Title: A Heavy Darkness Falling
Author: sahiya
Word Count: 60,000
Rating/Pairing: 15, Giles/Willow
Disclaimer: Not mine! They belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy.
Feedback: Would be really, really nice, even if it's just to say hi.
Summary: When a cult that worships the First Evil makes Willow their target, Giles finds himself on a quest in the Amazon to save her - and world (again) - with the help of bloody Ethan of all people. Post-Chosen.
Author's Notes: This was written over the course of about six weeks. It was an incredible experience that I hope to never have again, and it would not have been possible without certain people. Thanks to my Amazing Narcoleptic Line-Editor fuzzyboo03 for holding my hand, helping me piece together the damn action sequences, and forcing me to tame my clauses. Thanks also to kivrin for beta reading and looking at the Big Picture when I couldn't see it anymore. Last but not least, thanks to twitchylizard for her mad Wiki skillz, which were invaluable during the research process.

Chapter Two

The coven in Westbury was housed in a rambling stone building that had once been a convent, tucked away amidst rolling green hills in an isolation that was meant to provide both privacy and an atmosphere that lent itself to contemplation. It had been a refuge for Giles more than once in the past, and he was infinitely glad to see it now, as it came into view at the end of the barely paved road they'd been bumping along since leaving the A39. The air smelled like spring, fresh cut grass, salt from the sea, and home.

The mood inside the car was tense and silent. Willow was slumped in the backseat, having lost consciousness somewhere over the Atlantic due to Giles's dwindling energies. Giles himself was too weak to attempt any but the most necessary conversation; he felt almost hung-over, his limbs leaden and unresponsive, and any attempt to so much as lift his head left him dizzy. He leaned back in the front passenger seat and sustained himself with the thought that in just a few minutes the coven would be able to collectively relieve him, at which point he planned to sleep for twelve uninterrupted hours in a real bed before dealing with the fallout of any of this.

Xander was at the wheel, driving grimly and with a good deal more speed than usual. It was a sign that things were indeed dire that he had hardly said a word since they'd left Heathrow three hours earlier. But while Giles might have found Xander's usual babble to be comforting, he mostly felt grateful for the silence. His head was splitting.

Ethan was in the back with Willow, sulking. As he had put it, the “Earth-mother, goddess-worshipping, everything-is-connected types” weren't really his crowd. Giles interpreted this to mean he was afraid the coven might turn him into a toad for his role in this sorry affair, and that Giles would let them. He had tried to leave them twice now, the first time in Macapá with an airy, “Well, lovely to see you again, Ripper. Ta!” He'd not got three feet before Xander casually grabbed the back of Ethan's jacket and said, with a smile made all the more unnerving by the eye patch, “Oh no, Rayne, I think you're in this for the long haul. Get your ass on that plane.”

The second time had been a rather more blatant bid for freedom at Heathrow, while Xander and Giles (who had been barely on his feet himself by that time) struggled to maneuver an unconscious Willow into the car. But that time Xander's method, like Ethan's, was rather more direct. He chased after Ethan, shoved him into a wall, and punched him in the face before dragging him back to the car. Had Giles had the energy, he would have applauded.

The car had finally stopped moving, Giles noticed fuzzily. They were parked by the grand old building the coven called home, and Xander had disappeared, along with Ethan. Giles could only hope that Xander had taken him along to avoid another escape attempt, but he didn't have the energy to care very much. He closed his eyes – and opened them again minutes or maybe hours later as the car door swung open. A voice, so familiar and comfortingly exasperated that Giles could have wept out of pure gratitude, said, “Oh, Rupert, what have you done to yourself this time?”

He looked up and saw Mary Harkness silhouetted by the sun. She had her hands on her hips and though Giles couldn't see her face very well, he thought she seemed worried. “I'll be fine,” he said, with as much of a smile as he could manage. “You got our message, surely?”

“Yes, it was rather redundant. One of our Seers told us what you were up to. Rupert . . .” She surveyed him and then sighed. “Come now, we'd best do this as quickly as possible.” With Mary on one side and Ethan – who kept shooting wary glances at her – on the other, Giles managed to lever himself out of the car. “You're to rest for at least two days after this,” she informed him as they struggled up the walk toward the house, Xander following behind with Willow in his arms. “I don't care what your precious Council says, I don't care if there's an apocalypse. Two days. Are we clear?”

Giles tried to laugh, but he was afraid it came out as more of a groan. “You won't get any argument from me.”

“You say that now,” Mary grumbled as they came into the cool, dim foyer of the house and she steered them to the left, thankfully avoiding the stairs. “But tomorrow you're feeling better and something is just too important to wait, and next thing you know you've fallen over in a dead faint. Two days, Rupert. No argument.”

They staggered into the library. All the tables and other furniture had been cleared away, save for one chair and a single sofa, and all the members of the coven were arrayed about the room, perhaps fifty people in all. There was a thrum of power in the air, and it helped Giles sit up a little straighter as Mary and Ethan deposited him in the chair. At Mary's gesture, Xander lay Willow on the sofa, and then retreated with Ethan to stand in the doorway. Ethan looked as though he would have liked to retreat all the way back to the car, the airport, and preferably Rio, but he didn't.

It was very fast. One moment Giles could feel the constant, sucking strain of Willow on his energies, a strain which had grown almost unbearable in the last few hours. The next moment it was gone, and Giles sighed, letting his head drop to rest against the back of the armchair. The coven was supporting Willow as a group now; the draw on each individual would be negligible, and while it was only a temporary solution, it was one that could be sustained for weeks, possibly even months.

Finding a more permanent solution would have to wait. A young woman Giles didn't know showed him to his room, the same one he'd had when last he'd stayed there, after Willow had nearly killed him. He toed off his shoes, let his jacket fall to the floor, and collapsed otherwise fully clothed across the bed.

Twelve hours turned out to be a conservative estimate. It was closer to fifteen hours later when Giles finally roused himself. It was very early morning, not yet six, with the sun a bare lightening of the blue-grey sky to the east. Despite the early hour, Giles knew he could sleep no more, especially in the dirty, travel-worn clothes he had on.

Twenty minutes of utter luxury in the shower and another few spent shaving off four days' worth of scraggly beard from his face and chin, and Giles felt almost human. He remembered his promise to Mary then, and, patting his face dry with a towel, grimaced at himself in the mirror. He would not go haring back to London right away, certainly, nor would he be attempting any magic any time soon – he was not so foolish as all that. But there were things that needed doing immediately, and Giles did not think it pure ego to admit that he was one of the few who could do them.

First things first, however. He dressed in jeans and a jumper and went in search of breakfast.

The hall where the members of the coven and their guests dined communally was almost empty at this hour. Giles had expected to find it deserted, but upon entering he spied Mary at the far end of the table, her dark head bent over a book. There was, as ever, a kettle and an assortment of tea available on the sideboard. The kettle was still warm; Giles fixed himself a cup of Earl Grey, and went to sit across from her. She looked up.

“Good morning,” Giles said.

She eyed him critically, and finally made a sound of satisfaction. “Good morning,” she returned. “Your color is much better. I trust you slept well?”

“Extremely.” He took in her red-rimmed, shadowed eyes and said, “Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” she said, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “After hearing Mr. Rayne's story, I found myself quite unable to.” She sipped her tea. “Interesting man, your Mr. Rayne.”

Giles winced. “I assure you, Ethan is no way mine. He is a . . . remnant of a very foolish time in my life. It has no relevance here,” he added at her sharp look. “He's not harmless by any stretch of the imagination, but if he were out to harm me, I think I would know it by now.”

“Will he be helpful, do you think?”

“Hard to say. Perhaps. He's a wild card,” Giles admitted, “but one I'm willing to play with.”

“I trust your judgment then,” Mary said. Not for the first time, Giles thought that if he were to dig through the skeletons in her closet, he might very well find an Ethan, perhaps even a Randall. It mostly was her dedication and her acute awareness of what was at stake; those qualities in combination were not often found in those who had not had a personal brush with the dark. But it was also her understanding of situations and relationships like his and Ethan's, and people like Willow as well. He suspected she knew what it was to go deeper and darker than most people knew was even possible, and, more significantly, what it was to come back from it. “Allies are few enough as it is in this.”

“Yes,” Giles said, sipping at his own tea. “Do you happen to know what ‘this' might be?”

Mary sighed. “At this point I have only conjecture and suspicions.”

“I understand. I've hardly had the time or energy to begin putting the pieces together myself. But it is . . . alarming.”

“Yes.” She turned her teacup around in her hands three times counterclockwise, and then back again. “Shall I tell you what alarmed me particularly, and then you can tell me if they're the same things that alarmed you?”

“By all means.” It was always such a pleasure to work with Mary Harkness. Their minds were alike in many ways, yet just different enough to make things interesting.

She took a deep breath and shook her head when Giles offered with a gesture to pour her more tea. “It will sound cold,” she said at last, “but the kidnapping itself doesn't alarm me greatly. Personally, yes, of course, because as you know, I'm very fond of Willow. But on its own, as revenge for the blow you dealt the First, it wouldn't alarm me. Even a cult like that, infusing its members with her power – that would be troublesome and dangerous, especially for Willow, but it could be dealt with.”

Giles frowned. “But Ethan says he didn't see that happen.”

“Exactly. Which brings us to the first alarming thing: the question of where her power went.”

Giles nodded. “It can't have simply dissipated, so it must be contained somewhere. If not in a person than in a sacred object, a talisman or the like. That's a place to start researching at least,” he said, brightening. “We can look into objects that have been associated with the First over the millennia, see which ones might be extant.”

Mary tapped her book. “Already there.”

“And?”

“So far, nothing. But I agree, I think it must be contained in a sacred object rather than a person. Mostly due to the second alarming thing.”

“The attempt on our lives made by our guide?”

Mary nodded. “Because it seems that it was not, in fact, an attempt on Willow's life, but rather an effort to recapture her. You and Mr. Rayne were simply in the way.”

“Yes. He called her . . . the Vessel,” Giles recalled. His memories from that time were faded around the edges, indistinct. That bothered him, for while Ethan was capable of telling his own version of events, Giles did not like to rely on him. Ethan had never proven himself particularly reliable.

“So Mr. Rayne said. Even more troubling.”

“A vessel,” Giles repeated, studying the knotted wood of the tabletop. “Something that is empty, but waiting to be filled.” He raised his eyes and saw his own fears reflected in Mary's eyes. “With the First?”

Mary sighed deeply. “I think so, Rupert. I have tried to find some other – any other – explanation, but it's the only one that fits. They robbed her of her power, intending to use it to make manifest the First in her body – which would have burned her soul up, I might add. Except that Mr. Rayne had impeccable timing –”

“As always,” Giles muttered.

“– and stopped them before the ritual had reached the point of no return.”

They stared at each other and then away. The silence stretched for at least a minute, while Giles tried to wrap his mind around it. Perhaps it should not have shocked him, but it did. The idea that if Ethan – Ethan! – had decided at the last minute that Chaos would be better served by ignoring the signs and letting things proceed, if he had not chosen to feel responsible and act in a most uncharacteristically heroic way, Willow might at that moment have been possessed by the First, might have had her very soul burned out of her by it – he thought he might be ill.

“Is she awake?” he asked at last, when he thought he had control of his voice again.

“She woke last night, briefly,” Mary replied, “and asked most urgently after you. I told her you were well and that you were resting. I didn't ask her about what happened, I thought it best to leave that to you. Rupert,” she added, leaning forward and lowering her voice, her mouth set in a grim line, “you must determine how far the cult managed to get in its ritual. If they have marked her in some way –”

“I understand,” Giles said. If she were marked, that could mean any number of unpleasant things, the least of which was that she might be unwittingly leading the cult straight to Westbury at that very moment. He did not like to think about what that might mean for Willow.

He cleared his throat painfully. “What about the possibility of returning her powers to her?” he asked. “Or helping her live without them somehow, if they can't be found?”

Once more, Mary sighed, and rubbed her forehead wearily. Giles had a sudden, sinking feeling in his stomach. “That,” she said quietly, “would be the third very troubling thing.”

*~*~*

An hour later Giles stood outside Willow's room, a tray of coffee and tea with scones in hand. He knocked, and a few seconds later the door was flung open, not by Willow, but by Xander.

“Hey, G-man, you're upright! And bearing food, excellent. Come in.”

“I take it Willow is feeling better,” Giles said, following him into the bright, comfortable room. The bed was empty and Willow herself nowhere to be seen, but Giles could hear the shower running. Xander looked as though he'd kept vigil all night – his eye was bloodshot and shadowed – but at least he was no longer silent and anxious.

“Yeah,” Xander said, grabbing a scone off the plate before Giles even had the chance to set it down on the end table. “She slept pretty good. She said this morning she was sort of dizzy, but that was all. She was complaining about being dirty too, and how bad she smelled, so I decided she really must be better. Not that she didn't have a point.” He paused, apparently waiting for Giles to chuckle. When all Giles could muster was a distracted smile, Xander frowned. “Uh oh. What's wrong?”

Giles seated himself in one of the bedside armchairs and poured himself a cup of tea before answering. Xander helped himself to coffee. “I need you to go back to London,” Giles said, “and get a team of researchers started on looking at sacred objects associated with the First. Especially anything that might have fallen into the hands of the Children of the Dark Eye.” Briefly, and in a low voice since the shower had stopped running, Giles outlined what he and Mary had put together that morning. “You see then why it's imperative that we find the object in question,” he finished at last.

“Yeah,” Xander said. He had stopped eating halfway through Giles's account, and was back to looking grim. “Sure. But I'm surprised you're having me do this – don't you want to go to London yourself and nag the researchers into rebellion like usual?”

Giles grimaced. “I would like nothing more. But I have been forbidden from leaving by Miss Harkness until I've recovered fully.” Not to mention he wanted to be close by in case something were to happen to Willow. Until they were sure she was neither in danger nor a danger to those around her, Giles was loathe to leave her.

“Okay,” Xander said, nodding. “Then I solemnly swear that I will nag to the best of my abilities.”

“See that you do. Anyway,” he added, “I think we'll see you within a week. There will have to be something in London for Kennedy.”

“Oh. Yeah. Andrew was taking care of arrangements when I left. Her family wanted her brought home to be buried in their, um, mausoleum.” Xander frowned. “Do people really still have those?”

“Some do, I suppose,” Giles said. “I had not thought otherwise, but we should have a memorial service of some kind.” He glanced toward the bathroom door. “Has she spoken to you of it at all?”

“No,” Xander said, “but that's not, uh, real surprising.” He fidgeted uncomfortably and broke off a piece of scone, which he then proceeded not to eat. “I, um, I didn't like Kennedy very much. Sounds awful to say it now, I know, but I didn't, and I kinda made my feelings clear to Willow at one point and, uh, let's just say it's not exactly weird that she hasn't said anything to me about it.”

“I see,” Giles said, and that was all because at that moment Willow herself emerged from the bathroom. She'd put pajamas back on after her shower, and her hair was damp and dark red, curling over her collarbone. Giles watched a drop of water as it slid down, tracing the line of her neck, and then shook himself.

“Giles!” she said. “Oh, Miss Harkness said you were okay, but I –” She broke off, strangely hesitant, and then stepped over to hug him, somewhat awkwardly because he was sitting down. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.

He breathed in the clean smell of her skin and the herbal scent of the shampoo she'd used. “There was never any question,” he murmured. “Surely you know that.”

She drew back to look at him, and seemed about to say something. But then Xander cleared his throat and they both jumped.

He raised an eyebrow at them. “If you two are done with your touchy-feely moment, I should probably get going.”

“Going?” Willow said, sinking down into a chair. Giles slid a blueberry scone onto a plate for her and she looked at it without appetite. She poured herself a cup of tea, at least, with milk and a little sugar, and sipped. She would have to eat eventually; her face was already rather thinner than Giles remembered, her cheek bones very prominent. The coven was supporting her magically, but her body was up to her.

“I have to go back to London,” Xander replied. “Giles here has me on research detail.”

“Oh.” Willow glanced uncertainly toward Giles. “Are, um, are you going to?”

Giles shook his head. “No, I'm staying for the time being.”

“Oh,” she said again, relaxing visibly. “Good.”

“Yeah, you're in good hands, Will,” Xander said. He drained the last of his coffee and stood. “I'll see you soon, though, okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, following him to the door. They hugged for a long time while Giles watched surreptitiously and with a strange sort of envy. Finally Xander kissed her on the forehead and left.

“So,” Willow said, returning to perch on the edge of the bed. She broke the scone into two and started to pick at it. “You wanna tell me what Xander's researching?”

“Yes,” Giles said. “But first . . . Willow, I need to know exactly what they – what happened to you.”

She looked away. “Yeah, I kinda thought you might.”

“I understand it will be difficult,” Giles said gently. “But we need to know.”

“Yeah.” She slid the plate back onto the table and came to sit in the other armchair, tucking her socked feet up underneath herself. Giles thought suddenly of those days after she had nearly ended the world; she had been so pale and wan, and they had sat just like this, sometimes speaking, but very often not. He had held her hand. After a moment he reached out and did just that. She looked momentarily surprised, and then her fingers closed over his.

“You – you know what happened in Rio, right?” she asked at last.

“More or less. Willow,” he said, squeezing her hand, “I'm so sorry about Kennedy.”

She swallowed, her eyes bright, and then gave a weepy little laugh. “Yeah, she – she gave them a fight. We both did, but I think she was way more of a pain in their ass than they'd expected.” She sighed. “She shouldn't even have been there.”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “I thought she lived there.”

“Uh, no.” Willow picked her tea cup up in her free hand and took a long sip before continuing. “We, um, weren't really together. Hadn't been for awhile. About, um, six months, actually.” She looked down into her cup. “I just hadn't told anyone because . . . I don't know. We were both seeing other people,” she sighed again, “trying to be friends, even though I'm not sure we were ever really friends to begin with.” She swallowed. “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Tara.”

Giles was silent. At last he said, “Kennedy was a Slayer, Willow. I'm not sure there is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time for them. In some ways, that's their duty.”

“I guess,” Willow said. “It just – it wasn't her fight.”

“I doubt she would agree.”

“Probably not. Kennedy thought they were all her fights.”

They were both silent then. Giles waited, not wanting to rush her. She would tell him everything in good time, he sensed. There was no immediate urgency as far as he could see. At last she looked up and said, “I'm afraid I don't remember much. They kept me pretty drugged.”

“Whatever you can tell me.” He wanted to ask her about objects she might have seen, but he didn't yet. He wanted, first of all, to know what had struck her as important.

“Right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Well, I kinda woke up later, where Ethan found me, really deep in the jungle. They had me tied down to this big slab of stone, virgin sacrifice style, I guess. It was night and this place was – it was a place of serious power, Giles. I mean, I was pretty out of it, but I could feel it anyway, Dark power. Bad, bad things'd happened there. Worse than Kingman's Bluff in Sunnydale and that was pretty bad.”

“Were the members of the cult there?”

“Yeah,” she said. She frowned, as though struggling to remember. “I didn't see them very well – they had on long robes and hoods. I kept thinking that bad guys make the same cheesy wardrobe decisions over and over – I was really pretty stoned. One of them said something to me in Portuguese, he said . . .” She paused, her frown deepening. “I think he said that it was the greatest honor to be the Vessel, that it was more than I deserved. And he slapped me.” Giles started, his hand clenching on hers. “Not hard,” she added, “just to wake me up, I think. But it was about then that I realized I was totally naked, which seriously freaked me out more than anything else. Tied up and naked with a bunch of people I couldn't see – that strikes a pretty deep chord for most women, I think.”

“But they didn't . . .” Giles stopped. “None of them, that is –”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “None of them touched me except the one, I guess he was the leader. They called him . . .” She frowned. “Saramargo, I think it was? Kinda weird.”

Giles nodded, filing the name away. “And how many of them were there?”

“Not that many, now I think about it. Maybe ten, but not more than that. They did some chanting, all in a circle. I think it was in Sumerian, but I was still pretty woozy and my Sumerian's never been as good as yours or Dawn's – I know how to pronounce it, but I couldn't actually figure out what they were saying. The air got really hot though, and thick, so I think whatever they were doing was working. And then the one who'd slapped me, he put his hand over my chest and –” She broke off, swallowing. “Giles, how did you ever forgive me?” she asked, looking up. Her wide green eyes were terribly bright. “I did that to you. That's all I could think, once I could think again, I mean. I did that to you, and you forgave me. How?”

“I –” Giles stopped. “Circumstances were somewhat different –”

“No,” Willow said, shaking her head. “I mean, yeah, sure, but, but not – I did that to you, Giles, and I knew what it would do and I – I didn't care. I hurt you – oh God, I had no idea until they did it to me how much I hurt you.”

Her head dropped and she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Giles stroked her hair and said, “I knew what would happen, remember?”

“Which doesn't make it better,” she said in a very low voice, still not looking up. “It doesn't change what I did. What I did.”

“No,” he agreed, “it doesn't.”

Her shoulders shook silently. He continued stroking her hair and the nape of her neck, and wondered what to tell her. Before he could think of anything that wasn't trite or condescending or an outright lie, she took a huge, gulping breath, sat up, and said, “Maybe I deserved it.”

He stared at her, horrified, but managed to find his voice quickly enough. “No, Willow, no, you can't think that.”

“I can. After what I did – maybe I deserved it. And maybe I shouldn't get it back.” She met his eyes at last, very steadily, and he saw that she meant it. “I know you and Miss Harkness must be looking for a way to get my power back, but maybe – maybe I shouldn't. If I'm capable of hurting you like that –”

“Willow, that was two years ago,” Giles said firmly. “You are not the same person you were then. And I was able to forgive you because . . . because when it was all over, you were you. Willow. My Willow,” he added, before he could allow himself to second-guess it. “How could I not?” She didn't reply, and Giles decided to change tacks. “And even if the issue of your power were that simple, which I'm afraid it isn't, what would you have us do with it? We certainly can't leave it where it is, wherever that may be.”

She shrugged. “You take it. Or give it to the coven.”

“Willow,” Giles said, cupping her face in his hands, “you don't mean this.”

“Don't I?” she replied.

“No. You are – you've just been through something dreadful –”

“No worse than I what did to you,” she said, averting her eyes.

“Maybe. Maybe not. That isn't a, a productive comparison.” He stroked his thumb over her cheek. “What happened to you amounts to an assault, Willow, physical and mental as well as magical. That isn't something you're going to recover from quickly. Please, I beg you not to make rash decisions you might regret later.” He looked at her as steadily and seriously as he knew how, until at last she nodded. He dropped his hands back down to clasp hers again. “Now then,” he said, “before we go on, allow me to ask what I should have before anything else – are you all right? Your injury, I mean.” He touched his own, over his heart. “Did Miss Harkness give you something for it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “She put a salve on it last night and gave me the bottle. I put some more on after my shower.”

“Good,” Giles said. “It won't heal it completely, but it will help.”

Willow nodded. “It already feels better.” She drew a breath, looked at him strangely, and seemed about to ask him something. But he saw the moment she changed her mind and said instead, “Um, where were we?”

“He put his hand over your chest,” Giles reminded her quietly.

“Yeah, and, well, you know what happened after that. Next thing I knew Ethan was tearing out of nowhere – except of course I didn't know it was him, and I was seriously wigging until I figured out that he wasn't as bad or worse than the guys in the robes. He got us both to that lodge and . . . yeah, I guess that's it.”

“I see,” Giles said slowly. “And they didn't – the cult, I mean – they didn't anoint you in any way? Or cut you or – or tattoo –?”

She shook her head. “I, uh, looked pretty closely in the shower just now, and I think Miss Harkness looked last night too. If they marked me they did it before I woke up, and they did it in some way I can't see.”

Possible, Giles thought, but not probable. An invisible marker did not seem to be the style of the Children of the Dark Eye. He decided to relax on that point for now, but remain vigilant and close by, just in case.

“My other question,” he said, after a brief pause, “is about where your power went, exactly. Ethan said he couldn't tell, but if it had gone into their leader, he thought – and I agree – that the two of you would have never escaped. Willow, did you see where it went?”

“I . . . no,” she said apologetically. “I was kinda distracted at the time from feeling like he was sucking my soul out through my chest.”

An apt description, Giles thought, remembering. And it would have severed her soul from her body – killed her – if Ethan hadn't come through. Though if Mary were right, the Children of the Dark Eye had had other plans for Willow's soul. “I understand,” he said. “But did you happen to see if there was anything around, a talisman or –”

“Yeah,” she said, so quickly that he sat up in surprise. “He – the leader guy, Saramargo – was wearing it. It was all black and gold and garnets, really gaudy like those things are. It stood out.”

“Could you draw it?” Giles asked, fishing a scrap of paper and a pen out of his pocket.

“Maybe,” she said. She took the paper and pen and then hesitated, biting her lip. Finally she drew a rough eye shape, a chain extending from the point at either end. “That was gold,” she said, tracing the tip of the pen over the edge of the eye, “and inside it was black, like it'd been inlaid with onyx or something. And the pupil part was a garnet, I think. I don't know exactly,” she added anxiously, “it was pretty dark.”

“No, Willow, this is very helpful.” Giles slipped it into his pocket. “I'll fax it down to London and have it waiting for Xander.”

“You think it's important then?” she asked. “I mean, I didn't get hardly any vibe off it at the time.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” Giles said. “They would have wanted it as magically inert as possible before the ritual began. But I believe it is entirely possible that your powers are now contained within it.”

Willow frowned. “But why would they do that? They're useless all locked up.”

Giles looked at her hard for a moment. He could not keep this from her, as much as he would have liked to. She was too smart by half not to put the pieces together on her own and he would rather be with her when she found out. Choosing his words with the utmost care, he told her what he and Mary had discussed that morning, about what the ritual had actually been intended to accomplish.

She listened in silence until he was finished, and then looked away. “That's, um . . . wow.”

“Yes,” Giles said. He stared down at where their hands were still clasped together. “I hope you know – that is, the coven can keep you safe. But, but your powers –”

“I get it,” she said. “You're going to try and find this Dark Eye thing and get them back. But if it comes down to it, you might have to destroy it to keep them from finishing the ritual and giving the First a body.” She shrugged with clearly feigned indifference. “Well, looks like I might get what I want after all.”

“Unfortunately, as I said before, it's not that simple.” Giles's mouth was dry. This was the part he had dreaded all along. God, he didn't want to do this, but it had to be done and he didn't want anyone else to do it in his stead. “Willow, do you remember when you were here before, at the coven, and you suggested it might be better if we took your powers?” She nodded. “Do you remember what I said?”

“You said it wasn't a hobby,” she replied slowly. “And it wasn't an addiction. You said the magic was inside me.”

“Yes, exactly. Which is no less true now.” Giles had to stop to sip his tea, and worried that she might feel his hands trembling in hers. “You see, for people who, who've gone very far into magic, it, it's like it becomes a part of them. It's part of what binds our souls to our bodies. That's why Ethan and I, and now the coven, had to share our magic with you to keep you alive.” He paused and stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “But that can't go on forever. The coven can sustain you for a time, but not indefinitely. If we can get your powers back, then of course it won't matter, but if we can't –”

“I'll die,” Willow finished. “Oh.”

Giles nodded, forcing himself to meet her eyes, though he would much rather have looked away. “Miss Harkness is working on how to revert your soul back to how it was before you started practicing magic. There is hope there.” What he did not say was that any magic having to do with the soul was complicated, to say the least. There was some precedent, Mary had told him, but it consisted almost entirely of attempts that had failed.

Willow said nothing for a very long time. Giles let her be silent. He had no idea what she might be thinking in that moment, though he rather suspected she was in shock.

At last she cleared her throat and glanced up at him. “I, uh, can I be alone for awhile, Giles?”

He hesitated. “You won't do anything foolish, will you?” He didn't think she would, but after news like that, one simply never knew.

She shook her head.

“Then yes, of course.” He squeezed her hands once more and stood. “If you need me, I'll be around, all right?”

“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, do you think later we could take a walk? To the beach, maybe?”

He nodded. “I'd like that, very much.”

She managed a smile and he felt something in his throat close up painfully. He let himself out of her room, but lingered in the hallway just beyond, listening for . . . something. But the walls were thick and he heard nothing. He leaned against the wall a moment, removed his glasses, rubbed his forehead, and came to a decision.

“Not like this,” he muttered, pushing the words past the tightness in his throat. He took a deep breath and strode off up the hallway. It was time to find Ethan.

Unfortunately, finding Ethan turned out to be more difficult than Giles had anticipated. He checked his room, then the dining commons, and finally the library, before concluding that Ethan must have gone out onto the grounds. He could not have left without anyone noticing, Giles thought, though with Ethan one could never be sure. He went back to his own room to pick up a coat – and found exactly what he'd been looking for all along, fidgeting in an armchair.

“Ripper, mate,” Ethan said, standing. “You have to let me out of here, I'm going mad. This place is so –”

“Wholesome?” Giles suggested with a smile.

“Orderly,” Ethan replied with a glare. “Well-meaning and everything in its place. There isn't a speck of chaos anywhere to be seen, I'm about to go round the twist. Ripper, you have to let me leave.”

“Calm down,” Giles said. “As it happens, I have a job for you.” He sat down on the bed and gestured Ethan back down in the armchair. “Stop hovering,” he added irritably, when Ethan remained standing, looming over him and eyeing Giles with open suspicion. “It's not even nine yet and I've already had a long morning.”

“A job isn't really what I had in mind,” Ethan said, taking his seat at last but continuing to frown warily. “I rather thought you'd consider my debt for that whole Fyarl incident paid up and let me go on my merry way.”

“Ah, no.” Giles smiled more tightly. “As Xander said, I believe you're in this for the long haul.”

“And if I think otherwise?” Ethan leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm head of the Council now, Ethan. Do you remember that.”

“Threatening me, Ripper?” Ethan asked with a lift of an eyebrow and a distinct lack of rancor. He sounded more curious than anything else. Whether that was because he didn't take the threat seriously, or because he figured that threats, recriminations, and blackmail were par for the course with the two of them, Giles didn't know and didn't care.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I could make your life very difficult without ever leaving my office. On the other hand,” he gave a shrug, “Council operative pays quite handsomely.”

Ethan shot him a look of pure horror. “I would rather slice off my thumbs.”

“That could be arranged,” Giles said without missing a beat.

“Seriously, Ripper, you can't do this to me.”

“I can and will.” Giles leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and said seriously, “Ethan, I need you on this. You have a talent for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong and yet somehow coming out with it still attached. And I have the sneaking suspicion a good dose of chaos might be just what this situation calls for.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ripper.” Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. “Money on the other hand . . .”

“Of course. As I said, Council operative –”

“Call me that I again and I'll walk out that door,” Ethan said, pointing to the door in question. “I'm not doing this for the Council.”

“Why then?” Giles asked, genuinely curious.

“Money, it would seem,” Ethan said evenly. “What's the going rate for a job like this?”

“Eight thousand, Sterling.”

Ethan shook his head. “Twelve thousand.”

“Ten thousand, and you tell me the real reason you haven't walked away from this already. Because I know as well as you do that if you wanted out, none of us could stop you.”

For a moment, Ethan looked as though he might refuse to answer. Then he sighed and said, “Let's just say I've always had a weakness for redheads.”

Giles found himself frowning suddenly, quite fiercely. “You can't possibly think –”

“Oh, not for a minute. Don't get all worked up over it. I find her charming, but I don't fool myself that she would ever take notice of me – especially not with you around.”

Giles stared. “I beg your pardon?”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Don't pretend you haven't noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Giles demanded, sitting up

Ethan raised an eyebrow in infuriating incredulity. “Ripper, old man, I don't remember you being this dim – though I suppose it would account for why you only have a shag about once a decade.”

“What the hell would you know –” Giles began, more furious by the second about where this conversation seemed to be going.

“Oh come off it, anyone who looks at you can tell. And if you can honestly say you didn't notice that even half-dead she wanted you, then it's no wonder.”

“You, you're wrong,” Giles sputtered. “And quite possibly in need of professional help. Willow and I are friends. We've been friends for a, a long time –”

“Yes, and that never leads anywhere, of course.”

“Ethan, do stop being ridiculous,” Giles managed, attempting to achieve an indifferent tone. “Apart from anything else, Willow is, is – that is, her last two lovers were women.”

“And you and I both know quite well that such things are not written in stone. Clay, perhaps,” Ethan added with a smile, “but not stone. Ripper, let me tell you something.” Ethan leaned forward. “I was in that jungle with her for three days and any time she was conscious all she did was ask for you. Not Buffy and not that Xander chap, even though they're supposedly her best friends. You.”

“Because, because she knew I could help,” Giles said. So much for indifferent; he sounded more desperate than anything else. Damn Ethan anyway. “Because she, she was hurt and I, I –”

“Your stammering gives you away, Ripper,” Ethan said, leaning back again and smiling as smugly as a cat in a dairy. “It always has. You know I'm right.”

“I know no such thing,” Giles replied stiffly.

“She invited you into her bed, you idiot!”

“Because I was safe !” Giles burst out. “Because she can't possibly imagine a scenario in which I might think of her sexually. That's why she did it. No other reason.”

“Right, that's it,” Ethan said, standing. “If you're going to be willfully stupid then I'm done. I hope you and your left hand have another blissful decade together, because you certainly deserve it.” With which parting shot he stalked out, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Giles stared after him, gaping, and was still doing so when Ethan reappeared, looking remarkably unsheepish for someone who had just spoiled his own dramatic exit.

“Ten thousand quid sounds reasonable,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Plus any travel expenses, of course. First class. Not all of us can travel the world in a posh private jet, but we can damn well have some decent legroom.”

It took Giles a few seconds to recover himself. “Business,” he replied, firmly.

Ethan sighed. “Very well, business class, since I am a model of compromise. And just what, pray tell, do I have to do to earn this money?”

“I, er,” Giles removed his glasses and began polishing them, “I'm not entirely sure yet. I imagine I'll be asking you to go back to Brazil eventually, but for now I'd like you to go down to London and check in with Xander. He'll explain things. Put yourself at his disposal, see what he needs.” He put his glasses back on and looked very hard at Ethan. “I trust I needn't elucidate the consequences if you cross me in this in any way.”

Ethan grimaced at him. “Er, no, I think I can imagine.”

Giles smiled. “Excellent. Then we understand each other.”

“As much as ever we do, at least.”

“Quite.”

Chapter Three

The walk to the sea from the coven was just a little more than two kilometers long. It had been one of Willow's favorites before, once she had recovered enough to enjoy anything at all. Giles sought her out when she didn't appear at lunch and found her in her room, dressed in jeans and a thick jumper that had probably been lent her by one of the coven, her hair pulled back neatly from her face. She was pulling on a pair of thick wool socks when she called for him to come in.

“You ready?” she asked, standing.

“Yes.” He had an old blanket for them to sit on folded over one arm, and a bag with two thermoses of hot tea and some sandwiches over the opposite shoulder. He nearly said something about her absence at lunch, but decided against it. He hoped that the crisp sea air would do what he suspected no amount of coaxing from him could. She took the blanket from him and off they went.

It was a rather blustery day for a walk to the sea. Within minutes Giles found himself wishing he'd brought a hat and gloves. Still, he was grateful for the distraction, uncomfortable as it was, since he could not stop thinking about what Ethan had said. Bloody Ethan. He probably considered it a religious experience, contributing to Giles's personal chaos. He wondered glumly how long it would be before he could walk beside Willow like this, so close their hands brushed occasionally, and not think about it. Never, Giles suspected.

Willow herself seemed unaffected by the wind, though Giles imagined that if he could see inside her head, it might rather match the weather. Fortunately, by the time they began picking their way carefully down the rocky path that wound down the cliff face to the beach, the sun had at last seen fit to put in an appearance, warming the tips of Giles's numbed ears.

The beach was rocky, the surf low and gray, shimmering a little in patches of weak sunlight. They found their usual spot from before, just in front of a boulder it was possibly to lean against comfortably. Willow spread the blanket out and sank down onto it with a sigh, the first sound either of them had made since leaving the coven. Giles took it as tacit permission to speak, though he waited until he'd settled himself on the blanket a safe distance away. He passed her a thermos of hot tea, and then a sandwich.

“That's to eat, by the way,” he said. “Not to feed to the gulls.” Some of which had already flapped down ungracefully a few feet away, clicking their beaks in expectation.

She smiled at him ruefully and took a dutiful bite. He wrapped his hands around his own thermos and sipped, feeling it warm him all the way through. “How are you?” he asked, deciding it was as good an opening as any.

She swallowed, chased the bite of sandwich with some tea, and shook her head. “I . . .” She looked over at him. “I don't want to die. And, and I never expected it to be like this.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don't know exactly. Slow, I guess. It's like . . . it's like I've been diagnosed with cancer or something. I feel okay mostly, but I know I might be dead in a few weeks.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Giles said slowly. “But I suppose you're right.”

“I have time too,” she said. “I always thought that if I was going to die – young, I mean – it would be fast. A vampire or another witch . . . something like that, fighting evil.” She looked down at the sandwich in her hands, tore off a crust of the bread, and despite what he had said, tossed it to the gulls. They went mad immediately, flapping and snapping at each other. She watched them a moment, but then, perhaps noticing that he was watching her in turn, took another bite.

“Would you prefer it to be fast?” he asked.

She shrugged. “No, it's just what I always thought.” She glanced over at him again. “Why're you so far away?”

“I'm not.”

“Yeah, you are. You're at the other end of the blanket. It's not catching, you know, I promise,” she added, in a way he suspected was supposed to be joking, but which came out sadly uncertain.

“No, no, that's not, not –” he stammered. God, Ethan was right. The stammering really would give him away. And of course there was nothing to do but go to her. He would not have her believe he was avoiding her for any reason. There was so little he could do for her right now, but making her feel secure in his friendship and in his love for her – that was well within his reach. “Better?” he said, once they were leaning side by side against the boulder, the stone ice cold even through the layers he had on. This had been rather more comfortable in the summertime.

“Almost,” she said, and to his surprise set the sandwich down on the blanket and reached out to wrap her arms around him, sliding her hands into the warm space between his coat and jumper. “It's cold,” she murmured, laying her head on his chest. He hesitated just a moment and then settled his arms carefully about her as well. She snugged herself closer still, and he rested his cheek on the top of her head.

Stupid Ethan and his maybe being right. Of course now Giles was looking for signs when he had no reason to believe . . . anything. Or – perhaps not exactly no reason. Her hand was rubbing slow circles over his lower back and toying with the edge of his jumper. He was tempted to ask just what, exactly, she thought she was doing, but instead he closed his eyes and let himself pretend for a few seconds that all were well. The smell of the salt in the air, the sound of the waves and the wind over the bluff, and, above all else, her warm, solid weight in his arms, leaning against his chest – it could have been a slice of a rather chilly heaven. If he only pretended.

A minute of pretending became two, then five, ten, fifteen, until at last Willow said, “Giles?”

“Hmm?”

“I want you know to know . . . if nothing can be done, I don't want to drag this out.” She shivered, and he held her closer. “I want to see everyone again, Xander and Buffy and Dawn and, and my parents.” He felt her swallow and her voice, when she spoke again, was shaky. “And then I want to come back to the coven and just, just – I'm on borrowed time already, I mean, and I don't want to drain them, I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want it to be over, if it has to be.”

Giles nodded. “That's very brave of you.”

“And if it comes down to it,” she said, sitting up and looking him straight in the eyes, “I don't want anyone else there but you. Not Buffy, not Xander, just you.”

“Willow,” he said, pulling away a little.

“Promise me, Giles,” she said, her hands tightening where they gripped his upper arms. “Please?”

“You –” Giles began, and then stopped. ‘You don't know what you're asking,' was what he wanted to say and could not. He could not refuse her in this, and some part of him didn't want to. He did not want anyone else to hold her in that hour, God forbid it should come.

Stupid fucking Ethan.

“I promise,” he said.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

*~*~*

That was the first of many walks that week. They set out every morning after breakfast, usually on the path to the beach. After the first day they barely mentioned their current situation at all, which was more of a relief than anything else. Mary had come no closer to a solution and Giles's daily reports from Xander were full of fresh negatives. They had turned up no information that might lead them to the Children of the Dark Eye, nor had they found any mention thus far of the talisman anywhere in the Council's extensive library. Ethan could tell them where the ritual had taken place, but there were several such places of dark power in the Brazilian jungle and Giles didn't think the cult would risk using the same place twice. On the fourth day, Giles dispatched Ethan back to Rio to look into the matter in person, and set to waiting with growing anxiety.

Willow never asked about any of it, and Giles didn't offer updates. She seemed to have achieved a bittersweet peace, and the last thing he wanted was to disrupt that. And so they took walks and sat close together on the blanket, sipping tea and staring out at the sea. After the first day, Giles didn't try to distance himself. They talked when they felt like it and were silent when they didn't, and Giles fell a little more into sad, despairing love with her each day.

Friday morning dawned gray and drizzly, but with just slightly less chill in the air. They had been at the coven for five days; on Sunday they would go down to London for Kennedy's memorial service. Even if no news had come in, Giles would have to stay while Willow returned to the relative safety of Westbury. The coven could support Willow wherever she was, but more than a few miles distance would put a strain on them in the long-term; then, too, there was the ever-present possibility of the cult coming to retrieve her by force. Giles thought she would be safer in Westbury, where she would be protected by old magics utterly at odds with the sort the cult would have studied. But necessary as he believed it to be, he hated the thought of leaving her.

Such were the thoughts preoccupying him that morning, when he knocked on Willow's door after breakfast. She slid her hand into his as they walked, and he tried to put everything else from his mind. If he had to leave her soon then he would do nothing that might mar their last few days together.

“Do you mind if we go somewhere else today?” she asked him, pausing them both at the start of the path to the beach.

“Of course not,” he said. “Wherever you'd like.”

Without another word, she led him away from the house and across the grounds until it was no longer visible behind them. When she started up a steep hill dotted with springtime wildflowers, he knew at last where they were going. He followed in silence until they reached a great oak tree, possibly the oldest tree on the grounds. He had found her sitting beneath it once before, a flower from Paraguay blooming in front of her.

He was carrying the blanket this time. He spread it out beneath the tree's branches, while she touched the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes. After a few moments she sighed, opened them again, and sank down onto the blanket. Giles sat leaning against the tree; she leaned against him. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Do you remember – before?” she asked.

“Of course,” he murmured into her hair.

“I brought that flower all the way from Paraguay,” she said wistfully. “I miss that. Feeling connected. I didn't realize how important it was until it was gone. Now, it's like I've lost my sight or my hearing or something.”

“You've changed your mind then?” Giles said. “From what you said to me that first day?”

“I – I don't know.” She picked a blade of grass and rubbed it between her fingers. “I miss feeling connected, but I don't miss feeling . . . afraid of myself.”

“Were you often afraid of yourself?”

“Yeah,” she admitted, still staring at the blade of grass. “It was part of why Kennedy and I split.” She glanced at him; he raised an eyebrow. “She – she kinda liked being a Slayer a lot. Maybe too much. She reminded me of Faith sometimes, how she used to – but not, not psycho like Faith was back then,” she added hastily. “But she liked the power and she just never got why it made me so nervous, you know?”

“I see.”

“So . . . I don't know.” Willow let the blade of grass fall from her fingers at last. Giles realized she was looking at the spot where her flower from Paraguay had bloomed. He held her and waited. That seemed to be what he was best at these days.

“Giles?” she finally said.

“Yes?”

“Can . . . can I see?” She touched him on the chest, on his scar. “What I did to you?”

He almost said no. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was too private, or perhaps, he admitted, it was pure vanity. The scar was white and hard and ugly, and he did not relish the idea of anyone seeing it. Hardly anyone had, except the coven's healers. Still, if anyone had the right, it was Willow, both for having created it and for having one of her own now. When he finally answered, it was to ask, “Do you really think it will help?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. She looked up. “But I need to see, I think.”

He nodded. She helped him with the buttons of his shirt, Giles working from the top down and Willow from the bottom up, until they met in the middle and she popped the last one free. He shrugged out of it and then, fighting the urge to hesitate or even stop altogether, pulled his undershirt off over his head She stared for a moment before reaching out to press her hand into it. And then she kissed him.

Her lips were so soft. She was far too thin, and yet she was so soft everywhere Giles touched her. He had not understood how much he had ached for this until now, when he rubbed his thumb beneath the hem of her shirt and felt her shiver. He wanted badly to let his hands drift upward to touch her breasts, but then he thought of her injury, still inflamed, painful and tender, and he refrained. The kiss grew steadily more intense despite their restrictions; her hand never left his scar, and he was sure she could feel his heartbeat pounding against her palm. But when her free hand dropped from the back of his neck to his belt buckle, he broke away instantly.

“No,” he managed, even while the rest of him protested. “Not here.”

“Yes,” she replied. She was flushed, her eyes wide and dark. “Here, like this.”

Oh God, this wasn't fair. “No, I won't – Willow, I won't be your, your act of desperation.”

She drew back from him at last. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I – I don't know,” Giles said, backtracking at the note of hurt in her voice. “You tell me what it is.”

“I love you,” she said clearly. “I thought it was kinda obvious. And I thought you – oh God, was I wrong?”

Giles could not bear the look of mortification on her face. “No,” he assured her, capturing her hands in his own. “Not wrong. But why –”

“Because – because when I was lying in that hut and I thought I would die, you were the only one I wanted. Because you didn't let me go. Because . . .” She paused and touched his scar again. “Because you forgave me. Because you're handsome and kind and – and I know I'm not making any sense at all here and probably I am needy and desperate because I might die soon, but there are so many things I might never get to do and I don't want us to be one of them. Is that awful?”

“No,” Giles said slowly. “It's not. But, Willow –”

“Please, Giles. Here, now, like this. Even if it never happens again.”

Giles stared at her in . . . he didn't know what. Longing, yes, God, how he wanted her. Confusion, perhaps; he knew all too well why he wanted her but he still couldn't imagine why she wanted him. And fear – yes, that was what to call that trapped feeling in his chest. Fear that when this was over and – please God – she was still alive, she would regret this act.

But he had found over the past few days – had it really been less than a week? – that he could deny her nothing. She desired him in this moment, and her desire would have made him hers, even if he had not been already.

“Yes,” he said, and she pulled him toward her once more.

It was slow and a little awkward, outdoors not really being the ideal place for something like this. The grass was soft enough, but once they had divested themselves of their clothing, Willow started to shiver. Giles rolled them up in the blanket, which made Willow laugh into his bare collarbone. “Like a burrito,” she said, and went on giggling until Giles kissed her feather-light in the curve of her neck and made her moan instead.

They took their time, touching each other unhurriedly, caressing with deliberate slowness, learning each other's bodies. Giles had found this part awkward with lovers in the past, but with Willow it was pure joy. She was beautiful, her breasts not large but lovely, and she quivered when he stroked the underside of one of them. He would have liked to pay much more attention to them, but he was afraid of hurting her and had to content himself with caressing lightly, squeezing gently, and brushing his thumb over her nipples. She pinched one of his in return and smiled impishly when he jerked against her and let out a soft moan.

At last their bodies were both flushed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat; her pupils were wide and dilated with arousal, and Giles knew he must look much the same as he stroked a hand carefully down the side of her body. She took it and placed where she wanted it, where he had been too nervous to go thus far, and arched against him until he gasped and had to hold her still.

“You want to this to be over right now?” he managed, amazed at his ability to form full sentences.

“Watching you lose it is the sexiest thing I've ever seen,” she replied, tracing the features of his face with a delicate finger. “But I'm ready.”

She guided him toward her with flattering eagerness, but he was careful as he slid into her. He did not know if she had been with a man since Oz, and then there was her injury to be mindful of. He was too afraid of hurting her to let go the way he would have liked; she noticed after a little while, and paused, wrapping her legs around his hips and squeezing the muscles deep inside of her, holding him in place. He almost came undone then, clutching at her and gasping into the hollow of her throat. “Giles, I'm not gonna break,” she whispered in his ear, and arched her back. He could not stop himself then from losing himself in her, in the joining of their bodies, but it didn't matter because she was with him, her hips rising to meet him on every thrust, until at last she shuddered beneath him, around him, until at last he shook in her arms, stifling his groan against her lips.

Afterward, Giles pulled the blanket over their heads and they lay together, hidden from the world. “Thank you,” she said.

To his embarrassment, Giles found himself unable to answer for the painful tightness in his throat. It was ridiculous, almost shameful, that in this moment she was the one to hold him and make soothing noises, but the thought of losing her now was overwhelming. He had previously thought only of the possibility that she might regret this, but if everyone's efforts failed and he lost her forever, would he? Would he wish it all undone for the sake of his future sanity?

He knew the answer, of course. Love doth make complete and utter idiots of us all.

“I won't let it happen,” he told her once he'd got control of himself again.

There was just enough light filtering through the blanket for him to see her face. She smiled gently and touched his lips with the tips of her fingers. “Hey now, Giles, don't go making promises you don't know you can keep.”

She was all too right, unfortunately. He nodded. A few minutes later the distant rumble of thunder forced them out of their warm cocoon. They found their clothes and raced the storm back to the coven, making it just before the first drops fell.

They parted with a kiss in the deserted foyer. Lunch was in an hour, and Giles climbed the stairs to his room, planning to shower and change. The storm was rumbling outside, the clouds hanging dark and low and heavy. He wondered if it would last all night, and if Willow would invite him to her room where they might make love again, warm in her bed this time while the storm raged outside. Then he laughed at himself; in the years since Jenny, he had somehow managed to forget what a complete and utter romantic sop he could be.

“Rupert Giles, you are an idiot.”

Giles froze, his hand on the doorknob to his room. “Hell,” he muttered. He turned to face Mary Harkness, who crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Would you like to come in?”

“I'd like to neuter you,” she snapped. “Honestly, what were you thinking? Never mind. You weren't.”

“Please come in,” Giles said, gritting his teeth. “I don't relish making a public scene over this, for Willow's sake if not my own.”

This seemed to win past her anger, at least temporarily. He opened the door and she stalked past, tilting her chin up in annoyance. She seated herself in his armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and waited until he'd closed the door. “Did you really think I wouldn't know, connected as she and I are?”

“I – I confess I didn't think about it at the time.”

“We've already covered how much or how little you must have been thinking,” she said coldly.

“Now see here, Mary,” he said, beginning to feel well and truly annoyed. “This is none of your business. You're a friend of mine and of Willow's, but this is private. It was our decision, and I do not care at all to be attacked over it.”

“You don't care to be attacked over it because you can't defend it,” she replied, standing abruptly. “You know this was a bad decision. She is vulnerable, Rupert –”

“Well, this just gets better and better. What are you accusing me of, Mary? Being some sort of, of predator? I can assure you, every move that was made was made by Willow. She wanted it as much if not more than I did –”

“Of course she did, she thinks she's dying .”

“Oh, that's very flattering,” Giles said, rolling his eyes, even more irritated because it was no more than he himself had thought earlier. “The only reason she might want me is because she thinks she's dying. Thank you so very much.”

“That isn't what I – that's not the point, Rupert.”

“No, you're bloody well right it's not the point. Not that I'm sure what the point is. Righteous indignation isn't your style, Mary.”

She glared and crossed her arms over her chest again, though her stance was more defensive than indignant now. “I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I never said you were.”

She frowned at the carpet and was silent for a moment. “Not that it thrilled me,” she muttered at last, sounded less furious, “when I figured out what was going on. Honestly, Rupert, you picked the worst possible time in about twenty different ways.”

He sighed. “I'm aware. And . . . if you were made uncomfortable in any way, I am sorry.”

“I was. And thank you.” She seated herself in the armchair again, her posture still reserved but much less rigid.

“Did – that is, was everyone privy to my and Willow's, er, moment?”

Her mouth twisted in amusement. “No,” she said. “I am the – the conduit, shall we say. The one closest to Willow. The others might have felt something odd, but not enough to realize what it was.”

“Oh,” Giles said, sinking onto the bed. “Good.”

“However, in light of that I don't think it would be overstepping my bounds if I asked if you were planning to have other moments?”

“Er.”

She sighed. “Very well then.”

“Not, not – I don't mean to make an inadvertent ménage trios out of this, Mary. If you're made uncomfortable, she and I certainly – that is, we can wait, if it's necessary.”

“No,” she sighed. “Now that I know, I can block her a little – not enough to rob her of much power, but enough not to know when the two of you are . . . what the two of you are up to.”

“Oh,” Giles said. “Yes, good, thank you.”

She looked at him rather the way she had the first day they'd arrived: affection, exasperation, and worry, all rolled into one. “I meant what I said before though. She is vulnerable. And so are you.”

“I –”

“Don't pull that macho crap with me, Rupert. It never fit you well. Your last lover died and I know how long you mourned for her.”

Giles looked down at his hands. “That was different.”

“It was. This will hurt differently.”

He sighed. “Then I take it you've found nothing so far on how to help her if I can't?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Rupert. We're still looking, but we're running out of likely places to find anything.”

He nodded. “Well, then, I suppose it's time to step things up on my end.”

“Indeed.” She stood and went to the door. “Be careful, Rupert.”

He nodded.

*~*~*

Buffy, Dawn, and Xander were waiting for them at Giles's flat in London when they arrived Sunday night. There was even a tuna casserole baking in the oven. Predictably, Dawn flung herself at Willow the moment they stepped in the door. Buffy waited until her sister was done, and then hugged Willow herself for a long time. Giles was next for both of them, and for almost as long. He wanted more than anything to reassure them that everything would be all right, but found himself quite unable to speak, to say nothing of not being able to honestly offer such assurances.

They ate together at his small kitchen table. Xander and Giles did the washing up, and then Giles cited work and disappeared into his study to give the four of them some time together without him.

Not that there wasn't work to do. His ten days away from London had come at a heavy price, and Giles was about to have to pay it. But before anything else came the report Xander had left for him. He had rung Giles that afternoon, just as they were leaving, and said the research team had finally found something on the talisman overnight. Xander had promised they would have the information waiting for him in London. Giles sat down behind his desk and picked up the folder.

It was disappointingly thin. There was an engraving of the object itself, with more detail than Willow had been able to provide, and then a description. It was probably a thousand years old, the report said, one of a set of two identical talismans, and had always been associated with the First. It had not been seen for roughly five hundred years, at least not by anyone willing to say they had seen it. Its last recorded sighting had been in the sixteenth century, when a cult in Italy calling itself the Sons of the Dark Eye had used its twin in an attempt to make manifest the First in physical form. Their efforts had failed spectacularly, as such things often did, and the few cult members left alive had fled the wrath of the Catholic Church to the New World, apparently taking the second talisman with them. From then on there had been no sign of it at all until it had been used against Willow.

All of which was useful, at least vaguely, but it was the second page that made Giles's pulse speed up. It was a description of the ritual as told by one of the participants under interrogation by the Church. It seemed remarkably similar to the one the Children of the Dark Eye had tried to perform: A sorcerer of great power had been captured and held until the night of the ritual, when he had been robbed of his power by the cult's leader. As Giles had suspected, his power had been trapped inside the talisman, which had then been hung around the dying sorcerer's neck and shattered. The spell performed by the rest of the cult was apparently meant to focus the raw outpouring of magic into burning up the sorcerer's soul and replacing it with the First.

And they might well have succeeded, except that somehow the Church and the demon hunters it had employed in those times had caught wind of what was about to happen. They showed up at precisely the right moment, breaking the cult's circle and its spell just as the leader had broken the talisman. Left unfocused the sorcerer's magic burst from the talisman in a tidal wave of power that had instantly killed those at its center – the sorcerer and the cult's leader, as well as everyone within two meters. Of those left standing, it seemed that four had escaped.

The question, therefore, was whether the Children of the Dark Eye were descendents of the original Sons of the Dark Eye, or merely a knock-off. Not that it mattered greatly; if they were a knock-off they were a very dangerous one. Giles dug his wallet out of his back pocket, found his contact number for Ethan in Brazil, and picked up the phone.

He had expected to have to leave a message and wait for him to return it, but to his surprise Ethan answered on the second ring.

“Ethan,” Giles said. “Where are you?”

“Well, that's a fine greeting. Hello to you too, Ripper.”

“Where are you?” Giles repeated with undisguised impatience.

“Macapá at the moment. Rio was a dead end. Pity, that. The restaurants are much better.”

“Your suffering knows no bounds, I'm sure,” Giles said dryly. “Have you found anything?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I feel I've earned the ten thousand quid and then some, if you feel like handing out a bonus.”

“We'll see. You're not done yet. What have you found?”

“I've been consulting with my shaman friend here. Reformed chap, you know the type, but he still keeps his finger on the pulse of dark goings-on in the area. He says that if something darker than dark is about to happen and we think they won't be using Hecate's Womb – that's a rough translation of the name of the place I found Willow – then it will probably happen at the Mouth of the Beast.”

“Which is?” Giles prompted.

“A place of power at a split in one of the larger Amazonian tributaries. The good news for your back is that it's only six hours from here by canoe.”

“What makes you think I'll be coming myself?” Giles asked. He'd barely had time to form the intention of going, and this was not the sort of mission the head of the Council usually undertook personally. But if circumstances could ever be called extenuating , these certainly were.

“Because I know you too well, Ripper.” He could hear Ethan smiling, damn him. “It would make you twitch like an electrocuted cat to leave this in the hands of a Council minion. Or me.”

Giles grimaced. Ethan's certainty simultaneously solidified his urge to go and made him want to send someone else just to prove him wrong. In the end, though, there was really no choice at all. “Should I teleport or do you think there's time for me to fly?” He was loathe to ask the coven to teleport him, considering the strain Willow was already putting on them, but he would if time were of the essence.

“Well, that's the good news,” Ethan said. “My friend says that the ritual would have been easier to perform with Willow herself to serve as the First's host. Her body and her power are already linked, and it would have much simpler, magically-speaking, though still very risky.”

“But they no longer have Willow.”

“Precisely,” Ethan said. “They will therefore have to make do with someone else, probably one of their own. That's rather more difficult, and my friend says it's unlikely that they're powerful enough to pull it off except on the night of the full moon.”

Giles leaned over to check his calendar. “That's . . . three days from now.”

“Yes. I assume you'll be flying straight to Macapá?” Giles made a noise of agreement. “Then that gives the three of us enough time, I believe.”

“Three of us?” Giles repeated, and paused. “Your shaman friend?”

“Josué, yes. I thought we could use the extra firepower. And we could definitely use his connections.”

“Ethan,” Giles said, torn between annoyance and worry, “I didn't give you permission to recruit. How on Earth do we know the man is trustworthy? I mean, for heaven's sakes, I hired a guide in Macapá and he tried to kill us.”

“It's called initiative, Ripper,” Ethan replied. “And Josué is not someone I hired. I've known him for years, and I'll thank you to remember that he did help me find Willow. I trust him as much as I trust you.”

“Oh really?” Giles said. “And how much is that?”

“Now, Ripper, we both know that you're the one with trust issues in this relationship, as your young American friends would say.”

Giles rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “I can't imagine why.”

“You really need to get over that pesky Fyarl incident. Bit of fun, that was.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren't the one who got a silver-plated letter opener stuck in his sternum by his own Slayer,” he replied, and added, before the conversation could devolve further, “Never mind that. I should be there tomorrow night, local time.”

“Duly noted. Ring me when you get in.”

They hung up. Giles stayed sitting quietly for a moment then, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter from Willow and the others. He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and thought about going out to join them. In the end he simply turned on his computer. He had things to take care of if he was going to be unreachable and risking his own skin for the next three days.

Two hours later it had grown very quiet in his living room. A glance at the clock revealed it was after eleven. They must have gone to bed; he should think about doing the same. He shut down the computer, and was just setting his desk to rights when there was a knock at his office door and Buffy and Xander came in without waiting for permission.

“Willow and Dawn went to bed,” Buffy said. She was wearing pajamas herself, with flying toasters on them. “But, uh, we kinda wanted to, to – Giles, isn't there anything we can do?”

There was certainly no need to ask about what. “I'm afraid not. Mary Harkness and the coven members are looking for a way for her to live without her power, if it comes to that.”

“And how likely is that?” Xander demanded.

“Not . . . very, at this juncture,” Giles admitted. He sighed. “Tomorrow, after the memorial service, I'm going to Macapá. Ethan and I are going to do everything in our power –”

“Wait a minute,” Buffy said, waving a hand to stop him. “You're going? Why you? You're the one who's always telling me I shouldn't risk myself because my experience is so valuable. That's like ten times as true for you. You're Knowledge Guy. And you're the head honcho. If something happened to you, we'd be, uh –”

“Headless,” Xander supplied.

“Yeah.”

Giles frowned at them. “I see your point,” he said, “and I appreciate your concern, but there is no one else with my particular experience or knowledge.”

“We have mystics, Giles,” Xander pointed out. “Lots of them.”

“And they are . . . very good,” Giles said. “They are also young and inexperienced and would be in far over their heads in this matter. I'm afraid there's no room for discussion. I'm going to Macapá tomorrow.” The two of them exchanged a look, but for once had the sense not to say anything. “It should be a short trip,” Giles added. “No more than four days. I'll write up the details for you, Xander, before I leave.”

“And what about me?” Buffy said. “Don't tell me I can't do anything to help. I could go to Mapaca –”

“Macapá,” Giles corrected.

“Whatever. I could go with you. There has to be something I can Slay.”

“Would that there were,” Giles sighed. “But no, I think Ethan and I will have to take care of this. I was hoping, however, that you and Dawn might accompany Willow back to the coven. The wait will be . . . difficult for her. Any diversion the two of you might provide would be most welcome, I believe.”

Buffy nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Now,” Giles stood, “if you'll excuse me, tomorrow is going to be about eight hours longer than usual and I really should – what?”

They were looking at him nervously, and exchanged an inscrutable look before Xander finally said, “Yeah, so when Willow went to bed, she kinda –”

“Went into your room,” Buffy finished. “You wanna tell us what that's about?”

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not particularly.”

“Then I guess we'll just have to draw our own conclusions,” Buffy said, frowning at him, “and the one I've come to is giving me some pretty serious wiggins. So, contradict away, Giles, please.”

Giles sighed. “All right, fine. Yes. We are.”

“Whoa,” Xander said.

“Yikes,” Buffy said.

“Eloquent as ever,” Giles muttered. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No, um, no,” Buffy said, fidgeting.

“Not unless you hurt her,” Xander added.

“Or go on a suicidal rampage if she dmmph –” Buffy broke off, Xander having clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Inner monologue, Buff,” he said dryly, removing his hand.

“Yeah, well, not out of the question in my experience,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest and eyeing Giles with unnerving scrutiny.

“I have no plans to either end, I assure you,” Giles said. “May I go to bed now?”

Thankfully they let him escape. He was sure they would both have more to say on the subject eventually, but he hoped it would wait until everything else had been sorted.

Willow was curled up dozing under the eiderdown. Giles changed his clothes for pajamas and crawled in beside her. At the dip of the mattress under his weight, she woke and blinked at him sleepily. “Where were you all evening?” she asked.

“Working,” he said, pulling her close. “Making arrangements. Ethan has a fairly definite lead. I'm leaving tomorrow for Macapá.”

“Oh,” Willow said. A line creased between her eyes. “No, Giles, I don't want you going. This – I'm – you can't risk yourself like that.”

He found her hand under the covers and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “I think that's my decision to make,” he said. “I promise you, I'll be careful.”

The worry-line did not disappear, but she nodded reluctantly. Giles reached over to turn off the light. “By the way,” he said, “Buffy and Xander saw you come in here.”

“Oh,” she said. And then, “Whoops.”

“Whoops indeed.”

“Did they freak out big time?”

“Not as of yet.”

“Oh, good.” She paused. “Sorry.”

“It's all right. I had no intention of keeping us a secret forever. I was just rather . . . unprepared.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night.”

“'Night.”

It took her a few minutes to settle herself then; they had discovered the hard way that sleeping together was more difficult than sex in terms of her injury. At last she seemed comfortable stretched out on her side, her back to his chest, one foot hooked between his calves, one hand pressing his hand to her stomach. Just as she had the last two nights, she fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, deeply, as her body and soul attempted to heal an injury that could not be healed. Just as he had the last two nights, he lay awake long after, and wondered what he would do if all else failed and he had to learn to sleep without her pressed warm against him once more.

Chapter Four

The jungle air was warm and damp on Giles's skin after the cool dryness of the jet. It was just after eight o'clock in the evening, and the sun had set in Macapá nearly two hours earlier. The airport tarmac was lit only by a few floodlights as he made his way briskly toward the terminal building, which had started to feel very familiar. Though Macapá was accessible only by plane or boat, the airport was small and had few amenities. Aside from the usual rows of hard plastic chairs and a kiosk (currently closed) to sell coffee, there was nothing.

The airport officials stood back, eyeing him with obvious suspicion. Macapá was not an international airport and supported two airlines with flights to exactly two cities. The Council had large shears for cutting through international red tape and even international law, if need be, but they could do little to counter people's natural suspicion. The men clearly had no idea what Giles was – though he thought narcotics kingpin or CIA operative were probably high on the list – but they were unnerved. Giles gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile, sat in one of the chairs, and took out his mobile.

Ethan picked up on the third ring. “It's me,” Giles said. “Where should I meet you?”

“Ah, Ripper. How was the flight?” There was street noise in the background, and the quality of Ethan's voice was uneven, as though he were walking.

“Fine, thank you. At the hotel?”

“No, as it happens you're just in time. I'm on my way to meet Josué for dinner, have a bit of a strategy session.”

“Good,” Giles said, standing. He had a single small bag with him; going to a restaurant first would not be a problem. “I have a plan.”

“I thought you might. The place is on the river.” Ethan gave him the address while Giles went out to meet the waiting taxi. The airport officials, clearly eager to have him out of their hair, trailed him closely.

“All right, see you there,” Giles said, and snapped the phone shut as he slid into the taxi. Within a few minutes they were winding their way through the flat streets of the city. The area on the outskirts near the airport was quiet, but as they neared the center the quiet gave way quickly to a nightlife that bustled even on a Monday. Bars lined the streets, spilling young patrons – mostly Brazilians, but a few foreigners as well – out their doors. Macapá wasn't really a tourist spot in and of itself, but the Amazon did draw people.

The taxi dropped him at a riverfront promenade that was even more crowded than the center had been. The atmosphere was festive, as though everyone were permanently on holiday. Giles found the restaurant occupying one of the modern buildings that faced the great river, so wide here that it appeared almost like the ocean; he supposed the opposite bank would be visible in the daytime, but by night there was nothing to see but brown water fading into indiscernible blackness beyond the reach of the city's lights.

The restaurant had indoor seating, but it was deserted. The hostess, a young woman with black hair to her waist, led Giles up the stairs to the rooftop terrace. He found Ethan sitting at one of the tables, each of which sported a candle in a colored paper bag, and appearing remarkably relaxed. He smiled at Giles and then at the hostess. In passable Portuguese he said, “Please tell the bar, dear, that we'd like another caipirinha?”

“We would not,” Giles said firmly. His own Portuguese was rough and Portugal-accented, but he managed. “Mineral water, please.”

“Caipirinha,” Ethan insisted. Not wanting to argue in front of the hostess, Giles made an irritated, assenting gesture, and she went away.

“You're in Brazil, Ripper,” Ethan said, leaning back in his chair. “Caipirinhas are the only thing to order.”

Giles glared. “This was not meant to be an all-expenses-paid-by-the-Council holiday, Ethan. Have you forgotten why we're here?” He had thought of little else all throughout the flight, though he'd finally managed to block some of his more personal feelings. There was an apocalypse to avert; he'd dealt with that a dozen times and thinking of it that way made it manageable. If he thought about Willow, about the possibility of saving the world and yet losing her anyway, it might very well paralyze him into indecision. He could not afford that.

“Oh, settle down,” Ethan said. “I assure you I haven't. Josué should be here any minute and then we can discuss your plan.”

Giles said nothing as a different young woman, this one with coppery skin and blond highlights, delivered his drink. It came with a thin red straw, but not, thank goodness, an umbrella. Giles poked at the ice and squinted in the light of the paper bag lanterns to try and discern what was in it.

“Cachaça, raw sugar, ice, limes,” Ethan said, watching him with obvious and infuriating amusement. “At home they're usually made with rum, but these are the real thing. Vastly superior. Not an experience to be missed.”

“What the hell is cachaça?”

“Sugar cane liquor. It's not going to kill you, Ripper, I promise.”

“No,” Giles said, still poking at the drink with the straw, “but after the flight and the time change it could easily knock me out.”

Ethan sighed. “Stop being such an old man and enjoy your drink.”

Giles gave up and sipped. It was just this side of too tart, and the cachaça had a distinctive kick. He mixed it more thoroughly, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of the glass, and sipped again. He could not envision ordering one in chilly London, but here, in the muggy night air of the Brazilian Amazon, where he could feel himself sweating even as he sat, it seemed acceptable. Fitting, even. Giles leaned back, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves.

“Ah,” Ethan said, smiling. “There's our Ripper.”

Giles frowned at him, but sipped again despite himself. “You're a terrible influence.”

“Isn't that what your father used to say?”

“Yes, and he was right, too. I knew it even then. That's why I liked you.”

“Oh, there were many reasons you liked me,” Ethan said with a smirk. But for once he seemed to exercise his better judgment about continuing a thread of conversation that was bound to get acrimonious. Before Giles could reply, he asked, “How was Willow when you left?”

Giles frowned at his drink. “Not very well, I'm afraid. She didn't want me to come. None of them did – Buffy and the others, I mean.” That parting had been difficult, especially coming on the heels of the memorial service. Willow had realized the necessity, but he could not erase the memory of the look on her face as he had kissed her good-bye. It had felt like abandonment, even if he had every intention of returning.

“Don't they trust me to take care of dear old Giles?”

“Not very much, no,” Giles said, smiling back despite himself. “They should, however, trust me to take care of myself.”

“Indeed,” Ethan said. He was done with his drink, Giles saw. He checked his watch and glanced toward the door.

“How late is he?” Giles asked.

“Half an hour,” Ethan replied. “Not late at all for a Brazilian, but late for Josué, especially under these circumstances.”

“When did you last talk to him?” Giles asked, suddenly uneasy. He hoped that it was merely Ethan's concern setting off his alarm bells.

“This afternoon, about four.” Ethan shook his head. “Finish your drink and don't rush it. If he's still not here by then, we'll go.”

The shaman had not arrived fifteen minutes later when Giles took the last swallow of his drink. Ethan signaled immediately for the check. They paid and rose, threading their way back to the stairs among the tables of laughing tourists and locals, most of whom had a caipirinha at hand. Once on the promenade Ethan sped up; Giles followed, wishing he hadn't let Ethan talk him into even one of those blasted drinks. He felt the alcohol as fatigue in his legs, nothing more, but he knew better than to make what could be the fatal mistake of believing his reflexes were normal. The warm, thick air and the weight of his bag on his shoulder did nothing to help matters; after only a few minutes of brisk walking, Giles's shirt was completely soaked through.

“Where – ?” Giles began, intending to demand where the hell Josué lived. But Ethan stopped then in front of a building. It was four stories high and fairly new, but the unframed windows gave a rather rundown impression. The front door was ajar. Giles glanced around nervously.

“Come on,” Ethan said, and without waiting for an answer, started up the stairs.

The stairwell was dark and stifling. They went up three flights and stopped in front of a door – this one was closed, at least. There was no name or identifying number, but Ethan knocked once, and then again, harder, a few seconds later. “Josué!” he called. No answer. He tried the knob and it gave way.

“Did – does he usually keep his door unlocked?” Giles asked.

Ethan shook his head. “Not in this neighborhood.” He took a deep breath and Giles glanced at him in surprise. Ethan had often played the coward in the past, but it had nearly always been . . . strategic. Calculated cowardliness. This, however, was something else. The door swung open.

The entrance hall that lay just beyond was completely wrecked. The floor was littered with books whose pages had been ripped out, picture frames that had been cracked, and shelves that had been pulled straight down off the walls. Glass crunched under their shoes as they stepped inside. Even worse was the crackle of magic in the air, raising the hair on the back of Giles's neck. He had a sudden flash of Willow's flat in Rio, and knew without needing to look that through the door to his right, Josué was dead, as brutally murdered as Kennedy had been. Giles could see by the way Ethan's lips tightened that he knew it as well.

“Do you want me to go first?” Giles asked.

Ethan shook his head. He pushed the door open and froze, not moving to let Giles through. He finally had to push past Ethan in order to see into the flat's living room, equally destroyed, and there, tied to a chair in the middle of the room –

The bile that rose in Giles's throat was wholly unexpected. He turned and staggered two steps back into the hallway before being sick all over the glass shards and picture frames. “I'm –” he managed, but could not squeeze out “fine” through the heaving. When he was finally able to straighten, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he avoided Ethan's gaze out of pure humiliation. The scene in the other room was terrible, there was no doubt of that, but Giles had seen worse. He had no idea how to tell Ethan that it would not have had him doubled over and retching if the shaman had not been tied to a chair. Ethan didn't know about Angelus, and Giles didn't think now was the right moment to explain.

“I'm fine,” he managed at last. His voice was too thin, but Ethan only nodded.

The second time they went in, Giles avoided looking at the chair in the center of the room until he had taken in all the other details he had missed the first time. The living room had been methodically wrecked: drawers dumped out, sofa cushions overturned, all the pictures and bookshelves pulled off the walls. They – the Children of the Dark Eye – must have been looking for something.

Finally Giles steeled himself, looked back toward that chair, and flinched as he saw what he hadn't noticed before: a hand-shaped burn in the center of the shaman's chest. It wasn't easy to see; the man's throat had been cut and there was a horrific amount of blood, but it was there nonetheless.

“Ethan,” Giles said, when Ethan said nothing for nearly three minutes, “how powerful was he?”

Ethan could not seem to tear his gaze away. “Very.”

“Meaning what?”

Ethan shook his head, and finally looked to Giles. “I'm not sure exactly. Somewhere between me and Willow, I think.”

“Bloody hell,” Giles muttered. He looked around. “Was there anything here worth finding?”

Ethan shook his head again. “His books, but he always kept those well hidden. I doubt they could have found them without knowing how to look. The really important things were the maps he'd found, showing how to get to the Mouth of the Beast. And those aren't here, they're in –” He froze, eyes widening.

“Where?” Giles pressed, a horrible icy feeling in his stomach.

“My hotel room.”

“Bloody hell,” Giles said again, with even more feeling. “Let's go.” He pushed Ethan out into the hall ahead of him and grabbed his bag, pausing just long enough to wipe the doorknob of prints. The police could do nothing about the real killers, and having to deal with them coming after Ethan was a complication Giles could do without.

Once out of the building, Ethan immediately stepped into the street to hail a taxi. “We need the maps,” he said over his shoulder. “Without them I have no idea how to get where we need to go.”

“Can you get other copies if we're too late?” He was almost positive the Children of the Dark Eye now knew whatever the shaman had known, including where Ethan was staying. He didn't know how much of a head start the cult had, but if Ethan had last spoken to Josué at four o'clock, they could be several hours ahead of them. Or he and Ethan could be about to run into the cult raiding their hotel room; it was simply impossible to know for sure, and Giles wasn't sure which he preferred.

“I don't know,” Ethan said as a taxi finally pulled over, honking once to warn the cars behind it. They slid in and Ethan gave the address to the driver before turning back to Giles. “As I said yesterday, Josué's connections here are – were excellent.”

The hotel Giles's secretary had booked Ethan into was one of the nicer ones in Macapá. It was a genuine colonial era building on a relatively quiet street in the center, a large, rambling house with a tropical garden blooming in back. Giles had spent one night there himself on his way upriver to look for Willow and Ethan, and he remembered the staff as being very helpful and friendly. He dreaded what he might find in the lobby.

Nothing, as it turned out. “Mr. Rayne,” the young man behind the desk said, blinking. “And . . . Mr. Giles, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Giles said. “I'm afraid we won't be staying, though. We're just here to collect a few things from Mr. Rayne's room and then he'll need to check out.”

The young man frowned at Ethan. “But, senhor , you already did.”

Ethan darted a glance toward Giles. “Pardon me?”

“You checked out half an hour ago. Did you forget something?”

Giles looked at Ethan, who stared back impassively. “Yes,” Ethan said at last. “I think I might have.”

The young man retrieved the key to room nineteen from its hook and led them upstairs to the first floor. He unlocked the room and remained in the hallway while Ethan went in, followed by Giles. The room was small but comfortably furnished with a high bed, an elegantly carved wardrobe and bedside table, and two armchairs. Ethan immediately dropped to his hands and knees to peer beneath the bed.

“Under the bed?” Giles could not help saying incredulously. “That was your brilliant plan for hiding these apparently invaluable maps?”

“There were other things protecting them, Ripper,” Ethan said, muffled, and then sat back on his heels, shaking his head. “They're not –” He broke off, eyes going wide. “Get down!” he yelled, and scrambled back. Before Giles had the chance to move, there was a sound like an explosion heard underwater and he felt himself lifted off his feet and flung like a rag doll against the wall. All the air rushed out of him and he slid to the floor, sick and dazed, unable to draw breath.

The hotel clerk rushed in, exclaiming something in Portuguese that Giles was much too groggy to understand. “I'm fine,” he managed to gasp, raising a hand. “Ethan –”

It took another few seconds for the stars to clear enough for Giles to see that Ethan had been thrown back as well, with probably a good deal more force. He had landed against the air conditioning unit, it seemed, and lay unconscious – Giles hoped. The hotel clerk bent over him, checking the pulse in Ethan's neck. There was a residual crackle of magic in the air; it was fading quickly now, but it had been very strong at the beginning – not strong enough to come from whoever had stolen the shaman's power, Giles thought, but strong enough that he suspected it had been meant to kill. Only Ethan's split-second reaction had saved him.

Giles struggled to push himself away from the wall and off the floor using limbs that didn't want to obey, and managed to stagger over. Ethan was breathing, he was relieved to see. Giles leaned against the wall to keep from falling over.

“ Senhor , I shall call an ambulance,” the hotel clerk said, standing.

“No, no,” Giles said quickly. He knelt and examined the bump on the back of Ethan's head. “He'll be fine.” Already Ethan's eyelids were beginning to flutter.

“What was that?” the clerk asked, casting a spooked look back toward the bed.

Giled eyed him in sudden suspicion. Paulo had seemed innocent and ignorant as well, after all. “You must have a gas leak,” he said, grateful for once that his years in Sunnydale had given him ample practice in inventing absurd stories to explain away magical or demonic phenomena.

The clerk frowned. “I do not smell anything.”

“Still,” Giles said, “best to check, don't you think?” The clerk nodded anxiously and rushed off to fetch his manager, who would probably insist on calling an ambulance if Ethan weren't fully conscious by the time he arrived. “Come on,” Giles said, shaking Ethan's shoulder. “Ethan!”

Ethan's eyes snapped open and he winced. “Ow,” he said, raising a hand to his temple. “That was a nasty bugger.”

Giles nodded his agreement. “Not particularly inventive,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the innocent dark space under the bed, “but effective. Can you stand?”

“Do I have to?”

“I'm afraid so. We should get out of here as soon as possible.” He could hear two sets of footsteps on the stairs; his heart started to race and he hurriedly pulled Ethan into a sitting position.

“God, that's unpleasant,” Ethan said, bracing himself against Giles. He was very pale, but Giles was ruthless as he hauled him to his feet.

“It's called a concussion,” Giles said. “It's actually a rather refreshing change not to be the one knocked unconscious. Lean on me. Let's go.”

They met the clerk and his manager at the top of the stairs. Giles froze, but his suspicions turned out only to be paranoia. After a great deal of arguing about calling an ambulance, Giles finally convinced him that he would take Mr. Rayne to the nearest hospital post-haste, and they were allowed to escape.

Outside it had begun to rain, but it was as yet only a fine, thin drizzle. They stumbled along for a few blocks, Giles casting tense glances over his shoulder every few steps, waiting for a figure to step out of the shadows and obliterate them both. He had no idea where they were going and he'd been in Ethan's shoes often enough to know that he was probably having trouble just staying on his feet.

At last Giles spied a café, deserted save for a single bored waiter, spilling friendly yellow light out onto the sidewalk. He steered them both inside and chose a table where he could see anyone who walked by or came in. The café had a North American feel to it, with abstract art on the walls, comfortable furnishings, and a bilingual menu. Giles ordered coffee for himself and tea for Ethan, and the waiter went away, remarkably uncurious about their disheveled appearance. Most likely he thought them drunk.

Giles dug through his bag until he found the first aid kit he never left home without and shook out two paracemetol. “Take those when your tea comes,” he told Ethan, who had gone pale and glassy-eyed.

“Nothing stronger, Ripper?” he asked, accepting the pills just the same.

“Yes, but now is not the time, unfortunately. God, that went to hell fast.” Ethan didn't bother to answer. Giles leaned back in his overstuffed chair. It wasn't even midnight yet, but he'd been up for well over twenty-four hours. Ethan most likely had concussion, and was clearly functioning on some minimal level. Discussion about how to find new maps and put the rest of Giles's plan into action would have to wait until tomorrow. He had counted on having some fairly strong connections to the black arts community in Macapá though, and now it seemed they didn't.

The waiter brought their order. The coffee was strong and woke him up, even if it was too hot for the steamy Amazonian night. Ethan took the pills. Giles watched him and wondered if he dared say anything. “I'm sorry,” he offered at last. “About Josué, I mean.” Ethan merely sipped his tea. “Did you know each other . . . well?”

Ethan looked at him for a few seconds, face utterly unreadable. “Ripper, regardless of what you might think, I would never have pulled someone I didn't know well into this mess.”

“Oh,” Giles said, looking away. “Quite. Well, I am sorry.”

“So am I,” Ethan said quietly. He seemed to focus for a second, looking at Giles. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, I'm not the one with concussion,” Giles replied, frowning.

“That isn't what I meant. At Josué's flat –”

“Oh,” Giles said. “Yes, I'm fine.” He cleared his throat. “It's a long story, and one I would rather not tell just now.”

Ethan nodded, and neither of them said anything for several minutes. Finally Giles rubbed a hand over his face and drained the rest of his coffee. “All right,” he said, “first things first. We both need sleep. Is there anywhere you know of that's safe?”

Ethan frowned. Giles waited until at last he looked up. “Define ‘safe,' Ripper,” he said, an echo of his usual infuriating smirk lurking about his lips.

Half an hour later, Giles found himself trailing along behind Ethan in the thick, murky darkness of the marina. It was raining more heavily now, which Giles supposed he should be grateful for, since it made it far less likely that anyone would see them, especially as the area was not well-lit to begin with. But Giles was wet all the way through already from the walk and, since Ethan had not seen fit to let Giles in on his plan for finding them shelter for the night, he was impatient and annoyed as well. The boats bobbed gently in their moorings, their windows like blank, unseeing eyes: sailboats, motorboats, more of the dreaded motorized canoes, and houseboats as well.

It was the latter that Ethan seemed interested in. He went from one houseboat to the next, each time bending over to check something on the underside while Giles looked around nervously and kept a firm grip on his bag. Crime was not as much of a problem in Macapá as it was in larger Brazilian cities, but if ever anyone were a target, it would be the foreigner with a bag in an unlit part of the city after midnight.

At last Ethan made a satisfied noise. “This one,” he said, and lowered himself onto the deck of the boat, which floated a few feet below the dock in the low tide.

“Pardon me?” Giles said.

“I said, this one,” Ethan repeated impatiently as he bent to examine the lock on the cabin door. “How are your lock-picking skills these days?” When Giles only stared, Ethan shrugged. “Good thing you have me along then. Mine have rarely been better.”

“Ethan,” Giles said, and then stopped. He cast one last look over his shoulder and then swung himself down onto the deck as well. “When I said safe, I rather thought –”

“What, another hotel? They'd want passport numbers and identification. I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on giving those out at the moment.” The cabin door swung open, revealing the pitch dark interior – pitch dark, at least, until Ethan's lighter flared.

“And how do we know this boat's owners aren't going to be along tomorrow morning to have us arrested?” Giles hissed.

“The algae,” Ethan replied, peering around in the flickering blue glow of the lighter's flame. He nodded. “Yes, this will do.”

“What algae?” Giles asked. The cabin was dark and cramped, but there were two beds and a bathroom, which was an improvement over some hotels Giles had stayed in. If he ignored the fact that this was all completely illegal and likely to land them both in Brazilian jail, it would do nicely indeed.

Ethan frowned at him as though Giles were being slow. And perhaps he was, but after the day he'd had, Giles rather thought he had the right. “The algae on the bottom of the boat is thick as fur. Means no one's gone river cruising in this for quite some time. We should take care not to be seen coming and going, but I doubt whoever keeps an eye on the marina would recognize the owners of this boat if they came along and pinched them on the arse.”

“And the cult?” Giles said evenly.

“Do you think we were followed?”

Giles shook his head. “There are, however, other means of surveillance.”

“Unfortunately true,” Ethan said. He nodded, mostly to himself, it seemed. “We can take care of that. Care to give me a hand?”

After some argument they put up three wards, one to warn them if anyone approached, one to deflect the more basic offensive spells, and one to protect them from prying eyes, ears, and minds. Giles assisted, watching Ethan carefully since doing magic with a head injury was never advisable. Given how fatigued they were, however, the spells went up without any particular difficulty, and it was with relief that Giles watched Ethan lock them in with a spell. Giles claimed the bathroom first, where he changed into pajamas and brushed his teeth with bottled water, since he was fairly certain the tap water came straight from the river.

He came out to find Ethan asleep on the narrow bed by the window. Giles thought then that standing watches might be wise, but the truth was that he was swaying on his feet from exhaustion. He stumbled the two feet to the other bed and collapsed upon the bare mattress with scarcely another thought.

*~*~*

Giles woke in the early morning, utterly disoriented. For nearly half a minute he had no idea which country and even less which time zone he was in. Eventually he realized that he didn't usually wake up soaked with sweat in England, and stifled a groan. Though he couldn't have slept for more than four hours and was still exhausted, he didn't fool himself into thinking he could sleep anymore. He dug his shaving kit out of his bag and shuffled yawning into the bathroom, where he tested the shower without much hope. To his surprise it worked; the water was brown and cold, but then again, a hot shower was really the very last thing Giles wanted. He peeled off his clothes and washed quickly. He shaved at the tiny sink, dressed in khakis and a clean shirt, and felt better afterward.

Ethan was still asleep. Giles looked him over with some concern; if he really did have concussion, they should have probably been much more careful. But his breathing was normal and the bump on the back of his head seemed to have diminished overnight. Giles let him be for the moment and tested the door at the back of the boat. It opened onto a small patio area Giles imagined was meant for sunbathing and possibly grilling. A few seconds' search revealed a cupboard with several folded-up beach chairs. He pulled one out and sat down, gazing over the railing at the marina laid out before him, and beyond that the river itself, slow and inexorable. He watched the sky lighten and mulled things over.

Unfortunately, the mulling was much less productive than he might have liked, since it seemed that any time to think led inevitably to thoughts of Willow. She was likely sitting down to breakfast at the coven now, with Buffy and Dawn on either side of her. He was glad he had thought to send them back with her; she should not be alone. He would ring her before they left for the Mouth of the Beast, he decided, and with some difficulty turned his thoughts to their current situation.

This was not particularly fruitful either, and eventually he dozed off, waking an hour later when Ethan began to stir inside the houseboat. Giles waited while Ethan took his turn in the shower and then ducked back into the cabin. “Good morning,” he said.

Ethan had changed back into his clothes from the previous day, since of course he had no others. He was in the midst of checking his pockets, it seemed. “As you say,” he said, barely glancing up.

Giles hesitated. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Ethan said, probing gingerly at the back of his head. “Better, at least.”

Giles nodded, satisfied. “We should eat something then, I suppose, and talk about what to do next.”

“You'll have to buy, I'm afraid,” Ethan said, with a distinct lack of apology in his tone. “I'm down to pocket change. Most of my cash was in the hotel room.”

Fifteen minutes later Giles found himself in a dim café on one of the narrow side streets near the marina, facing a hollowed out gourd full of something called – according to Ethan – açai. He poked at it suspiciously and then eyed Ethan, who was eating his own with apparent enthusiasm. Giles took a fortifying sip of his black coffee and then a bite of the mush in the bowl. The palm berries tasted like black raspberries, with perhaps the barest hint of chocolate, and the tapioca was smooth on his tongue. Giles might have preferred bacon and eggs, but he had traveled enough to know that it could have been much, much worse.

“Not going to kill you after all then?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Giles swallowed his second bite. “It seems not.”

Ethan sipped his coffee. “You said you had a plan?”

“Yes,” Giles said, and pulled out the folder with the Council research team's report. He slid it across the table to Ethan. “Read that to start with,” he said, and waited patiently while Ethan did so.

He had finished his açai and ordered more coffee for them both when Ethan looked up at last. “Fascinating, Ripper,” he said, “but you know I've never been much for history. Tell me what you've got in mind.”

Giles grimaced at him. “It occurred to me that we have two options for dealing with the matter of the talisman – and the same applies to the maps as well now, I suppose. The first option is to simply steal them back.”

“Suicide,” Ethan said immediately. “Even if we knew the location of the cult's base in Macapá, which Josué was never able to turn up even with his connections, it'd just get us both killed.” The waitress returned with two fresh cups of coffee, and Ethan waited until she'd left to add, “And the same goes for whatever we do unless we leave the cult thoroughly weakened.”

Giles sighed. He'd known as much, really, especially now that the cult held the shaman's considerable power. “What about the maps then?”

Ethan frowned. “There might be something I can do about that. I've met a few of Josué's friends – they might help me. What was your Plan B for the talisman? And I do hope it's better than ‘steal it back,'” he added acerbically, sipping his coffee.

Giles ignored his tone. “As you can see from the account,” he nodded toward the folder, “the power must be released from the talisman at a crucial point in the ritual. It seems to me that this is the cult's most vulnerable moment. If we can move in then and recapture Willow's power in a different amulet –”

“We will then be murdered,” Ethan finished, “quickly if we're lucky, slowly and tortuously if our current luck holds. Ripper, self-sacrifice is all well and good for other people, but it's never been my thing. Do you have any plans that don't involve being killed?”

Giles set his coffee cup down on the table and glared. “I have no intention of being killed, especially since that would leave no one to take the amulet back to Willow. I believe there might be some way of, of mimicking the effects described in the report.”

Ethan pulled the folder toward him and scanned it again. “Perhaps,” he said. “If I had the right books and the right ingredients. A simple explosion is child's play, but to mimic the outpouring of a huge magical force like this is somewhat more difficult.” He looked thoughtful. “The easiest way would be to turn the cult's magic . . . inside out, shall we say. You want them to think the ritual simply went awry?”

“That was the idea.”

“And you think they'll buy that?” Ethan shook his head. “They obviously know we're here – they'll be on guard for anything we might do.”

“If we do it right, they'll be too weakened to come after us anyway,” Giles pointed out. “And I believe we could recapture the power without revealing ourselves. Before I left London, one of our mystics found a spell she thought might work.” He pulled a folded slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Ethan, who scanned it.

“A focusing spell,” he said. “With the amulet as the focal point.”

“Followed by something to safeguard her power within the amulet, of course.”

Ethan nodded. “Simple enough.” His mouth twisted in wry amusement. “Certainly better than ‘steal it back.' If we can find the materials . . . yes, I think it might work.”

“And can we?” Giles asked. “Find them, I mean?”

Ethan frowned down at the spell. “Hard to say. In Rio it wouldn't be a problem, even in Belem – that's the next big city downriver,” he added at Giles's questioning look. “But Macapá is small –”

“Three hundred thousand people isn't small,” Giles objected.

“It is for Brazil,” Ethan said. “Its seamy dark magics underbelly is even smaller, and very secretive and closed. Part of the reason I was so keen on having Josué with us,” he added.

“I see. And there's no one who might talk to you because you knew him?”

“Perhaps,” Ethan said. “But I'm as yet unsure what the . . . reaction to his death will be. I may be blamed.” Giles gave him a sharp look and he amended quickly, “Oh, not that anyone will harm me, but asking favors just now might be difficult. The upshot, however, is that the Children of the Dark Eye are outsiders as well. If I can make it clear who was actually responsible, they will find many doors unexpectedly closed.”

Giles sighed. “Well, that's something.”

Ethan glanced back down at the list. “It's also possible that Josué had some of the books I need in his flat.”

“I could go back and check,” Giles offered, “if you wanted to look into the maps.”

Ethan drained the last of his coffee. “That would work. And the amulet?”

“That . . . might be rather more difficult. The specifications are somewhat, er, specific.”

“Meaning what, Ripper?”

Giles sighed. “It should be forged in magic, but magically inert in and of itself. It shouldn't be associated with any dark power – or any power, period, for preference. And I think a precious jewel of some kind at its core would be ideal, to help with the focusing.”

“That will be rare,” Ethan said, raising his eyebrows, “and therefore cost a very pretty penny.”

“If I had the time I'd commission it from someone I know to be reliable. Money is no object.”

“How nice for you,” Ethan said dryly. “I can look into it along with the maps today.”

“Do you have any idea how long –”

“No. This is going to be delicate.” Ethan grimaced. “I'll meet you back at the marina when I'm done.”

“And there's no way I can help?”

“No,” Ethan said firmly. “They're extremely clannish, as I said. The presence of another outsider would only make things more difficult.”

“I see,” Giles said. He checked his watch; it was just shy of nine o'clock. “We'd best be on our way then.”

Ethan gestured to the waitress, and while they were waiting for the check wrote down a list of books Giles was to look for, along with detailed instructions on how find them. Giles read them over and raised his eyebrows. Well-hidden indeed.

They parted on the sidewalk outside, Giles only just managing to swallow a reflexive, “Be careful” as Ethan turned away. He watched him until he vanished into the throng of people on the street. Ethan had been worried, Giles thought, and rightfully so. Even if he were right and the cult found itself in deep trouble with the local magical community over the shaman's death, they could still catch wind of what Giles and Ethan were up to. Giles had not counted on having the element of true surprise on their side – the cult had to know the Council would come after them, both to stop the ritual and to retrieve Willow's power – but he had not expected so many problems so quickly. At which thought he almost laughed at himself. He had obviously been too long off the Hellmouth.

It was a ten minute walk to the shaman's flat through the center of town. When he arrived he found three police cars parked outside and a crowd of Brazilians on the sidewalk, gaping as Josué's body was brought out on a stretcher, covered with a sheet. Rather than be caught staring, Giles went into a café across the street, ordered tea, and sat near the window. The waiter served it silently and Giles set to waiting.

He'd drunk three cups by the time the last police car left. Giles paid his bill and set off down the sidewalk, away from the shaman's building. He circled back and jogged up the steps as though he belonged there. The front door was locked this time; he unlocked it with magic and made his way up the dim staircase. He had to break the police seal on the door to get in; he shut the door behind him as quietly as possible while casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. At this time of the day most of the neighbors were probably working, but one never knew.

The flat looked much as it had the night before. Giles stepped around the spot in the front hallway where he'd been sick, and, once in the living room, bypassed the chair quickly, trying not to look. He shut himself in the bedroom, which had undergone treatment similar to the other rooms in the flat. The closet door stood open, but a quick inspection showed that while the floor was strewn with clothes and photographs and empty boxes that had apparently been pulled off the top shelf, the cult's members had never realized that the back of the closet was not nearly as ordinary as it seemed. With the right incantation, it opened into a temporal fold, and from there the shaman's books were readily accessible.

Giles searched until he found an empty duffel bag made of cracked red leather to put the books in. Then he stepped back into the closet, shut the door behind him just in case, and stretched his hand out. He commenced reciting the incantation in Nheengatu, the indigenous language Ethan said the shaman had used for all his personally designed spells. Giles could only hope he was pronouncing it correctly.

It seemed he was. The back of the closet wavered. Giles touched it tentatively, and when there was no magical bite, passed through.

It was the same flat as the one that lay just behind him, but this one was floor to ceiling books. Giles stared, astonished. He had only very rarely seen a personal collection larger than his own – Wesley's had been, by perhaps twenty-five volumes, and there had been two or three other Watchers with more – but this was probably fifty percent larger than his. Some of them were very old and rare as well. Giles reached out and touched the spine of one reverently. He had been deeply suspicious of the shaman even up till now, but somehow seeing his collection like this made Giles regret that. He was suddenly very sorry for more than just pragmatic reasons that he would never have the chance to talk to the man who had once owned these books, to hear his stories and learn about his methods.

The books were arranged alphabetically by author, for which Giles was grateful. Some collectors had strange systems unknown to anyone but themselves, but Josué hadn't been one of them. Though Giles could have lingered for days, he quickly scanned the shelves for the volumes Ethan wanted. He'd requested three; Giles found two. He put them into the bag he'd pilfered very carefully – that was Lacroix's Grimoire , for heaven's sake, with the original engravings. With one last glance over his shoulder he passed back through the temporal fold – and immediately froze.

There were voices in the bedroom beyond the closet door. They were speaking Portuguese, and his first thought was that someone had seen him enter the shaman's flat and called the police. He bit his lip to keep from swearing; being arrested for breaking into a murder scene would cause an unbearable delay, even with all the pressure the Council's lawyers could bring to bear.

“I was not mistaken,” someone said. “Someone performed a spell here, not ten minutes ago.”

Bloody hell. Not the police then. Giles tried not to breathe. He was trapped. He could not reopen the temporal fold and escape that way, since it would only alert them. He had no way out if they very logically decided to check the closet. Except . . . he was sure he had latched the closet door behind him when he'd gone in, and now it was just slightly cracked. Perhaps they had checked it already.

In which case, Giles realized with a twist of his gut, he was quite lucky not to have come through and found the closet door wide open and himself wholly exposed.

Footsteps entered the bedroom. Giles could see nothing through the crack, but he strained the limits of his Portuguese to listen.

“There's no one in the bathroom or kitchen,” a woman's voice said.

“Whoever it was, they're gone now,” a third voice said, masculine like the first one, but without the sense of authority.

“Don't be stupid,” the first voice said. That had to be the leader, possibly of the whole cult – Saramargo, Willow had said he was called; there was a hum of magic in his voice, just beneath the surface. Giles would have bet almost anything that he was the one who had stolen the shaman's power. He swallowed and pressed himself back against the clothes hanging in the closet behind him. “It was those –” He said a word then that Giles didn't recognize, but it sounded impolite, to say the least. “Almeida's trap last night obviously failed. We have to find them today. We cannot risk them interrupting the ritual.”

“They're not staying at any hotel in the city,” the woman said.

“Because they aren't complete idiots,” Saramargo snapped. He said something else, too fast for Giles to make out. “We have until tomorrow morning,” he heard clearly then. “No more.”

“They'll need supplies,” the man said.

“Check all likely locations then,” Saramargo ordered. “All known magical suppliers.”

There was a brief silence. Then the man said, “That may be . . . difficult. The shaman's death –”

“Was necessary,” Saramargo said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And just for that, you can be the one to do the checking. Boa sorte ,” he added nastily. Good luck.

“Look,” the woman said, “there's no one here. Let's go.”

Giles listened to them leave, and finally let out the breath he'd been holding. He sagged back against the now solid wood of the back of the closet and closed his eyes. He was soaked with sweat and not only from the heat, though it was stifling inside the closet.

He waited until the minute hand had crept around the face of his watch seven times before he dared venture out. The bedroom beyond was empty and so was the living room. Giles set the leather duffel with the books on the bed and went to the window, which faced the street. He pushed the curtains aside just enough to look. No one was loitering suspiciously, either on the sidewalk in front of the building or across the street. There was, however, a young woman seated at one of the outdoor tables at the café Giles himself had used earlier to watch the building. The same waiter who had served him brought her coffee and a pastry. She pulled a book out of her purse and pretended to read, but Giles could see that she kept raising her head to watch the front steps of the building.

He stood there, frozen and watching, for five minutes, and she never turned a page.

Damn. Giles retrieved the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. He hadn't seen a fire escape, and he thought it unlikely that the building had one. Magic was not an option, so he couldn't even repair the police seal as he'd planned. He didn't dare contact Ethan from the flat; God only knew what eavesdropping spells the cult had left.

He let himself out of the flat. A quick look around revealed no fire escape, so he set off down the stairs with an extremely uncomfortable lack of a plan. Once he'd reached the ground floor, he stopped on the last step, eyeing the front door and considering his options. For a few seconds he was on the verge of heading straight out and hoping she either didn't recognize him – unlikely, that; the cult had sent Paulo to him after all – or that he could sneak past when she wasn't looking. But then he noticed that the stairs continued down one more flight before ending in a door labeled with a word that instantly became Giles's very favorite in all the Portuguese language: Embasamento.

“Yes,” he muttered.

The door was unlocked. Giles glanced back up the stairs, and, seeing no one, slipped inside. He found himself at the top of a flight of stairs that led down even further into a dim room. It was silent; no hot water heater in this building. The air was hot and stale, and the only source of light was a grimy window near the ceiling on the other side of the room, set at the level of the ground.

It was the work of a few minutes to shove a table, probably discarded by a former tenant, beneath the window. He found a broom and broke the glass, using the handle to clear away the shards as best he could. As soon as he thought he could manage it without cutting himself too badly, he climbed onto the table, glass shards crunching under his shoes, and shoved the duffel bag out onto the grass. His shoulders barely fit, but with a good deal of very undignified wriggling he finally managed to squeeze through. He ended up lying on his back on a patch of grass, looking up at a palm tree. He rolled quickly to his feet, ready to run, but the only one who seemed to have noticed anything was one of the city's many stray dogs, who cocked his head and perked his ears at Giles curiously.

“Good dog,” Giles managed. The side of the building shielded him from the street, but he could just see the woman at her table in front of the café. He watched her sip her coffee and glance once more toward the steps of the building. Giles smiled grimly, hoisted the duffel bag, and backed away.

He didn't ring Ethan until he was safely on another street. He left a message and walked along briskly, clutching the duffel bag and trying to look as though he knew what he was doing. He had nearly reached the marina when his mobile rang.

“Did you get them?” Ethan asked immediately, for once not bothering to bully Giles into exchanging pleasantries.

“Two of them,” he said. “Had a bit of trouble though.” He filled Ethan in on what had happened as succinctly as possible. “The good news then,” he finished, “is that we have two of the books and they don't seem to know where we are. The bad news is that they'll be trying to make things difficult for you.”

“They can try,” Ethan said, sounding satisfied, “but I think they'll succeed only in making things difficult for themselves. The community is very stirred up over Josué's death.”

“Are you all right?” Giles asked. He'd reached the houseboat, which was floating level to the dock now with the high tide.

“Yes,” Ethan said. “They know who to blame and thankfully it's not me.”

“Good,” Giles said. He unlocked the cabin door and checked quickly to make sure all was as they'd left it. It was, and the spells were still in place as well. He tucked the books under one of the bunks and realized suddenly that the back of his hand was bleeding, undoubtedly from the broken window.

“However . . .” Ethan paused. “I take it there's no chance of us going back to the flat to retrieve more books.”

“I think it would be unwise,” Giles said, pausing in the act of digging out his first aid kit. “Why?”

“Because I think I've found what we need, the maps and the amulet, with the same dealer. But she drives quite a hard bargain.”

“I told you,” Giles said, attempting to open a package of antiseptic cotton swabs with one hand. He gave up, cradled the mobile between his ear and his shoulder, and tore it open. “Money is no object.”

“Money isn't going to be enough,” Ethan replied. “But there are books in Josué's collection – which ones did you get?”

“Lacroix's Grimoire ,” Giles said, wincing at the sting of the antiseptic, “and The Twelve Elements of Magic .”

“Good,” Ethan said. “Those should be enough for the spell and the Grimoire might serve well to sweeten the transaction with our dealer.”

Giles dropped the antiseptic swab. “Ethan, you can't possibly – that book is dangerous! We can't – I can't allow it to, to be –”

“Even if it would mean the difference, Ripper?” Ethan replied. Giles didn't answer, and after a moment he went on, “I promise you, Laserpía is a better guardian of that book than most people you'd find. She's adamantly anti-apocalypse, for one thing.”

“Shouldn't she give us everything for free then?” Giles asked tartly.

“Oh no, Ripper. People must do business after all. Listen,” Ethan added before Giles could think of a properly sarcastic response, “negotiations are proceeding. I should go. Probably best if you stay put, don't you think?”

“Probably,” Giles muttered. He hung up and finished bandaging his hand. It made him itch, the idea of giving up that book, ninety percent of which had no possible good use. Anti-apocalypse, Ethan had said. Adamantly so. Well, Giles supposed that was something. It never failed to shock him how many people weren't.

He checked to make sure the marina-side door was locked and double-checked the spell to warn him if anyone approached. Then he went out onto the little patio, settled himself in the beach chair and took out his mobile again.

His first attempt went to voicemail after an absurd number of rings. Giles tried it again, and this time Buffy answered, sounding breathless. “Giles!” she greeted him. “We didn't think we'd hear from you – is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Giles said, but cautiously. “We had a few, er, problems last night, but today seems to be going moderately well.”

“Oh good. Not the problems, I mean,” Buffy amended. “But the moderately well. Moderately well is a lot better than a complete freakin' disaster.”

“True,” Giles said, smiling to himself. “And how are things on your end?”

“They're, um . . . less moderately well.” She sighed. “I don't know, Giles. Willow's hanging in there, but you can tell the waiting's driving her crazy. Me too, actually. This is so not what I was made for.”

“I know,” Giles said. “And I'm sorry. But it won't be much longer.”

“I guess. It's just . . . it's Will, you know? Sorry, really stupid question. Of course you do.”

“I do,” Giles said with a sigh. He swallowed, no longer smiling, and watched a bird flying out over the river, too far away for him to tell what it might be. “Er . . . may – may I talk to her?”

“Oh, yeah, just a sec.”

He listened to her muffle the phone and call for Willow, and then to the half-mumbled words and sounds of the phone being handed over.

“Hey, Giles,” Willow said.

Giles stomach flipped over and it was a split second before he found his voice to reply. “Hello, darling,” he said. “How are you?”

He didn't think he imagined the catch in her breath at the endearment. “I'm okay,” she said. She paused, “Actually no. Not okay at all. God, Giles, I wish you were here. Or – no, that's not it. I wish I was there.”

“Me too. But –”

“I know. I can't be. I get it. I hate it, but I get it.”

“I wish you were here as well,” he said, though truthfully he was just as glad to have her out of immediate danger.

“Yeah,” she said, almost tonelessly. She sighed. “Sorry, that's just – my stuff. How're you?”

“Fine. It's going well,” he added. “I would even say very well if I didn't think it would be tempting fate.” She didn't need to know details, he decided. Didn't need to know about Josué. Not at the moment, at least, and possibly not ever, though Giles thought she would want to eventually. She would want to know how high the price had been.

“Good,” she said, “good.” And then she added, sounding slightly shaky, “Giles, I know I said this before, but please be careful. I really couldn't stand it if, if –”

“I'll be careful,” he said. “Ethan and I can take care of ourselves.”

“I know, I just – I hate – never mind.” He heard her take a deep breath and let it out. “I guess you'd probably better go. Things to do, right?”

“I should, yes.” He hesitated. “Could you hand the phone back to Buffy first, though?”

“Sure. Um . . . I love you.”

“I love you too.” It was almost ridiculous how much he loved her, and he had to wonder how long it had really been. He remembered noticing how beautiful she was as far back as that long, difficult summer they'd spent together at the coven. She had worn no make-up at all those three months and had dressed in earth tones, as though trying to blend in with her surroundings. And he had realized what she had not: that it made her even more beautiful. Perhaps it had begun then, and continued as he'd watched her find her center, find her confidence, find her true power. He didn't know for certain, and didn't think he ever would. But it didn't matter.

He cleared his throat. “I'll call again the day after tomorrow if – I'll call.”

“Thanks. Here she is.”

“Giles?” Buffy said.

“Buffy . . . I – I need to ask you something. A favor.”

“Sure. Ask away. Believe me, anything I can do to help, I am there.”

Giles closed his eyes. “That's – it's not quite . . . I'm not sure how to say this. But, Buffy . . . if – if I don't –” He swallowed against a throat that was suddenly very tight. “You and Xander,” he managed. “You will be there with her, won't you?”

“Giles,” Buffy said in a small voice, “are you – are you sure it's going okay?”

“Yes, but, Buffy, please – I promised her I'd be there, but if I can't be, if I – if I fail –”

“Yeah, Giles, of course we'll be there.”

Giles leaned his head back against the hard metal bar running along the back of the beach chair. He felt sweaty and tired and relieved, all at once. He'd needed to know she wouldn't be alone. If he couldn't be there, someone else would be. “Thank you.”

“But, Giles?”

“Yes?”

“Don't fail.”

Next

Send Feedback

Back to sahiya's Stories