perhaps the girls would profit from some greater research experience,” he said.  “Anya used that on-line catalog thing to identify a large number of books in the University library that might be of some relevance, far more than she and I can analyze on our own.”

“So you’re taking the Whiny Ones on a field trip?” asked Buffy.  “Fine, as long as you don’t want me to chaperone.  I can’t, anyway.  Principal Wood wants to meet with me in a few minutes about some students who apparently have even longer and scarier permanent records than I did.”  She was scrounging through her purse.  “I can’t find my keys to the school.”

Giles sensed a presence behind him and turned to see one of the Potentials hovering nervously in the doorway.  Vi inched her way past Giles and spoke hesitantly to Buffy.  “I can’t find some of my things.  Dawn said she thought they might have gotten mixed in—”

Buffy gestured at the pile of clothes resting on the bed and left the room.  Vi looked at the laundry, took in its proximity to Spike, and inched carefully around the bed, staying as far away from him as she possibly could while accomplishing her errand.

The vampire watched the girl silently.  Giles, accustomed to the old Spike who rarely shut up, found this new taciturnity alarming.  Not for the first time, he thought that it might have been better if Spike had found a crypt to lurk in during the day.  Spike’s presence might be an added measure of protection for the girls, but living with this many humans had placed an obvious strain on him.  His entire body seemed to radiate tension.

Suddenly, Spike moved, causing Vi to jump and squeak.  She watched, spellbound, as Spike’s shaking hand reached for a packet of cigarettes on the dresser.  The vampire’s eyes were locked on Vi as he tapped out one of the narrow cylinders, put it to his lips, and flicked open his lighter. 

The frightened young Potential was staring at Spike over the flame, transfixed.  Spike took a long drag of smoke, blew it out, and seemed steadier.  “Do you have a problem?” he asked finally.

“It’s just—I thought Buffy didn’t like people smoking indoors,” she stammered.

“Buffy knows all about my bad habits,” he growled.   “They’re none of your business.”  He gestured to her hands, which clutched a pink sweater to her chest.  “You have what you came for.  So unless there’s another reason for you to stay and paw through Buffy’s things, you can bloody well leave now.”

Vi jumped, turned, and ran from the room, brushing past Giles. 

Vampires tend to nest and to be territorial.  Words from Giles’ Council training ran through his mind.  What must it be like for a vampire to nest in a house full of humans who were constantly intruding on his privacy?  How tempting did he find the constant sight and smell of those who should be his natural prey?

As if to answer Giles’ thought, Spike closed his eyes and took a long drag on the cigarette.  His tense expression eased slightly.

Good God, he’s smoking to mask the smell of human blood, thought Giles.  Soul or no soul, thank heavens the chip is still active.

Spike’s eyes opened again.  “What about you?” he snarled at the Watcher.  “I don’t see any reason for you to be hanging about.”

“Did Vi find her things okay?” Buffy came back into the room, followed by Anya.  The Slayer was smiling at first, but the light in her eyes dimmed as she took in the men’s antagonistic stance and noted the acrid smell of Spike’s cigarette.

Giles saw her grimace of distaste, and expected some complaint.  At the very least, an “Eww!” followed by a request not to pollute her bedroom would have seemed in order.  But, instead, she smiled sadly and said, “I made Anya come with me.  I think that if she stops criticizing the girls’ clothes for five minutes, they may be able to get ready to go out.”  She reached up to caress Spike’s cheek for a moment.  “That way, the house will be less noisy while I’m gone.  And Willow’s giving me a ride to and from the school, so I should be back soon.”

But it was Anya who replied.  “Excuse me for having opinions.  I see that only some people can get away with whatever they want around here.” She gestured at Spike’s cigarette.  “Obviously, I’m not sleeping with the right person.”

Giles winced at Anya’s comment, but didn’t remonstrate or voice his disagreement.  Buffy’s motivations weren’t as simple as that, he was sure.  Giles turned to Spike and saw the vampire’s eyes were fixed on Buffy’s face.  He knows as well as I do that it’s not normal for her to let him get away with anything that bothers her.

Giles thought over several incidents he had noted during the past few days.  Buffy was avoiding even petty quarrels with Spike, apparently not wanting to suffer the pain—or take the time—that would be involved in working through an argument.  She made no effort to deal with the issues that were inevitable in an affair as fraught with inherent difficulties as theirs.  The Watcher had seen her sidestep confrontations, smoothing them over with kisses in a manner as disturbing as it was uncharacteristic.  In someone else, he might have considered this normal behavior to be expected during the first flush of an infatuation.  But Buffy’s indulgence of Spike’s desire to smoke wasn’t the blind acceptance of a besotted woman indulging her lover’s whim.  It was, perhaps, the sorrowful tolerance of someone reluctant to deny a dying man his last wish. 

        Vi stumbled down the stairs, clutching her fuzzy sweater and hastening to return to the company of her fellow Potentials.  She might not feel completely safe with them either, but at least she wasn’t in a dangerous, alien presence.  She stopped in the doorway, listening to the conversation already in progress.

“Nothing about her as the Slayer makes sense,” Rona was saying.  She stirred restlessly on the couch, anxiously surveying the faces of her companions.  “She sleeps with a vampire.  She has that strange, blank expression that creeps me out sometimes.  She isn’t even the real Slayer.  If what Kennedy found out is right, some girl who’s in prison in LA is the real Slayer.  Buffy’s some kind of—of weird creature that came back from the dead.”

Vi crept forward to sit on the floor by Rona’s feet, staring at the other girl anxiously.

        “And I don’t care what she says, I don’t trust Spike.”  Molly spoke up.  “He’s always needling us, reminding us of how dangerous he is.”

        “I think he just does that to remind us that we have to be on our guard, careful of creatures like him.”  Amanda, the new girl, spoke up.  Although her voice was thin and reedy, it held a resilient note and her narrow face was determined and calm.

“I heard him say he was way weaker than he used to be,” said Rona.  “And you saw how easily he took out that vamp we were fighting.  If we can’t kill a normal vampire, what happens when we meet another one as old and as strong as Spike?  And how can we even dream we have a chance against the First?”

         “Buffy is here to protect us—” Kennedy started to say.

         “I’ve got to go, guys,” said Buffy from the doorway.

         The Potentials jumped and turned to stare at the Slayer.  She was pulling the strap of her purse over her arm and absently straightening the high collar of her white shirt.  “I have to go to work.  But I’ll be back in time to patrol.”  Her gaze swept the room.  “What’s wrong?”

          “N-nothing,” said Vi.

          "Mr. Giles wants us to go with him to a library,” said Amanda in a condemnatory tone.

          Buffy’s lips twitched.  “He’s like that.  With the books and things.  Don’t worry, it’s survivable.  I always spent a lot of time looking at the pictures.”  She turned and was gone.

          Rona stared after her.  “She used to look at the pictures.  Very reassuring.”

          “Rona!”  Kennedy started to protest.

          “Don’t hush me!  Buffy may have killed that Ubervamp thing, but she doesn’t have a plan for taking out the First.”  Rona jumped up and stared pacing the room nervously.

          “That’s not all,” said Vi in a quiet, shaking voice.  The others turned to look at her.  “I heard two of them talking the other day.  Willow and Xander.  They said that it was Buffy who made the First come back.  That she’s the reason it’s here.”  She shivered.  “I don’t understand why exactly, but how can she protect us if she’s the reason we’re in danger?”

          Anya clumped down the stairs noisily, ignored the murmur of conversation in the living room, and stuck her head into the dining room. “Are you coming?” she asked.

          Dawn looked up from the books on the dining room table.  She was making a half-hearted attempt to do some homework, and had pushed aside Giles’ papers to concentrate on a Biology text.  “You’ll have a big enough crowd without me,” she said.  “Besides, Giles wanted to train them on doing research.  I know the drill already.”

          Anya straightened the pile of papers Dawn had treated so carelessly.  “I don’t see why we need them.  Giles and I could do very well on our own.  Instead, we’re going to have all those girls in the way.”

          “We need them, Anya,” said Giles in a tired voice as he came into the dining room.

          "Can I come too?” asked Andrew.  They turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.

          “No!” said Giles automatically. 

          “No!” said Anya in the same moment.  She slipped a notebook into her purse and glared at him.

          Andrew looked at the ground and pouted.

          “Stay here with Dawn and—”  Giles hesitated.

          “And what?” said Dawn.  “Protect me?  That had better not be what you were about to say.”

          “No, of course not,” said Giles.  He turned back to Andrew.  “Stay here and keep out of Dawn’s way.”

          This increased Andrew’s sulks and did little to appease Dawn.  She turned and went into the kitchen, dropping dirty dishes into the sink with unnecessary and potentially destructive force.

          Giles followed Dawn and put an awkward hand on her shoulder.  “I’m sorry, Dawn, but handling those girls will be as much as Anya and I can manage.”

          “I understand,” said Dawn through gritted teeth.  “It doesn’t bother me.”

          “And, of course, the notion that he would protect you is ludicrous.”  Giles ran a hand through his hair.  “But we’re not leaving you defenseless.  Willow taught you to activate the protection spell, so the Bringers shouldn’t be able to get inside.”  He hesitated, and added more doubtfully, “And Spike is upstairs.”

          “Yes, of course.”  Dawn’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter until the tips turned white and bloodless. “Spike’s here.”

          “Buffy?”

          The Slayer looked up from her coffee cup, trying to focus on the Principal’s face.  What did he just say?  We were talking about someone—a student.  Which one?  She had a brief vision of a surly teenaged countenance and remembered some convoluted tale about practical jokes, bubblegum, peanut butter, laundry detergent, and ruined band equipment.

          Very carefully, Buffy leaned forward to set her cup on the Principal’s desk.  She’d spilled coffee all over it once, and she didn’t want to do that again.  But her arm seemed too heavy, and she couldn’t reach high enough.  Her fingers convulsed on the handle, lost their grip, and she watched in dismay as the cup crashed against the side of the desk and tumbled to the floor.  With enormous effort, she looked up into Wood’s face and saw with sadness and a flash of anger that his eyes were glazed and staring, his expression blank.  She was far too tired to be surprised, even if she hadn’t already figured out what was happening.

          She had been drugged.

  Willow walked down the hallway of the new high school.  Her hesitant footsteps echoed in the empty corridor as she approached the Principal’s office.  This wasn’t the old Sunnydale High, but the old evil still lurked here.  She could feel it, surrounding her, and her instincts told her to run and seek some safer haven.  She forced down her fears, opening the door hesitantly.  And she immediately realized that she should have trusted her instincts.

          Dawn sat at the dining room table, apparently intent on her homework.  Andrew fidgeted and fussed behind her, paging through a magazine one of the Potentials had left behind and making occasional comments in an effort to get her attention. 

          “Who do you think is cuter?  Jared Padalecki or Milo Ventimiglia?”

          She must have been concentrating very hard, because she didn’t respond.

          He held up the magazine, turning it around so that she could admire the pictures if she so desired.  “Because Jared is really tall and has nice hair, but you know Milo has that kind of bad boy cute thing going.”

  She hunched one shoulder, but gave no other sign she had heard.

          “Well, what about Tom Welling and Michael Rosenbaum? Who do you think is hotter?”

          Silence.

          “I mean, like—which do you think is hotter,” he stammered, suddenly wanting to make things perfectly clear.  “Because, of course, I like Kristen Kreuk best.  She’s, like a real tomato.”

          “Tomato?” Dawn tossed her pen on the table and turned to stare at him incredulously.

          He backed away nervously, suddenly aware he might have said something she found offensive.  But before he could decide if she were merely going to utter a crushing retort or actually slap him, Dawn looked up, suddenly alert and intent.  She wasn’t focused on Andrew’s face.  She seemed to be listening to someone or something.  Something that wasn’t there.  She stood up, the legs of her chair scraping harshly on the dining room floor as she headed for the hallway.

          “Where are you going?” asked Andrew.

          She ignored him, but he followed her as she went up the stairs and into Willow’s room.  Dawn went immediately to an old box and started scrounging through it, ruthlessly tossing aside various items in her quest.

          “Uh?  Looking for something?”  Andrew asked in a voice that sounded idiotic even to his own ears.  He looked around uneasily, although he realized that if the First were talking to Dawn, he would have no way to confirm that unless the Evil decided to reveal itself to him too.

          Dawn stood up, holding an object in her hands.  She brushed past Andrew and went down the hall to Buffy’s room.  “Spike!”  Dawn rapped on the door imperatively.

          It opened immediately.  Spike was frowning.  “What’s wrong, Bit?”

          She didn’t answer him.  Before Andrew could utter a warning, she opened her hand and muttered, “Exeunt.”  The orb she was holding began to pulse and turn right red.

          “Balls!”  Spike stepped backwards, wincing away from the glowing orb.  His hands reached up to his temples.  He stared at Dawn, a betrayed look visible even through the grimace of pain.  “Why are you doing this, Little Bit?” he asked, as he dropped to his knees in agony.

          “They don’t like you,” said the Mad Girl.

          William looked up from his notebook.  “Pardon?” he said absently.  He had been following an odd train of thought and was reluctant to be drawn into one of her insane discussions.

          “The others here.  They don’t like you.”  She bent forward, her black hair brushing his sleeve as her lips came to his ear.  The touch of her mouth and the heavy floral perfume she wore forced themselves on his senses.  “They don’t like me either, but it’s you that bothers them most.”  She stood up.  “You keep changing, that’s why.  It’s just not done here.”  She played with a strand of her hair.  “Even I don’t change.  I just stay mad.  But you have all those ideas swimming around in your head.”

          He pulled back as she reached forward and snatched his spectacles away.  “What do you see through these, I wonder?”  She smirked at the reception desk.  “The people in black don’t know you have them.”  Slyly, she slid the spectacles back into his breast pocket as he shrank involuntarily away from her touch.  “Don’t tell them.  It’s a secret.  They think they’re in charge.  But Someone Else wanted you to see farther than the rest of us.”  Her expression became suddenly serious.  “I’m glad I don’t really understand all of it.  It must be hard, knowing.  Poor, sweet William.”

          She wandered off, singing a ballad about a girl and her lover buried side by side.  “‘Out of his grave, there grew a red rose, and out of hers, a briar . . .’”

          After that, William noticed that he did indeed make many of the others uncomfortable.  Even the old-timers avoided him.  None of them seemed to worry about things as he did; except for the Mad Girl, they were content to eat, drink and be merry.  After all, they reasoned, they had died and nothing catastrophic had happened.  Instead, they had been provided with everything they could need or want. 

Only William suspected that somewhere a catastrophe had indeed occurred.  It surprised him to realize that he had no craving for the others’ approval or company.  Their insouciance annoyed him, and he didn’t mind being left alone.  It gave him more time to read, write, and ponder.  And wonder why no one ever changed here.  Except, according to the Mad Girl, William himself.

Time passed, and William found no great increase in his understanding of this place.  However, he began to notice new rooms, containing things that were strange to him.  For instance, there had been a sudden craze among newcomers to watch flickering pictures inside a box.  William had at first disdained this new pastime, then become curious.  It was like a tiny theater that never ended, always showing some new comedy or drama.  Unfortunately, the quality of the plays and the acting was usually extremely poor, often worse than the popular novels his tutor used to criticize him for reading.  There were occasional exceptions, though, and eventually he found himself becoming ridiculously addicted to a serial drama about a group of people who suffered the most unlikely and melodramatic romantic entanglements.

         The Mad Girl liked the pictures in the box more than William did, and he would often lead her to one of the viewing rooms when she became particularly distressed.  Usually he would be able to steal away to a library or the gardens once she became engaged in singing along with some brightly colored mannequins who had apparently been designed to teach small children the elements of reading.  He sometimes wondered if it were wrong to use a mindless box to entertain his charge.

Chapter Seven