"Children of the night...shut up!"

--Count Dracula, (George Hamilton) Love at First Bite

* * * * *

It was always the same. The sword, the portal, the bittersweet kisses...the look in his eyes when she betrayed him.

"Close your eyes."

He did. Oh, why did he have to be so trusting? Why did he have to be so willing to do anything for her? If he hadn't closed his eyes, Buffy was sure she wouldn't have been able to go through with it... Why did they have to love each other so much?

Angel stood there, unknowing, and she betrayed him. She had dared to value the world more than his life, had dared to destroy his trust in her for the sake of her 'duty.' Duty to whom? The world, that achingly unfair place that had denied her the only thing she'd loved? Her Calling, that had given her so much pain, and snatched away normality?

Crystal clear, slow-mo., surround sound-enabled, those last few seconds came back to her night after night, granting no peace. Every night, the same outcome, and there was nothing Buffy could do about it.

Her sword arched forward, full strength behind it, slowing only when it found flesh. His gasp rang through her ears like the dark bell of death, striking her heart. His eyes shot open, his arm reached out toward her--

And Angel--the only man she'd ever loved, and likely ever would love--was gone. He would burn until the end of time, in Hell. And it was all her fault.

Tears fell freely from her eyes as Angel's name died on her lips, yet again. This was the usual scene: Buffy jerking upright in her craggy, hard bed, screaming from The Nightmare. Always, it was the same nightmare; it had haunted her nights and lingered through her days ever since that fateful night. She'd run from Sunnydale, but couldn't run from her own memories, however much she tried.

Waiting out the few panicked and confusion-ridden moments after one wakes from a nightmare, Buffy pulled aside the flimsy covers of her bed. She swung her legs over the side, still breathing a bit heavily. With her usual quiet, Buffy stalked toward the sink in the far corner of her room, not bothering to turn on a light. Living off her own meager means meant that she couldn't afford a refrigerator for her cheap motel room, and she knew better than to buy milk if she could only store it at room temperature. So, instead of the warm milk she would have preferred, Buffy had to settle for a cup of warm water.

Water in hand, she moved towards her sole windowsill, and looked out at the streets of Toronto. It really wasn't that much different than America, she supposed, but she had only been in the 'bad parts' of town, and those were notoriously similar wherever you went. Sirens were sirens, gunshots were gunshots, filth was filth, and cheap motels could be found in nearly every city of the world.

Not to mention vampires.

Buffy slept only a few hours a day, during the wee hours of the morning when vamps would be finished hunting, and 'bedding down' for the day. She worked two jobs, though she made precious little money--and most of what little was made had to go into the rent, food, travel fare--for she moved frequently, and repairs to Slaying gear (mostly clothes and bandages). Her life had become very busy, and yet very simple: she worked all day, Slayed all night, fell into a nightmare-riddled sleep, briefly, and planned her next move.

But, there was a dangerous few moments in the pre-dawn, after she'd awake from her painful nightmares, when Buffy would have time to herself, to think. She would often sit in bed, eyes closed, and run over events in her mind, or slip out of the motel for a quick walk in the cool air, or stare blankly out her window, her current wallow-of-choice.

Taking small sips from her water, Buffy's thoughts strayed to Sunnydale (as they often did), and the life she'd left there. She knew her mother probably regretted sending her away, and she knew that the Police case against her would soon be dropped, if it hadn't been already, because her friends would testify in her defense--but, all in all, there were too many reasons not to go home. That didn't stop Buffy from wondering if Willow and Xander were happy, if they were still carrying on relationships with their "significant others," if Giles was training a new Slayer, if...

So many unknowns. But Buffy knew this was for the best; that her presence in Sunnydale was only going to give pain to anyone unlucky enough to be close to her. Jenny, Kendra, Ford, Angel...so many friends dead, and yet more suffering, all because of her. So Buffy kept in constant motion, never letting anyone get close, because they would be hurt, in the end.

In the end, she was alone.

The sun peeked up above the far-distant horizon, calling her away from her thoughts. She glanced at the clock, and sighed. The diner opened in half an hour; Buffy would have to hurry if she wanted to be on time.

Detective Nicholas Knight, as he was currently called, smiled bemusedly at his partner, who was obviously not in a mood to smile at anything.

"Problem, Trace?" Nick asked, knowing full well there was one.

She glared at him, emitting a low, almost non-human sounding growl, then turned back to her work.

"Ah," the detective nodded, knowingly, as if she'd just instilled some great wisdom upon him. He walked around to the other side of the paper-covered wooden desk, absently stirring a cup of coffee he didn't need to consume, but had somehow picked up the habit of carrying around. Nick glanced at the top layer of paper, wondering what was getting her so short-tempered. "What's this?"

Tracy sighed, exasperatedly, leaning back in her chair and giving up, for the moment, on her project. "Taxes."

The vampire raised an eyebrow. "Taxes?"

"Yes, taxes. The kind one pays so that the government doesn't go after you like a bloodthirsty hunting hound when he catches the scent of a fox," she grumbled, shortly.

"Nice simile. Very descriptive."

"Thanks." With a weary noise from somewhere deep in her throat, Tracy went back to work.

The other detective, seeing that he wasn't going to get much interesting conversation out of his partner, went off in search of other "prey"--namely, Natalie.

As could be expected, Natalie, being the coroner, was in the coroner's office. She was sitting quietly at her desk, enjoying a soapy romance novel.

"Hard at work, I see," Nick teased as he walked into her office.

Natalie rolled her eyes, but smiled, glad to see that he was in one of his better moods. "Well, I'm not avoiding a huge stack of work, at least. Things have been pretty slow around here."

Nicholas had to agree. There had been one case, earlier that week, but it quickly proved to be a simple accident. The life of a homicide cop, he guessed: 99% boring reports and dragging legal action, 1% up-to-your-ears in trouble and gore. But, still, this lull was a bit odd.

"Hm. Yeah, there is that. I'm starting to wonder if there's something going on around here," he said, his earlier joviality lessened, but not broken.

Natalie put down her book and let out a short laugh. "What, now your complaining that it's too quiet?" With exaggerated drama and mock urgency, she put a hand on his forehead. "Are you feeling all right? Who are you? You can't be my friend Nick, he spends all his time wishing he could have a break from all this death and danger..."

He flashed one of his sweet smiles at her, then pulled her hand away from him. "You're probably right, I'm making a big fuss over nothing. Something just feels...off."

The coroness looked at him, her gaze bordering on concern. "Probably just jumpy. Since things are so slow, you might have a chance to catch up on your sleep. Why don't you ask the captain to let you off a little early tonight? Go home, read a good book, get a good ten hours of real rest..."

Nick sighed, and started to rub the back of his weary neck. "That does have a certain appeal," he conceaded. "I think I will. See you tomorrow night, Nat."

Nodding his goodbye, the vampire left.

Natalie smiled, satisfied, and went back to her book.

Click here for part two.

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