“Honestly,” said Giles.  “We’d have been better off leaving this lot at home to watch television.  Xander and Willow and the others were trying as teenagers, but I could usually get them to settle down for a bit of research.”  Anya followed his gaze as he stared across the library reading room to the large table where the Potentials were looking bored and chatting.  One of the librarians had just gone over to hush them, not for the first time that evening.

“I told you they wouldn’t be any good,” said Anya.  “Unlike me!”  She displayed a sheaf of papers.  “Look what I just printed off the microfilm machine.”

“The Hoboken Codex.  That’s a very obscure text.  The original was destroyed with the Council.”  Giles wiped his glasses in his excitement.  “I had no idea anyone had ever bothered to copy it.” 

“And the abstract says it has stuff about the special vampire in it.”

“Excellent.  Because I’m convinced we need to find out where Spike fits in.  You’re right, Anya, he is important.”

“Do you think he has to die?” she asked casually.

Giles put his glasses back on and stared at her in astonishment.  “Why do you—have you read something in the Codex--?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t had time to read it yet.  I just thought maybe Buffy had some Slayer dream that Spike had to die or something.  Because of the way she keeps looking at him.”  She looked up into the Watcher’s eyes expectantly.  “You must have noticed.  Like he’s a diseased puppy she has to take to the vet and have put to sleep or something.”

“Anya, that’s appalling.”

“Well, Buffy seems to think so.”

“I mean—the way in which you expressed it—”  He sighed.  “I really can’t discuss this with you.”

 “No.  Of course.  I mean Buffy would tell you everything.”  She patted her freshly-dyed, blonder-than-Buffy hair and smiled at him. “But if you can’t trust me—”  She pouted.

He sighed.  “She told me in confidence, Anya.  And I’m not sure it has anything to do with what we may find in that Codex.”  He glanced back at the table where the Potentials sat.  “Oh dear.”  He gave her an even more harried glance.  “I need to stop them immediately.  My dear, would you mind making a start on that?”

Anya’s pique at not being let into Buffy’s secret vanished.  She hugged the papers to her chest happily.  “Not at all.”  Her smiling eyes followed him as he hurried off.  “‘My dear,’” she repeated to herself as she sat down at one of the long tables and started turning over the crowded sheets of text, ignoring the very distressing spectacle the Potentials were making at the other end of the room.

Willow stared at the spectacle taking place at the other end of the room.  But she could only observe; anything she could do to fight back would be more dangerous than inaction.  She watched Principal Wood turn away from the three mirrors he had carefully set up to face each other on his desk.  In the circle of mirrors, a diagram had been carefully drawn in chalk. The replica of the goat’s head seal in the basement was reflected back and forth endlessly.

Wood did not glance at Willow or pay attention to her struggles against the shackles that bound her to a heavy table.  His eyes glazed over, he picked up an ornate dagger and bent down to the other woman who lay slumped against his heavy desk, her wrists and ankles also chained.  Buffy was unconscious and did not move, even when he sliced through the long sleeve of her white shirt and into the skin below.

Willow gasped, but the cut was shallow.  Wood reached up and held a small vial under Buffy’s arm, carefully collecting the Slayer’s blood.  The ominous ritual, combined with his apparent calm, were hard to watch.  Willow wasted no thoughts on the possibility of arguing with Wood; he was clearly under the First’s control.

But, still, she kept her eyes on the Principal.  Because the alternative would be to look at the First Evil and the abhorrent form it had taken.

She could choose not to look, but she couldn’t help hearing what the First had to say. 

“You’re thinking that you could stop him with one thought.”  Tara’s voice.  And not Tara’s voice.  The tone was saccharine, wheedling.  “You could.  It would be easy.”

“Yes,” said Willow.  Her own tone was falsely boastful.  “It would.  And you would do well to remember what kind of enemy I can be.”

“Oh, Willow, honey,” cooed this repulsive not-Tara. “You know why you haven’t done it already.  Just as you know that eventually you will.  And we both know what it will mean.”  This was said in a low, earnest tone.  Willow imagined one of Tara’s grave glances accompanying the words.

She closed her eyes, almost choking on her tears.  This profanation of Tara hurt her far more than the ropes digging into her wrists and ankles.  She could hear the pleasure in that familiar voice.  In spite of her refusal to look, she could not help visualizing the crooked, radiant smile that she had loved so well on this evil thing’s face. If she looked at the First, she would do magic, just to stop this horrific masquerade.  But that was exactly what it wanted, of course.  It wasn’t pretending to be Tara because there was any chance of fooling Willow with this horrible impersonation.

“If you use your magic, it will take you over.”  Buffy’s voice, echoing Willow’s own thoughts.

Willow opened her eyes to see Buffy struggling to sit up despite the chains that bound her.  The Slayer looked pale, and she was making no effort to break out of the shackles. Not yet.  Buffy stared into Willow’s eyes for a moment and turned to the First, ignoring the Principal’s movements as he continued his sinister preparations.

He paused only to pick up another chain and wrap it around Buffy’s waist, binding her more securely to the metal pillar that was a part of the building’s support.  Breaking free from those bonds would be a challenge even for the Slayer.

        “Take a key and lock her up, lock her up . . .”

        The Mad Girl was chanting the children’s rhyme as she approached, her eyes intent on William’s face. 

He stood up to greet her.  “Good afternoon, miss,” he said in a resigned tone.

        “Lock her up,” the girl continued to chant.  “Take a key and lock her up.”  She began to giggle.  “Your fair lady.”  She settled down in the chair next to his and asked, “Will you rescue her?”

        He sighed.  As usual, there was no logical response to her question.   Conversation with almost anyone else here would have been preferable.  Almost anyone. 

        Instead of listening to the Mad Girl’s babbling, William looked around the big room.  A young woman who had been standing a few feet away caught his eye, glanced at the Mad Girl, turned on her heel, and went out the door to the garden.   William shifted uneasily in his chair.  That girl had first appeared just a few days before, and she had started away from him in terror when she first came into the foyer.  He had noticed that some of the newer arrivals tended to stare at him fearfully.  He worried about what that meant, even as he now did his best to keep out of their way until their minds became dulled by the pleasures of this place.  His one attempt to question a newcomer had not gone well and had produced no information.

        “Take a key and lock her up . . . ”  The Mad Girl suddenly stopped singing and announced, “The Key will open more than one door, you know.”

        He used one of the bland comments he kept ready for such occasions.  “Indeed?” he said, pretending for her sake that he thought these words could have some sensible meaning.

        "Oh, yes,” she assured him earnestly.  “Lots of doors.”

        He bit back a sigh of impatience.  He had hoped that the Mad Girl’s spells would be reduced by the Irishman’s absence, but he found he got less rest than ever from her ranting. 

        He scanned the room anxiously, and was relieved to see that although the blonde woman was present, she was carefully looking away from them.  That creature, robbed of her favorite distraction when the Irishman had disappeared, had amused herself for a time by egging the Mad Girl on to fits of hysteria.  Finally, William had lost his temper and warned the blonde woman off.  She had looked surprised, but stopped her teasing.  William had astonished himself by his harsh words; he had not known he was capable of them.  He had been even more amazed by their efficacy.

        William’s companion continued to chant her rhyme, an amusement that required no response from him.  He allowed himself to fall so deep in thought that he did not realize a name had been called from the desk until the Mad Girl suddenly clapped her hands and roused him from his reverie.  He turned to see who had been summoned, and was surprised and relieved to observe the blonde woman walking eagerly to the desk.  Her smile, for once, reflected only happiness, with no shadow of irony or cruelty.

        “Grandma thinks she’s going home, but she has to visit the big, bad wolf first.”  A giggle.  “Not to mention the ram and the hart.”

        William looked at the Mad Girl and was shocked at the expression of malicious glee on her face.  He turned to the desk, and saw there was some squabbling amongst the clerks.  Eventually, one of the black clad-figures turned to the blonde woman, and it was apparent from his posture and expression that he was almost-apologizing in the supercilious manner of a bureaucrat unable to admit the system had made a mistake.  After some pointless argument, the blonde woman flounced off to one of the back rooms. 

        As far as William could tell, this was as unprecedented as the Irishman’s disappearance had been.  But the blonde woman seemed to forget her shattered hopes, and went back to enjoying herself with a series of young men who had recently arrived.

        William began to spend more time in the hall, watching the traffic around the reception desk carefully.  He noted that residents were being called to the door at a faster pace than any time since his arrival.  He ventured to hope to hear his own name someday soon. 

        “Spike!”  Dawn was screaming in his ear.  “Spike!”

        “Whaaa—”  Spike opened his eyes and stared up at her.  He was lying on the floor of Buffy’s bedroom.  “Bloody hell, Bit, what did you do to me?”  He sat up, holding his hand to his temple.  “Felt like the chip went off, times a couple of million.”

        “Yeah,” said Andrew, peeking over Dawn’s shoulder.  “And this shiny red arrow thingie came out of the orb and whipped around your head and then went like right through your skull!  And when it came out, it was like all different colors and then it flew up in the air and went kaboom like fireworks!  I mean, it wasn’t up to like a Lord of the Rings quality special effect or anything, but I could feel the sparks when they came down.  You don’t get that in the movies, even with THX.”

        Spike tried to ignore Andrew as he staggered to his feet.  His eyes were on Dawn; her face was pale and intent.  “Hit me,” she said.

        Spike shook his head and immediately regretted the gesture.  “What?” he demanded.

        “Hit me.  I need to see if it worked.”

        “Have you gone completely round the bend?  If what worked?”

        “That orb thing,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other.  “Willow made it to destroy the chip.  I need to know if it worked.”

        “To destroy—”   He stared at her, aghast.  “Why would you do that?”

        “So you can hit people, of course.  Come on, Spike.”  She took his hand and pulled it to her chin.

He felt as if he had been assaulted again, this time by a blow to his gut.  He took a step backwards, away from Dawn.  He didn’t dare be too close to her at that moment.  He felt as if he had been trying to climb up out of a yawning chasm and someone had just yanked away the rope that was his only support.

“Hit me,” she demanded again.

Spike glared at Dawn through a red haze of pain and rage.  He kept from changing to game face by an immense effort of will and forced words out between clenched teeth.  “In case you haven’t noticed, hurting people isn’t on my agenda any more, Nibblet.  In fact, it’s the last bloody thing I want to do.”

        “Principal Wood has Buffy and Willow captive and I need someone to save them,” said Dawn in a rush.

        Spike’s eyes opened and met hers, the world suddenly coming back into focus.

        “Wow,” said Andrew in an awestruck tone.  “So like, you’re all dangerous to people again?  So even with the soul, if you get really crazy or hungry or something, you could revert to the darkness.”  His words took on the pompous tones of an Ed Wood movie voice-over.  “The vampire must fight his mindless bloodlust, his desire to kill, to destroy, to feed.  The soul battles with the demon within him, goaded beyond all endurance until—”

        Before Andrew could utter another word, Spike turned and clipped him on the jaw. 

        “I swear that if those girls don’t settle down immediately, I will commit mayhem,” said Giles.

        Anya looked over her shoulder to the back of the van Giles had rented in order to haul about the gaggle of Potential Slayers.  “Just ignore them,” she said.  “I don’t think that Rona will really kill Vi.  She’s just trying to tear that stupid hat to pieces.  You know, we really need one of those glass barriers, like in a limousine.  Or, better yet, one of those cages, like in a police car.”  She mused happily on this image for a few moments.  “We could wear uniforms maybe.  You would look good in a police uniform.  You could carry a gun.”

        Giles’ voice jerked her back from this pleasant image.  “What we really need is to concentrate on understanding the ritual the First is trying to perform.  We must get back to Buffy and warn her immediately.  Since, for some reason, she isn’t answering her cell phone, and no one is picking up at the house.”

        “Cheer up,” said Anya, hearing the note of anxiety in his voice.  “At least, thanks to me, you know there is a ritual the First has to perform.  And the whole shopping list for the spell was in that codex.”

        “And, unfortunately, most of the ingredients on that list are available here in Sunnydale.”  His fingers were clutching the steering wheel much more tightly than necessary.

        “Two Slayers and a vampire with a soul,” Anya said triumphantly, and then frowned at the papers on her lap.  “I think some of the ingredients are meant to be destroyed while it’s mixing up this cake.  But we have a little time to make sure the First doesn’t pop anything into the oven.  The second Slayer isn’t anywhere near Sunnydale.  Faith’s still in the Big House in LA.”

        “Two Slayers and a vampire with a soul,” muttered Giles.  “No wonder the First tried once before when Angel and Faith were both here.” 

        “Well, that could never have worked,” Anya said with absolute authority.  “That flimsy gypsy curse was a pretty good job for a bunch of semi-literate mortals, but there’s no way it wouldn’t shatter under the pressure of the heavy-duty magics the First has to call upon.  The Evil must have been really ticked off when it realized that Angel’s soul wasn’t stable enough for the ritual.”

        “It was.  It tried to destroy him in revenge.”  The van sped up, in spite of the fact that he had already been exceeding the speed limit.

        “Serves it right.  It should have known better.  It certainly would have known better if it had been toiling on the earth like some of us demons had to, instead of lounging around in the depths and plotting world domination night and day.  And destroying Angel wouldn’t exactly have been out of character.  After all, if it succeeds in completing the ritual, it will destroy Spike and Buffy and get rid of the whole concept of Slayers.”

        She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly aware of the unusual silence in the back of the van.  The girls were all staring at her, listening intently.

        “No more Slayers,” said Amanda.  “That means no more us.”

        “It’s going to kill us,” said Rona flatly.

        “Well, of course,” said Anya, impatient with their slowness of comprehension. “It has a plan.  And its plan means it has to kill you.  In order to get the Power.”

 Chapter Eight