NOTE:   I owe the name William Walthorpe to both Regertz's outstanding 'William Walthrop and Buffy Rebecca' series, and a poor aptitude for spelling.  While I am keeping my original spelling, the name is used with Regertz's permission.  ('Cause that's what you should do when you borrow from other fanfic.)
     A lot of thanks (A LOT!) are owed to Jen for her much welcome encouragement and beta services, and to Meg for being such a lovely shit disturber.  I love you guys.
     The characters, both Joss's and mine, and the situation were first set out in the earlier set of Cordyverse stories available at my archive site.

*****
Teaser

     "Okay, rookie, we'll sweep Roosevelt Park, see if there's any young people to chase away before we break for supper," Officer Jeff Whitford said as he drove his cruiser through the old limestone arch of the main park entrance.  It was a little after seven in the evening, halfway through the three to eleven shift, the so-called 'third watch.', and the early spring sun had just set, the dusk now quickly thickening into black night.
     If his partner, Officer (Probationary) Velma Amenquale, thought his use of the expression 'young people' ironic, she kept the comment to herself.  Blessed, or cursed depending on the occasion, with a youthful appearance (the less charitable said 'baby face') that belied his almost 30 years, and still had him carded on an occasional basis by all but one bar in town, Jeff Whitford was an unlikely looking field training officer.  For all that, Amenquale knew she was lucky to have been assigned to him.  He was a bright and careful cop, and here in Sunnydale that counted for a lot.
     Roosevelt Park, no one seemed really sure which Roosevelt it was named for, was a popular spot for the high school kids.  It was much appreciated for its many nooks and crannies all offering the requisite privacy for carnal rendezvous of varying degrees of intimacy.  Unfortunately, this reputation was also well known amongst any manner of predators who would often stalk its lush green lawns and hedges.  While in recent years regular sweeps, stings, and stakeouts had gone a long way towards reducing the threat, it was still SOP to chase away anyone found in it after dark.
     Whitford guided his cruiser around the grounds, following the narrow driveway while sweeping the growing dark with his spotlight.  On the other side of the cruiser, Amenquale did the same with her flashlight as she started to give serious thought to what to have for supper.  Her latest diet was a disaster, all but dead in it's third week-
    "Stop!"
     Whitford slammed on the brakes, and twisted in his seat, peering over his trainee's shoulders.  "What?"
     "Over there, by that bench.  Looks like a body."
     Her flashlight beam revealed a dark bundle of clothing on the manicured grass.
     "Shit, you're right," Whitford thumbed his mike on.  "Dispatch this is Adam 8.  Going code 6A north end of Roosevelt Park by the falls, checking out what appears to be a DB.  Over."
     Not surprisingly, 'DB' was police radio short hand for 'dead body'.  It could be a dead body, or a vagrant, a drunk; any number of things really.  It could even be a lot worse- Hell, it probably was worse, but he'd need to be a lot closer before he'd know for sure.  Hence the '6A', police radio code for an out of car investigation requiring assistance.  At this time of day, and in this town, it  was standard operating procedure to request back up whenever leaving the cruiser.  It went a long way towards explaining why Sunnydale had more than twice the usual number of cops for a city of its size.
     "Dispatch.  Roger your code 6A, Adam 10, and Mary 4 are en route code 2 High.  Be on the look out for a possible code 77 Victor.  Out."
     At that Amenquale's throat contracted and her mouth grew dry.  Code 77 meant that the beat cops were to exercise caution in the face of a possible ambush.  The 'Victor' part was unique to Sunnydale.
     "Adam 8.  Roger.  Possible 77 Victor.  Out," Amenquale was perversely reassured to see Whitford swallow heavily a couple of times as he tried to banish his dry mouth.
      "Okay, rookie.  We don't lose sight of each other, not for an instant," he tapped the dash mounted computer screen with it's glowing map and shifting icons.  "Reg and the others will be here in a couple of minutes, but a lot can happen in just a couple of minutes, remember that.  Ready?"
     "Ready," she lied.
     "Okay, then.  Let's go."
     The two cops left the cruiser, their flashlights and 10 millimeter service automatics in hand.  Cautiously they advanced across the lawn fanning out slightly until they reached the body.
     "Cover me."
     Holstering his pistol, Whitford knelt down, feeling for a pulse, even as he continued to scan the hedges with his flashlight.
     Shit!  There was no pulse and the neck was slick with blood.
     "Fuck!  Vampire!  Look sharp!" fighting to ignore the blood on his fingers, Whitford pulled at the mike clipped to his shoulder strap.  "Dispatch, all units, this is Adam 8, I have a 187 in Roosevelt Park, in the north end, by the falls.  Probable Victor incident.  Request-"
     Her curiosity had gotten the better of her and Amenquale had shone her flashlight on the body, illuminating the face.  Later, in the safety and privacy of the station house's locker room, she would have a strip torn off her by Whitford for letting her attention wander.  Much later, after he had recovered himself.
     The force of recognition rocked Whitford back on his heels, almost tumbling him onto his ass.
     'Fuck no,' he thought as he stared into the dead eyes.
     "Adam 8 this is dispatch, call in, over.  Adam 8, call in now-"
     "Officer down, officer down!  I need special unit back up now!"
     Dropping his flashlight at his feet, Whitford took up a two handed grip on his automatic, holding it out in front as he turned a full 360 degree circle.  Amenquale mirrored her training officer's stance, covering his back as a myriad of questions passed through her mind.
     "Dispatch.  Adam 10, 5 and 12, and Mary 4 and 7 en route code 3."  There!  They could hear the sirens in the distance.  "Medic 3 is two minutes out.  Acknowledge over."
     "Adam 8, acknowledged," Whitford said into his mike, his pistol still held out in front of him, his eyes locked on the hedges and their dark, seemingly bottomless shadows.
     "Dispatch.  Can you....  Adam 8, confirm 'officer down', over."
     "Adam 8, I confirm, officer down.  Out."

*****

     "Hot-hot-hot-hot-SHIT!"
     Kerry McGarry dropped the saucepan on to the counter, though actually 'threw the sauce pan on to the counter' would have been more a more accurate description.  A sizable portion of thick vegetable curry soup sloshed over the lip and spilled onto her counter top.
     "Damn," the inevitable internal debate barely lasted 2 seconds leaving her an ample 5 seconds to scoop most of the spilled soup back into the sauce pan saving it and observing the 'seven second rule' of her childhood at the same time.  Kerry then, and with an oven mitt this time, transferred the pan on the back burner; its original destination.
     Wiping up the last of the spilt soup, and checking on the progress of the spiced potato samoosas bobbing in the deep fryer, Kerry allowed herself to relax.  Cooking was not usually reminiscent of her high school SAT's or her recent sergeant's qualification exam.  In fact, she was quite good at it and her table was justly well regarded by friends and colleagues.  It was just that her last attempt to cook Indian food from scratch had been something less than a success.  A 'curry takeaway' as her partner called it, was more her speed, but since her boyfriend loved curry and since she loved him, well, that made it a labour of love.  And love or not, that was the only labour she was willing to entertain.
     At least for now, she allowed privately.
     Okay, soup?  Check.  Samoosas?  Check.  Guinness?  Check.  Miles Davis on the CD player?  Check.  Candles?  Check.
     Operation Seduction is a go, she thought with a soft laugh.  Truth be told, she could have been sitting there with a cold bucket of the Colonel's finest, and a warm bottle of diet creme soda, and still succeed in seducing Mac.  And vice versa.
     The knock on the door raised a bright smile.  He was polite to a fault, knocking even though he had had keys to her apartment for a while now.
     "Coming," a last check in the mirror.  "Keep telling you, Mac, you can just come on-"
     Everything stopped; her breathing, her heart, her world.  Everything came to a crashing halt when Kerry opened the door.
     Every newly minted cop rehearses 'the Speech', as it's called, wanting to sound comforting, and sincere, and... and really sorry that your wife/husband/daughter/son/mother/father/whatever was dead.  Hoping that she'd be able to cushion the horrible news even a little.  The rehearsals usually stop the first time she has to go up to someone and actually tell them that a loved one is dead.  That's when the good cop realizes that really there's nothing that can be done to soften that sort of blow.  That and the mere fact that a cop is standing at their door is often harbinger enough.
     Like now, with Lieutenant Chase-Gunn and Detective Sergeant Walthorpe standing in the hallway, looking grim and helpless.

*****
Counting Coup 1

     "But, Sarge, you know the protocols," protested the pale young man standing sentry in front of the thick steel doors of the     morgue's secure storage area.  "A 24 to 48 hour quarantine is required for suspected vampire or demon attac-eerrkk!"
     Detective Sergeant William Walthorpe couldn't be bothered remembering the attendant's name.  In his considered opinion, the Icabod Crane caricature he was currently holding by the throat was on the same level as any run of the mill ossuary ghoul.  And he detested ossuary ghouls.  Could never let a bloke be.
     Casting a quick glance back to where his partner was sitting hunched up in a cheap vinyl seat, her attention focused on the floor at her feet, overwhelmed with grief, he leaned in to whisper into the ghoul's- the attendant's ear.
     "I know the drill.  I helped write the fucking book!  Now, open the damn'd door before I decide to search for the key myself," he smiled at the attendant as he produced the key.  The smile did nothing to calm the man; quite the opposite in fact, but that was okay, Walthorpe was not in a very calm mood himself.
     "Here, here, take it!" the man whinged through Walthorpe's grip.
     "Shhh.  Quiet now.  Show some respect."
     After taking the key, and at the same time releasing the man, who promptly scrambled for the illusionary safety of his counter, Walthorpe turned back to Kerry, kneeling at her side, his voice soft and caring.
     "Kerry?  Are you sure?  You don't have to.  Not now.  We can come back tomorrow, after they've..." after they've cleaned him up.
     "No," she whispered, her voice thick with weeping, her attention still fixed on the floor.  "I have to-  to see him.  I have to know that he's-  Oh God, William!"
     She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, a futile gesture against the welling tears.
     "I know.  God help me, Kerry, I know.  Here, let's go.  We'll make it quick, alright?"
     "Thanks, William," she said, a small attempt at a smile lighting her face for an instant as she rose and took his offered arm.  "I- I just need to see him.  I have to see... I have to see him...  I have to know."

*****

     The squad room of the Sunnydale Police Services' Special Operations Unit was, like the rest of the still new headquarters building, a study in high tech ergonomics, and the latest in organizational models.  Dominated along one wall by a large high definition plasma display screen, and along the opposite wall by the glass windows of the squad commander's office, the squad room always seemed to remind visitors of various Star Trek sets.  In recognition of which, someone had propped a life sized cardboard cutout of Jennifer Aniston as Captain P. K. Torrance against the wall beside the re-christened 'view screen'.  The desks had originally been arrayed in two concentric arcs facing the screen, but had since been rearranged as partners pushed their desks up together, and as small clusters sprung up reflecting the various specialties, and professional and personal relationships within the squad.  All in direct violation of the latest in organizational models.
     Not including the seven member Intelligence/Liaison squad, which, while it was nominally under her command, she knew enough to leave Anya Harris a free hand with her squad, Lieutenant Chase-Gunn had nine detectives in her squad-
     No, she reminded herself angrily, eight detectives.
     Looking up from her desk as Detective Seaborn knocked softly on the frame.  She waved him in and signaled for him to close the door before turning her attention back to the phone.
     "Hey!  I know that the mayor wants more information.  The deputy chief wants more information, the chief and the commissioner both want more information- EVERYONE wants more information, but, you see, I DON'T HAVE ANY!" with that she slammed the receiver down, seemingly disappointed when she didn't break it.  "I hate politicians.  Everyone here?"
     "Except for Sarge and Kerry, Elltee," said Andrew Seaborn. "They're on their way in now."
     "Okay, we can't wait any longer, let's go," she rose and pulled her suit jacket on over her blouse and the gold shield clipped to her belt.
     Five detectives sat at their desks in the squad room watching her office door.  They were angry, sullen, and silent as they awaited her instructions.
     Chase-Gunn threw her door open with more force than she had intended.  Not surprisingly the resulting crash did nothing to relieve her own anger and overwhelming sense of helplessness.
     Six sets of eyes watched as she strode through the room coming to a halt by the ancient portable blackboard salvaged from the old station.  It was used in preference to the multi-media display screen and its specialized law enforcement software.  Taped to it was a photo of a handsome Indo-Iranian man wearing the red serge tunic of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and a bright infectious smile.  Arrayed beneath Corporal Vijay 'Mac' Bhandarkar's photo were the crime scene photos of his murder.
     "Alright, just so we're clear, Seaborn and Wilson are the leads on this one.  Rest of you keep them posted, and they'll keep me posted," she heaved a deep sigh as she turned her back on the blackboard.  "You two get back out to the crime scene and start there.  I'll be expecting a prelim in the morning.  Everyone report to them, and they'll report to me.  No turf fights, I mean it."
     A cop killing always trumps professional and personal differences.  Always.
     "Valencia, Tam, get over to Mac's apartment and start interviewing his neighbours, lets see if anyone was hanging around or anything.  Work back through his movements over the last couple of days.  We need to know if Mac was targeted, or an opportunity hit," ultimately knowing which it was would go a long way towards finding his killers.
     "Wolfe, Markle you're with Intelligence and Liaison for now," both detectives shared a look of disgust.  They had a night's worth of sewer tramping to look forward to now, though both knew better than to voice any objections aloud in front of their squad commander.  "Lieutenant Harris and her people are checking with the local demon populations, get whatever they have and start sorting it out.  New vampires, some new Master-wanna-be on the scene, some prophecy or other we don't know about, anything.  She's waiting for you over at Community Relations."
     Addressing the group as a whole, Chase-Gunn went on.  "She's really going to have her hands full tonight.  The int cell has everyone out trying to keep the cops and known demon communities apart.  The friendlier groups are nervous as hell, and our own cops are pissed off and scared.  They're usually twitchy after a demon or vampire attack, but add in a cop killing and... well, severely pissed is an understatement.  So far, at least two dumbass patrolmen have gone after vampires without calling for backup; they're that mad.  The SWAT platoon is out on the streets mainly to reassure the uniforms.  Even so, a lot of people will be looking to us for the answers.  After all, we're the experts; well they think so anyway.  I want you looking and acting the part.  I want everyone calmed down.
     "Anything, anything at all call it in to me or DS Walthorpe.  I'll want to see everyone back here sometime in the morning.  Winter will let you know when.  Let's have some answers by then.  Questions?"
     "Uh, ma'am?" asked George Wolfe.  A thirty-four year veteran of the Buffalo police, he had moved out to California in search of survivable winters. Perversely, while he was the oldest member of the squad, his status as newest detective had earned him the nickname, 'The Kid.'
     "George?"
     "Why Mac?"
     "Sorry?"
     "Well, Ma'am, I've been wonderin'.  I've worked a couple cop killings in my time.  I mean, the bad guys don't whack a cop for the fun of it.  It does tend to piss us off.  Hell, you said it yourself, nothing undead or demon is going to be able to fart or sneeze, or whatever the Hell they do, without a half dozen cruisers and most of the SWAT platoon stomping them down.  Either-"
     "It was an opportunity hit like the Elltee-" interrupted Gina Tam.
     "Let me finish!" he snapped irritably.  "Yeah, there's the spur of the moment killing.  Like when a cop gets in the perp's way and it's either go to jail or start shooting.  Or the perps are trying to send a deliberate message.  Coupla years back, when I was in Buffalo, the anti-gang squad was running a major operation against some Yardies running drugs.  One night they took out a senior detective working the case.  Came close to getting her family, too.  The bastards were sending us a message.  Trigger man's in Attica waiting the needle," he added with satisfaction.  "I'm just saying that Mac feels like a deliberate hit is all."
     "Go on," Chase-Gunn ordered.
     "Well, he wasn't working anything at the moment, right?" there were nods all around.
     "And even though he was never lead investigator, he was a big part of the squad.  Professionally, and... and personally," he shot a quick glance at Detective Sergeant McGarry's desk with it's small framed photograph, and a Dudley Do-Right Pez dispenser.  "Especially personally."
     Vijay Bhandarkar, his nickname 'Mac' dated back to his time in the Canadian Army's Calgary Highlanders infantry regiment before he joined the RCMP, was an exchange officer and, as such, had no legal standing as a peace officer in the United States.  For instance, he had no power of arrest and was ineligible for inclusion in the 'chain of evidence', the legal record of the custody of evidence from crime scene to courtroom.  Though, since few, if any, of the 'suspects' encountered by the squad were entitled to due process (demons and vampires had less rights and legal protections than a rabid dog under US law) he was able to participate to a greater degree than a standard exchange posting would have allowed.  Besides, that was the point.  The dormant hellmouth in Burnaby, British Columbia, had been showing signs of becoming active and the Mounties had sent him to Sunnydale for some hands-on experience.
     "And there's this, ma'am.  The only Canadian cop in town is murdered by a vampire.  Now, Media Relations is good, but even they can't cover that up.  The Mounties will release the news up in Canada, and their press will be all over it.  Ours won't be far behind," that was a given.  A cop's murder is always news.  "So we'll be swimming in reporters by noon tomorrow, just as-"
     Chase-Gunn finished for him.
     "Just as tensions between the cops and demon populations are at their worst in years."
     "Yeah.  So, I'm thinking, 'what's next?'"
     The squad room fell silent as the cops pondered Wolfe's rhetorical question.
     Feeling a gloom about to descend on her officers, Chase-Gunn shook off her own burgeoning despair.
     "Right.  Enough of this.  Get out there and get to work.  I want real answers, and I want them now!"
     Within moments Chase-Gunn was left standing alone in her squad room, only a murdered cop's photo to keep her company.
     "Cordy?"  Winter Campagnolo, the squad's civilian executive assistant, called quietly from the door.  "Cordelia?"
     "What?!  Oh, sorry, Winter.  Do you need something?"
     Winter moved to stand beside Chase-Gunn and nodded at the photo.
     "No, I... I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, and that I liked Vijay," Winter said with a sad smile for both the photograph and her friend.
     "Thanks," Cordelia looked back at the photo, at the bright smile and dark eyes.
     "You okay?" asked Winter, before the silence got too awkward.
     "What?  Oh, yeah.  Of course" Chase-Gunn cocked her head as she stared at the photo for a moment.  "No."
     She sighed.  It was a soft, sad sound.
     "Mac always reminded me....  He... he reminded me of Gunn, my husband, a little bit.  A lot.  He didn't look like Gunn or anything, but I don't know, something about him.  You know?"
     "Yeah, I think so," Winter smiled a warm, reassuring smile at her boss and friend.  "You liked Vijay."
     "Yeah," a small smile.  "Once told Kerry that she was lucky I wasn't ten years younger.  She was not amused."
     "I'm not surprised," Winter waited patiently as Cordelia stared at the photo on the blackboard.
     From somewhere down the hall came the muffled sound of a phone ringing.  Winter watched as Cordelia screwed her eyes shut and shivered every so slightly, as if in response to a cold breeze.  She listened to the phone ring a second time before it was stilled.
     "Damn it," she whispered.  In a voice only slightly louder she went on.
     "It was November.  November 8, seven years ago," seven years, four months, and 15 days.  "Wesley phoned after lunch; I'd just sent Charlie back to school.  Mac's mother is being told by the Mounties.  Inspector Boucher said that he was going over himself.  You have to do these things in person, you know.  Not over the phone."
     "Wesley had no choice though, he was still in England and....  He tried to phone Tara so she could be with me when he called, but he couldn't get a hold of her, and so when he did phone....
     "I hated him for months after that.  You really have to do it in person when you tell someone their husband is dead," she pulled herself away from the photo to look at Winter.  "Or their son.  You have to do it in person."
 The phone rang and the moment passed as Winter spoke into her remote.
     "Special Operations Unit, EA Campagnolo," she waited, her head cocked as she listened to her earpiece.  "One moment, Anya, she's right here."
     "Line 2," said Winter.
     Chase-Gunn picked up a receiver off of the nearest desk and punched the blinking light.
     "Anya, anything?" she listened for a bit, and Winter watched as she seemed to deflate a little.  "Okay, thanks anyway.  No, I'm probably staying here all night.  Otherwise I've got my cell.  Wolfe and Markle are on their way.  Okay, see you shortly then."
     "Nothing?" asked Winter as Chase-Gunn hung up.
     "Nothing.  None of the friendlier groups know anything, and the less friendlier groups aren't much interested in talking, but then they never are so that might not mean anything."
     "I wish Faith was back already," said Winter wistfully.
     "Yeah, me too," Cordelia smiled a little and added.  "You know what I mean. Tomorrow?"
     "End of the week now.  She phoned earlier today.  Said that they were taking a later flight.  Something about Professor Rosenberg wanting to do some more research while she had the chance."
     "You know Winter you can call her 'Willow'."
     "Not while I'm taking her classes I can't.  Wouldn't seem right."
     "I'm sure she wouldn't-"
     "CORDELIA!"
     Detective Sergeant Walthorpe could be heard shouting from the hallway even before he shouldered his way through the doors at a dead run.  Chase-Gunn turned in surprise; he never called her by her first name while either of them were working.
     And she had never heard fear in his voice either.
     "CORDELIA, LET'S GO!"
     *BEEEEEP-BEEEEEP-BEEEEEP*
     The station intercom's emergency alarm startled Winter badly coming as it did as Walthorpe grabbed Chase-Gunn by the shoulder and started to push her towards the doors.  Used to alert the whole station to emergency radio traffic, it had only been heard during routine tests.  With the gallows humour typical of cops, it had been dubbed the 'apocalypse alarm.'
     "All units, code 99, 804 Westview Road, departmental transponder squawking 211 silent.  All available units respond code 3-"
     Winter's head snapped around to look at Chase-Gunn as the colour drained from her face, and she wrenched free of Walthorpe's grasp and bolted for the door, Walthorpe on her heels.
     "Holy Mary, Mother of God," whispered Winter in a prayer from her youth as she watched the doors swing back into place.
     Eight oh four Westview Road was a lovely modern, two-story house, expertly decorated, and well maintained; she'd been a guest there many times.
     It was home to Cordelia and her teenaged son, Charlie.

*****
Counting Coup 2

     A human nest was truly a repulsive thing.
     It was typical of the worthless animals' compulsive need for straight lines and corners, of their mindless urge to impose their counterfeit philosophies on the environment, and of their rape of the Great Womb.  The dwelling would no doubt be bone dry with not a fungus bed or mould pit to be found.  The air would be empty of any of the comforting smells of inhabitants past and present, or of recent kills.
     Huatcoatl, warrior of the Metztli pride, hunt-submaster, and next in line in mating succession, touched his sacrificial obsidian knife to ward away the human evil.  Chanting the low, guttural chant of protection he pushed himself up out of the dark and dank earth, uncoiling himself from the tree roots in which he had been sheltering since before daylight.  With a second chant he thanked the tree for it's gift of sanctuary and promised it the hot blood of his next kill.
     It will be the youth, Huatcoatl decided, as he licked his blade in greeting.  He will be the thanksgiving kill.  The female will be the sport kill.

*****

     "The First Lady responded to the latest round of Republican attacks on the President's social security reform package today.  Speaking in San Francisco, Mrs Lyman condemned-"
     "Charlie?"
     Charlie Chase-Gunn muted the TV before answering.
     "In here."
     Heather Childe tucked her head in the doorway to the family room where Charlie was sitting on the floor, his notebook and texts open on the coffee table as he finished up his homework and watched CNN.  It was hard to tell with him sitting on the floor, but at 15 he was taller than his mother and was confidently expected to pass his father's height shortly.  He was slender, but starting to fill out across the shoulders and chest, prompting the young ladies at Sunnydale High to begin to take notice.  So far, he did not seem to have noticed them, to his mother's considerable relief.
     "Mind the time, okay?  I'm going to take a long hot bath and try to forget that this afternoon ever happened," Heather had had a bad progress meeting with her advisory committee up at the college.
     No, that wasn't really very accurate was it?  It had been a damn'd disaster, pardon her French.  Worse thing was, it was her own fault.  She had known that Dean Cregg was a demanding advisor, one of her Ph.D. survivors had called her a 'domineering uber-bitch goddess', but Heather had been seduced by the thought of having the dean, an internationally recognized authority in anthropology, on her committee.  'It's not the thesis, it's your thesis advisor' ran the old saw.  Well, the good news was that only about two months' worth of work needed to be replaced.  The bad news was that she was expected to have her draft of the new chapter on the bitch goddess's desk in two weeks.  So, her plan was for a hot bath with the last of the Chilean Merlot, a good night's sleep and a fresh start on the panic attack in the morning.
     "Okay.  Hey!  Aunt Willow says, 'whatever doesn't kill your career, makes your tenure stronger.'"
     "Yeah, well your Aunt Willow is a lot higher on the ol' academic food chain than I am.  Don't be too long, kiddo, it's a school night remember?  And you make your mom look like a morning person at the best of times."
    "Oh, I'm done.  I'll be up in a minute, alright?"
     "Alright," Heather left the family room and rummaged through the kitchen for the bottle of wine and a glass.  Patting her robe pocket for the book of matches for the candles already arrayed in the bathroom she turned to head back up stairs.
     "Wait!"  Charlie cut her off at the foot of the stairs and bounded up them three at a time.
     "What?" she called after him.
     "I have to brush my teeth," he called back before careening into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.
     "Well, okay then," Heather started to follow Charlie up the stairs, then remembered the rosewood incense she had picked up on the way home.  She had left it in the kitchen in her book bag.

*****

     Keeping to the side of the lawn and crouching below the top of the bordering hedge Huatcoatl advanced on the dwelling.  The interior fires were still mostly burning, and his sharp hearing could pick up the cacophony of their myriad entertainments.
      The humans box themselves up inside their hovels, and then replicate the outside for their amusements, he snorted in disgust.
     Animals!
     Through the larger openings in the dwelling wall he could see the female.  She was calling to the youth in a side chamber of some sort, before turning away to gather up a pair of objects from within the feeding chamber.
     By now he was beside the openings, though careful to stay out of the pool of light from the dwelling's cold fires.  The female left the feeding chamber for the interior, doubtless heading for the upper level.  The youth ran out of the side chamber and passed her at a rush.  She stopped for a moment than followed.
     A mating ritual, perhaps, Huatcoatl thought with no more than academic interest.  The female was obviously of calfing age and the youth, though an adolescent, seemed virile enough.  Enough for a display of speed and an invitation for the female to follow and initiate coupling.
     Huatcoatl looked forward to his first mating.  It was a shame he could not allow the youth to have his, but his orders were clear.
     Testing the crystal curtains that closed off the opening, Huatcoatl found them firmly secured.  They would not slide aside.
     No matter, they would open one way or another, and then through the feeding chamber and up to the mating chambers on the upper level and both prey would be his.
     Tightening his grip on his knife, he prayed for it's blessing as he gathered himself up in a crouch, then leapt forward and through the curtain.

*****

    *CRASH!*
     Heather was just coming around the corner into the kitchen when the patio door shattered and the kitchen table was tossed aside; the wine bottle and the glass falling from her hands to join the debris skittering across the tiled floor.
     Rooted in place for but an instant by inescapable shock, Heather opened her mouth to scream even as the nightmarish figure bore down on her-

*****

    *CRASH*
     "CHARLIEEEE-"
     Charlie was bent over the sink soaking his toothbrush when he heard, and felt, the crash at the back of the house; he was already reaching for the door, when he heard Heather cry his name.
     A cry that ended all too abruptly.
     Ducking through the door and down the hallway at a run he found himself in his mother's bedroom more by instinct than by design.  Fighting the shakes as fear for both Heather and himself started to roil up from within, Charlie lunged across his mother's bed, reaching underneath her night stand for the police alarm mounted on its underside.  Pushing hard with his fingertips he felt the small plastic stop break, allowing the connection to be completed.
     That one little act, reaching and activating the alarm, served as a tonic for the young man.  He had done something right, he had followed the drill. Charlie was surprised to find that he was now able to control his breathing a bit more, breathing through his nose to avoid hyperventilating, and the shakes subsided just a bit.  He was still scared, and still running mostly on autopilot, but he was Charles Liam Wesley Chase-Gunn, and that counted for something.
     It meant that, at the very least, his autopilot was well programmed.
     The false calm downstairs was rent asunder by a hellish roar and a second smaller crash that sent Charlie scrambling into his mother's closet.
 
*****

     An arm, thick as a telephone pole, had lashed out as Heather screamed out her warning to Charlie, slamming against the side of her head with enough force to have snapped her neck-
     If she hadn't have already been moving with the blow.
     Nonetheless, her vision was momentarily dazzled by myriad starbursts as she dropped and rolled across the kitchen floor, twisting about on her back as she knifed her legs over herself, and out and down, sweeping the demon's legs out from under him.
     The demon collapsed against the kitchen counter with a wet sounding bump and Heather kicked herself to her feet and launched a second attack, a crushing snap kick to the centre of mass that rocked the monster, but failed to put it down.
     It was huge, she thought in the split second she had to take stock of the situation and her opponent.  Find its weak spot-
     With a roar the demon pulled itself upright and slashed at her with a large knife; a clumsy roundhouse that she avoided with ease-
     Only to side step into a straight jab that connected solidly with her ribs, and sent her careening into the dining room, bringing a side table down on top of her.
     Fighting the pain, Heather could feel one, maybe two, broken ribs, and the mental disorientation that signaled a possible concussion.  Retrieving the katana from its hiding place behind the smashed side table, Heather pulled herself to her feet and turned to face the intruder.
     Cushioning her aching ribcage with her right arm, Heather hefted the long Japanese sword in her left hand and gave it an experimental twirl as the demon stood in the dining room doorway, as if watching her, measuring her.

*****

     Impossible! raged Huatcoatl.
     His chest burned with pain from the female's blow.  He was a hunt-master!  Never before had human prey struck him.  Never!  Now this female not only strikes him, but, but draws blood?
     Blood!
     By the Great Womb, her screams will flay the heavens!  This I swear by the-

*****

     The false wall in the back of his mother's closet swung open easily.  Still guided more by instinct than deliberate thought, Charlie selected a battle-axe from among the assembled weapons.
     Holding it diagonally across his chest, in a posture still called the high port by soldiers today, Charlie left his mother's bedroom and paused at the top of the stairs.  The second crash seemed to have come from the dining room at the bottom of the stairs and to the right.  Skirting the railing, and trying to stay back out of the light streaming up from below he peered into the downstairs hallway, trying to locate Heather and the attacker.
     Or attackers-, Charlie pushed that thought away, as his imagination threatened to run away on him.
     There.  A large green and black mass- his first thought was 'Swamp Thing'- at the doorway into the dining room.  Okay, so down the stairs halfway, vault the railing and he would be beside the demon.
     Within striking distance.
     Charlie moved without any further thought until he landed lightly on the hardwood floor beside his target.  Then-
     Fuck he's big!
     Letting his momentum carry him down into a crouch, Charlie lashed out with his battle-axe in a straightforward horizontal slash that buried the axe head deep behind the demon's knee.

*****

     The first floor was all open concept and from her place in the dining room Heather could see Charlie slip into position on the stairs before dropping down to the first floor.  Luckily the demon still only had eyes for her, and so, moving even before Charlie cleared the railing, Heather lunged across the dining room desperate to keep the demon's attention on her as she launched what she hoped was her half of a simultaneous assault.
     It was.
     Just as the demon flinched, startled by Charlie's attack, Heather was in sword reach.  Her first cut, a vertical overhead slash, almost severed the thing's left arm at the elbow, forestalling a blow aimed at Charlie, and her second, after a smooth transition to an underhand cut, caught the demon in the groin and laid it open all the way up to the chest.
     Thick plump viscera, glistening with an oily ooze, blossomed between the cloven flesh drawing out a loud scream of pain that lingered in the air for a long moment..
     Its left leg ruined by Charlie's axe blow, the demon fell to its knees.  Silent now, it made a weak and futile attempt to defend itself from Heather with its right arm and the stump of its left.  The move was aborted as Charlie thrust the point of the axe head into its left armpit beneath the raised arm and carved a deep gash down its flank.
     Heather's final blow was a vicious horizontal slice that neatly took off its head.

*****

     Chase-Gunn was out of the car even before Walthorpe had finished braking.  The move causing her to stumble and fall to the pavement.  She scrambled to her feet, heedless of the blood running down her leg from her cut and scraped knee, and ran across her lawn, her son's name the only word on her lips.
     "CHARLIE!"
     Six cruisers were already parked haphazardly in front of the house, their roof lamps still pulsating and their doors open.  Officers swarmed the yard, shotguns and submachine guns carried at the ready as they maintained a cordon around her house.  An ambulance turned the far corner at speed and raced in, its siren shattering the night anew.  All along the street neighbours watched from their windows and doorways.
     A uniformed officer met her at the door, only to be slammed aside for his pains.
     "CHARLIE!"
     "MOM!"
     He was kneeling on the floor in the dining room; holding Heather's hand as a pair of cops performed first aid on her.  Cordelia collapsed to her knees beside Charlie and pulled him into her arms in a tight hug as she began to weep in relief.
     "Oh baby, are you okay?  Are you hurt?"  Cordelia pulled back far enough to start examining him for injuries, for wounds.
     "Mom!  I'm fine, really."
     "Oh Charlie.  I thought..." pulling him back to her breast, she kissed his head and held on with all her might.  "You're sure you're fine?"
     Hugging his mother back with equal enthusiasm, Charlie answered, his voice muffled beneath her embrace.  "Yeah Mom, I'm fine, but Heather-"
     "Heather, are you okay?  Is she okay?" this last was directed to the two cops giving Heather first aid.
     "Cordy, I'm fine, just a little dizzy is all," said Heather, sounding almost reassuring.
     "A blow to the head, no LOC, probably a couple broken ribs, cuts and scrapes.  Looks okay.  Better than I'd look, I can tell you," answered the one cop.  Outside the ambulance pulled to a stop and within moments paramedics were pushing their way into the wrecked dining room.
    "What was it?" asked Cordelia, looking at the slain demon as she slowly worked her way through her priorities.
    "A Ucalicoetl, a member of the 'unting caste by the looks of it," said Walthorpe.  He was kneeling over the carcass, holding its severed head in both hands.  "Never 'eard of them ever wandering outside of the Yucatan forests before.  One of those groups that don't much give a damn for the Hellmouth.
     "Bloody 'ell, they're ripe bastards though," Walthorpe dropped the head carelessly to the floor and rose.  He favoured Charlie, still wrapped in his mother's arms, with a questioning look, man-to-man, and was rewarded with a curt nod.
     Walthorpe nodded back then turned away so Charlie couldn't see his small wry smile.  The Ucalicoetl was a big bugger, and the boy took it on and helped bring it down.  Walthorpe recognized the wounds for what they were, katana or battle-axe, and they were more than enough to recreate the fight.
     It was manfully done, manfully done.  Though Walthorpe was not surprised to see that Charlie still hadn't let go of his mother.
     "Boss," he knelt beside Cordelia and Charlie and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.  "I'm going to check on the others and get back to you, alright?"
     Cordelia was silent a moment, then she kissed Charlie's forehead and rose, wincing as she finally noticed the damage to her knee.
     On the way over Walthorpe had raised the possibility that other police families might be at risk, that Mac's murder and the attack on her home could not be coincidental.  The departmental SWAT platoon, and a sizable percentage of Sunnydale's patrol units were thus dispatched to various residences around town in accordance with an emergency plan drawn up against the possibility of a concerted demon attack on the squad and the department.
     "I'll come with.  Charlie, take Heather to the hospital and stay there, I'll be there shortly, okay?"
     Charlie lay Heather's hand down with a tender squeeze and stood.  Reaching down a bit, and for the first time Walthorpe realized just how tall the boy was, he kissed his mother on the cheek.
     "Don't be long, 'kay, Mom?"
     "I'll try, honey, but-"
     "It's your job, I know, Mom," he hugged his mother again before turning back to Heather's side.
     Cordelia looked at her son for a moment then abruptly turned back to Walthorpe.
     "Get an update from dispatch.  Then we'll start with Anya's, it's closest-"
     "BOSS!"
     Sergeant Kerry McGarry, wearing a black 'Police' windbreaker over her sweater and jeans, stood at the door.
     "Boss, all units are in place.  They got to most of them before the demons attacked-"
     "Who?" asked Cordelia and Walthorpe in unison.
     "Lieutenant Harris and the Epsteins, and a civie over on Santa Barbara Drive.  A couple of ambulances are heading to County General now.  No word, Boss, sorry," she added cutting short Cordelia's query about casualties.
     'A couple of ambulances.'  A couple of ambulances for Alexandra Joyce Harris, Leah and Caleb Epstein and their daughters Janel and Sarah.  And a nameless civilian caught in the crossfire.  Who else before this was over?
     Chase-Gunn left her house at a run, her sergeants right behind her as she plunged back into the night.

*****
Counting Coup 3

     This time Chase-Gunn waited until Walthorpe had finished parking the car before getting out.  Her knee had already started to stiffen up from her earlier spill, and it took her a couple of steps across the hospital parking lot before it loosened up enough for her to stop limping.  With Walthorpe and McGarry behind her, Chase-Gunn entered the ER, bulling her way through the doors when they didn't open fast enough for her.
     She shuddered ever so slightly as she took her first breath of hospital air.  She hated the smell of a hospital; detested the cloying disinfectant, and the other odours, the ones she knew were lying submerged beneath the disinfectant.  The blood and bile, the urine and feces, the plastics and medicines that permeated any emergency ward, the odours that everyone knew were there, but pretended weren't.  The odours, and, worse of all, the memories that they resurrected, unbidden and unwanted--
     --Xander, his hands clawing uselessly at his ruined abdomen, his wife's name the last word on his lips.
     Her own hands slick with his blood as she cradled him in her arms, and, as his convulsions finally calmed then ceased altogether, prayed that he had heard and believed the lies she had whispered into his ear--
     "UNCLE WILLIAM!"
     Before she could reach the front desk Chase-Gunn was sideswiped as Alexandra Joyce Harris leapt out of her chair and pushed past her to crash into Walthorpe, engulfing him in a tight bear hug.
     That was one question answered, one mercy at least.  Alexandra was safe.
     "Lieutenant," Doctor Karen Upjohn, the chief of trauma services, pulled Chase-Gunn's attention away from Alexandra.  Walthorpe could bring her up to speed in a moment.
     "Doctor.  The Epstein's.  How are they?"
     The doctor reached out and took her arm, gently leading her past the admissions desk and away from the waiting area.  Fear coalesced into a leaden lump in her guts and the copper taste of bile in her mouth.  She bit back her questions and listened.
     "Rabbi Epstein's being stabilized right now, then he's going up to surgery.  Severe lacerations, and a punctured lung, still, he looks good; nothing we can't fix.  The one daughter, Janel, she's not as badly hurt.  No major organ damage, though a badly lacerated chest, and shock.  She's already on the way to the OR."
     The lump in the pit of Chase-Gunn's stomach grew colder as Upjohn followed the usual drill.  Namely, give the good news first, and ease into the bad news a little at a time.
    "The wife, Leah, is critical.  She's already crashed twice.  Once in the ambulance, and again in trauma.  Sagaski's team is with her now, but... it doesn't look good.  Severe thoracic trauma, punctured lungs, blood loss, repeated heart and respiratory failure-"  Upjohn trailed off.  There was more in the litany of injuries, but they didn't matter all that much.  Not in the long run.
     "Sarah?"  Chase-Gunn whispered, as she fought to put down the memories that washed across her consciousness and gnawed at the last reserves of professionalism still at her command.
     A dark haired beauty at 15 years, Sarah was mad for soccer, animals (she wanted to be a vet), and some teenaged pop star heartthrob named Tristan 'something-or-other'.
     "Dead on scene, Lieutenant.  I'm sorry.  The paramedics said that-"
     But Chase-Gunn had already turned away.  She'd learn the details soon enough, God help her.  She'd visit the crime scene, review the photos and video, the autopsy reports, and the police and paramedic reports.  Later on, when they had recovered enough to talk, she'd make sure that she was the one to interview the witnesses.
     'The witnesses.'
     Caleb and Janel Epstein.  A grieving husband and father and his daughter were now categorized as witnesses in an ongoing investigation.  Just another source of information; 'I'm sorry for your loss, but I need to ask you some questions.'
     "Lieutenant?" the admissions clerk smiled apologetically as he thrust a clipboard and pen at her.  "I'm sorry, but the records say that you're one of Alex Rosenberg's guardians.  I need a signature authorizing admission and tests."

*****

     Sergeant McGarry handed Chase-Gunn a cup of coffee as she leaned against the admitting desk, her gaze locked on the main doors to the ER.  Its strong aroma roused her from her reverie.
    "Thanks," she essayed a small appreciative smile.  "Ahh, okay.  Get on to Wolfe and Markle.  Send them over to the Epstein house," she couldn't bring herself to think of it as a crime scene.  Not yet.  "Then do the rounds.  Check with the units at these new attacks, and then with Seaborn and Wilson.  I'll have William meet up with you shortly.  Soon as we sort out this mess."
     The calls started coming in within minutes of the attack on her home.  Besides the attacks that McGarry had first mentioned, demons had attacked a couple of patrol units, the west end fire station, and the homes of three senior police officials, including the deputy chief.  None of the new incidents had resulted in casualties, the police had been in place at all but the fire station, and there a dozen firefighters had proven to be more than a match for a couple demons.
     "Right, Boss," McGarry turned for her windbreaker, but stopped as Chase-Gunn touched her on the shoulder and spoke in a soft voice.  A friend's voice, not a commanding officer's.
     "Kerry?"
     "I'm fine, Boss.  Really," came the quick reflexive answer.
     "Really?"
     "No, not really," she said honestly, her eyes downcast.  "But I'm busy.  Next best thing, isn't it?"
     "Yeah, next best.  Look, Kerry, I've been there, where you are, and...."
     "Thanks, Boss," she met Chase-Gunn's gaze for a moment.  "I'll.... Later, I promise."
     With that McGarry left, leaving Chase-Gunn to her thoughts for a moment until she looked up in time to see Lieutenant Anya Harris and Tara Rosenberg push their way past the doors, and the police standing sentry there. They'd both looked like they had had a busy night so far.  Harris, her business casual suit disheveled and stained, her face smudged with dirt.  Rosenberg was less dirty, but she looked even smaller than usual in her oversized police windbreaker with her minder, the very large and exceptionally tough Officer Locklear, following at his usual three paces behind her.  His grip on his assault rifle, seemingly a toy in his large hands, hadn't relaxed one iota despite the presence of half a dozen cops both in and around the ER.
     "Alex-"
     "Alexandra-"
     Cordelia cut them off with a pair of raised palms.
     "They're both fine, they're up on the third floor.  William is with them.  They're fine.  Tara, Alex is going to be okay."
     "'Going to be...'  Third floor?" Tara's eyes lost their focus as she mentally catalogued the facilities on the third floor.
 "X-ray?  Ohmigod, what happened to him?  Cordelia?" she took a pace towards Chase-Gunn.  "Tell me.  Now!"
     When it surfaced- when she allowed it to surface, the menace in Tara Rosenberg's voice never failed to send a chill down the backs of those who heard it.  Cordelia was no exception.
     "Tara, Alex's fine!  He came in with a headache, well a migraine, and a bad nose bleed-"
     "Oh my God!"  Tara's face went white and she stumbled back a half step, as if physically assaulted by the news.
     "Tara, listen to me.  The doctor said it's not serious-"
     "It was a spell," it wasn't a question, and the menace in her voice was replaced by fear.
     "Yeah," whispered Cordelia.  "He did a spell."

*****

     "How long?"
     "'Bout a year," a whisper.
     "Speak up, girl!  And look at me when I'm talking to you!"
     Alexandra looked up at her mother, brushing her dark brown bangs clear of her eyes.  Like her mother, Alexandra normally quite enjoyed being the centre of attention.  Now though, huddled on the end of a vinyl couch with her mother and her Uncle William and Aunt Cordy towering over her, she devoutly wished that she could just vanish, that the earth would open up and swallow her.
     "About a year now."
     "A year?  What kind of spells?" her mother's voice was flat and controlled; a sure sign that she was struggling to rein in her monumental temper.
     "Little stuff, Mom, honest.  Mostly some levitating and some elemental summonses and... and some stuff.  Nothing big, nothing bad," she insisted out of equal parts devotion to her brother and self-defence.
     "'Nothing bad?'  Alexandra Joyce Harris, Alex has been doing magick behind his mothers' backs for a year now.  That's really, REALLY bad.  It's bad all by itself, but-" her eyes grew large and her cheeks paled as an even more worried expression flashed across Anya's face.  "Have... have you been doing any magick?"
     Alexandra's downcast eyes were all the answer any of them needed.
     "But, but nothing's worked for me, Mom.  Honest.  And only little things for Alex.  I think that it's 'cause of....  That since Aunt Willow is his, you know, his birth mom and all...."

*****

     The resident on duty had called in the head of the imaging department when he saw who the patient was.  He thought of it as a professional courtesy.  Doctor Kevin Ennis smiled reassuringly at Tara as he brought up the cranial MR images, then tapped the screen with his pen.
     "As you can see, Doctor, the scans are all nice and clean.  Nothing to worry about, nothing neurological that's for sure.  You should probably have him checked for allergies, though, it could be a sensitivity migraine.  He may have caught a whiff of something or other that triggered the episode.  The nosebleed looks like just a normal nosebleed, any number of things really, but no physical injury, and his blood pressure's fine for a boy his age," he slipped his pen back into his coat pocket.
     "These things are often hereditary, and can wait until adolescence to present.  What's his family history look like?"

*****

     "Clear," Doctor Benjamin Sagaski called out the warning in a soft voice.  They were well past the need for dramatics by this point.  After checking that none of his team were in contact with the patient or the table, he slipped the tiny paddles into the chest cavity, positioned them against the exposed heart and thumbed the buttons.  The heart responded with a beat.
     But only the one.
     "Still in defib," reported the charge nurse, though everyone in the cramped trauma room could see and hear the EKG readout.
     "How long?" asked Sagaski, his frustration and anger finally given voice.
     The charge nurse glanced at the clock.  The doctor could tell time as well as he could, but at these times one always followed procedure.
     "Thirty seven minutes."
     Now it was Sagaski's turn to look at the clock.  He dropped the paddles and stripped off his gloves, the recognized act of surrender for a trauma surgeon.
     "Time of death, 2213 hours."

*****

     Alexandra handed her brother his shirt and waited patiently on the edge of the bed while he finished getting dressed.  The two teens were alone in a hospital room, his tests finished, and her interrogation at her mother's hand completed.
     "Hey."
     Alex looked up from pulling on his shoes.  Though the lights were set as low as possible to avoid hurting his eyes and aggravating his migraine, his sister could plainly see his two black eyes and the dried flecks of blood that stained his upper lip.
     "What?"
     She slipped off of the bed long enough to bend over and kiss him on the cheek.
     "Thanks.  For, you know, hanging with me tonight."
     Alex grinned and turned his attention back to his shoes, his cheeks flush with embarrassment.  "No big, you're my sister, it doesn't always have to be a hardship, right?"
     "It's just that...  It still hurts, Alex.  I still think that maybe if I'd've done something different, maybe 'been' different, then he'd still- You know?  He'd still like me."
      "Xandra, Travis Meloni is a stupid shit who didn't deserve to be seen in public with you, never mind take you to the dance.  You can do better than that a-hole," Alex smiled at his sister and brushed a stray hair from her face.  "A lot better."
     "Says who?  My baby brother?"
     "What?  I can't have an opinion?"
     "Not about my love life.  That's icky."
     "And again you display the verbal skills that clinch a straight A average," after dodging a playful punch to his shoulder, he shrugged his way into his jacket and regarded his sister with honest affection.  "There are lots of guys who would like to take you to the dance."
     "Name one."
     The door flew open as Charles burst into the room.  His two friends could plainly see that he was exhilarated, even euphoric, as he fairly bounced across the room, favouring Alex with a comradely 'high five', and Xandra with a quick hug.
     "Wonder Twins one, evil soulless demons nil!" he was almost shouting, punctuating his words with energetic shadow boxing.
     Xandra reached out and pressed a hand across his mouth, and mimed a finger to her lips, before pointing to her brother.  To her horror, Alex was smiling at her and made a big play of nodding at Charles, all the while with as big and as goofy a grin on his face as his migraine would allow.  She hissed a warning at him even as Charles turned to his friend.  Alex regarded him with an innocent smile as he pointed to his head in silent signal.
     "Oh, sorry, Alex," Charles whispered, his voice now barely audible.
     Xandra sighed.  "Just don't shout.  Okay?"
     "Okay," while his voice remained low his physical animation reasserted itself as he stood there lightly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like a boxer waiting for the bell.  "Outstanding, you two!  Way to be monster hunters!  Mom told me some of it.  What kind of demon was it?  Was it big and green and sorta swamp like?"
     The siblings regarded their friend with amused expressions.
     "Keep telling you to lay off the mocha latte before bedtime.  Look at you-" Xandra inhaled sharply, her hands flying to her mouth as the shoe dropped.  "Ohmigod, Charles!  You were attacked too!  Are you okay?  How's Heather? What do you mean 'swamp like'?  What happened?"
     "Xandra, we're fine.  Really.  Heather'll be up and about tomorrow; I so want that slayer recovery bonus.  As for me, not a scratch," he spun about in a graceful pirouette, ending with a polite bow.  "William called it a Ucalicoalt, some sort of hunter/warrior demon from Mexico.  You should have seen us, guys!  Heather's got him cornered, right, and I blindside him and almost take his leg off- BAM!- and she pulls a 'Highlander' on him- SWISH!- just like in the movies.  It was great!  You guys so shoulda been there!"
     "We were busy ourselves," said Alex.
     "Oh right.  So, give.  C'mon with the story already," he had calmed down enough to take a seat on the edge of the bed alongside Xandra.
     Alex noted with satisfaction that his sister didn't pull away from Charles as he sat within inches of her.  "Not much to tell.  Same thing as yours, I guess, a 'swamp cooty' demon, or whatever.  Broke in through the back and we stopped it."
     When it became clear that her brother wasn't going to elaborate any further, Xandra took up the tale.
     "You'll be proud of him, Charles.  Alex did a teleportation spell-"
     "But it didn't work-" he protested.
     "Sure it did, Alex.  You'd just been practicing with smaller stuff is all," she turned to Charles and explained.  "He teleported part of it.  Inside bits mostly, the rest just sorta collapsed on the kitchen floor.  That's when Sergeant Brandt showed up."
     "Yeah," piped up Alex with a grin.  "I think he was disappointed that he hadn't saved us.  Would have scored gigapoints with Aunt Anya."
     "Again with the 'ick'.  That's my mom you're talking about, Alexander Daniel."
     "And Sergeant Brandt really likes your mom, Alexandra Joyce."
     "I'd never guess you two were related," Charles deadpanned.  After a moment he went on in a serious tone of voice.  "Speaking of 'moms'.  I guess she knows now, huh?"
     "Yeah," answered Alex, his voice soft and flat at the mention of his mom.
     "What she say?"
     "Don't know.  She hasn't 'talked' to me about it.  Yet."
     "Think she'll wait until your mom gets back?"
     "Probably not.  Mom doesn't much like letting things slide."
     "Yeah, well, remember the deal, Alex.  It was all of us.  Right?" Charles stretched out his right hand into the air between them.
     Xandra nodded her head vigorously and reached out with her right hand taking Charles' in her grasp.  Alex looked at them both for a moment then with a faint smile added his hand to theirs.
     The door opened again, though in a much more gentle fashion this time.  Tara Rosenberg almost smiled at her son and his friends.  'The Three Musketeers' did not always have to be a cliche.
     "Alex?"
     "C'mon in, Mom.  We're good."
     Tara, Anya and Cordelia filed into the room and stood uneasily before their children.
     Something was wrong.  The three teens suddenly felt frightened as they looked at their mothers' stricken expressions.  Wordlessly Charles and Xandra rose to stand with Alex, facing their mothers in turn.
     "Mom?" asked Charles.  "What is it?  What's wrong?"
     Cordelia took a halting step forward, reluctantly accepting the role of spokesman.
     "We weren't the only ones attacked tonight..."

*****
Counting Coup 4

     Amenquale stared at herself in her locker mirror before slamming the door shut as hard and as loud as possible.
     It didn't help.
     What would Grandpapa say, she thought, if he could see me crying like a little girl?
     He'd head out and beat up Whitford for making his granddaughter cry, came the honest reply.
     The involuntary petulance managed to raise a faint chuckle at the thought of her grandfather cursing out her training officer in his rapid fire, almost incomprehensible, mix of Spanish and English.
     Not that Whitford wasn't right to tear her a new asshole the way he did.  She had done something incredibly stupid that could have cost either of them if they hadn't of also been very, very lucky.  She had let her mind wander in the middle of a call, and for a cop that could be disastrous.  And a cop was all she had ever wanted to be.  Just like her mother, and maybe, if she was really, really good at it, she might one day earn the gold shield of a detective, just like Grandpapa.
     But not if she sat in the locker room crying her damn fool eyes out like a little girl.
     Amenquale wiped her hand across her eyes one last time then sheepishly reopened her locker to repair her appearance before her training officer returned from the watch commander's office.
     "Let's go," Jeff Whitford stuck his head through the doorway to the women's side of the locker room.  "You're in luck."
     "Why?  Where're we going?"
     "Some OT, and a temp assignment to the special unit.  Get your ass in gear, rookie."

*****

     "Tell me about the spell," Tara ordered her son.  They were alone in the hospital room, Cordelia and Anya having herded their children out of the room after delivering the news about Leah and Sarah Epstein.
     "J-just a small teleportation spell," answered Alex wincing at his nervous stutter.  He was fidgeting badly as he stood before his mother.
     "Which one?  Where did you get it?" asked Tara.  It was a struggle, but she was keeping her voice calm and level.  The fear, the cold and dark terror, that had seized her when she was told of his hospitalization after having used a spell was now more or less under control.  Helped in no small measure by the negative results of the medical tests.
     "From 'Ussher's Alchemy'," answered Alex.  "It was a simple spell near the back.  An easy one."
     "'Ussher's Alchemy'?  'Ussher's Alchemy'?" Tara repeated the title, trying to recall that particular book.  When it came, the memory stripped away her calm veneer. She grabbed her son by the shoulders as her voice shook with fear.  "Oh my God!  Alex, where did you get it?  Where is it?"
     "Found it," seeing that his mom wasn't going to leave it at that he went on, albeit reluctantly.  "Xandra found it.  In one of Aunt Anya's old boxes.  It's at home.  In my room.  Mom, relax it was a simple spell.  It didn't need potions or amulets or anything."
     "Alex!  Oh god, Alex.  Those are the most dangerous spells.  You tap straight into primordial forces!"
     "But I've done lots of them, Mom.  Teleportation, levitation, some," his face reddened and became even more downcast than before.  "Some glamours.  But nothing bad's happened."
     "Alex, you have to promise me that you won't do any more magick.  You give me the book and promise me."
     "Why?" his voice shook with frustration as he shrugged his way out of her grasp.  "Why can't I do magick?  I've been practicing for almost a year now and nothing's happened.  And... and if I hadn't of known that spell Xandra and I might have been-"
      "Promise me!"  Tara pleaded with her son, her eyes wide with fear.
     "No!" he shouted, frustration giving way to anger in his voice.  "You do them all the time.  Why can't I?"
     "Alex, you can't do magick!  Your Mom-" she bit off her words.
     "Mom?  What about Mom?" he asked, his anger giving way to confusion.  At least a little.  "She doesn't have any magick, and since she's my-"
     It was now his turn to choke back his words.  Ever since, as a youngster, he had finally understood the concept of 'birth mother' Alex had steadfastly refused to use the term, to the point of leaving things like medical histories for his mothers to fill in, and answering the occasional question with a curt 'They're both my Mom'.
     Tara stepped back as if physically struck, provoking a stricken expression on Alex's face as he misinterpreted her actions.
     "Mom!  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it.  I didn't mean it!"
     Pulling her son into her arms, Tara hugged him tight.
     "I know, sweetheart.  I know what you mean.  It's not what you think.  Alex, it's not what you think."
 Tara held her son for a moment, then sighed as she came to a decision.  Releasing him, she took a seat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled him down beside her.
     "Alex.  There's a reason why I want you to stop doing magick," Tara took his hand in hers.  "I almost lost your mother because of it, and it scares me, it scares the both of us that the same thing could happen to you."
     "Lost?  What do you mean, 'lost'?" he asked, his face a mask of fear.
     "It was back before you were born.  We were still in college and your Mom- we had just finished a very powerful spell...."

*****

     She started moving at the first faint convulsions, but as it was she still just barely reached the bathroom before the first explosive eruption of vomitus burst through clenched jaws--
     --the family room was an abattoir.  There was really no other word for it.  Great swaths of blood covered the walls and ceiling, and two large puddles, still slick, coated the floor, the largest by the open back door.  In its centre lay a bright yellow nylon shroud that neatly covered the body of Sarah Epstein.--
     Her gut roiled and heaved, provoking soft pitiful mews of protest as a second torrent emerged, and a third, and a--
     --"It looks like the thing entered through the back of the house, through the family room.  The first victim was found by the door.  There was no sign of violent entry, probably the girl opened the door just as it was about to enter the house.  Ahh, her neck was slashed, almost to the spine, and her chest was- there were severe lacerations- her... ahh, her heart was excised."--
     Her jaw started to ache, thick strings of bile and snot trailed from her nose, and her mouth burned with stomach acid--
     --the second, slightly smaller pool of blood was littered with discarded gauze, plastic syringe covers, tubing, wrappings; the signs of a desperate struggle by the paramedics.
     "The mother and second daughter must have walked in at about this point.  Both of them were badly mauled, though it looks like the mother took the brunt of the attack.  She had the same sort of chest wounds as the first daughter and severe defensive wounds to her hands and arms.  She put up a fight, maybe holding the thing at bay for a moment or two, long enough for the surviving daughter to get clear.  She was found in the front yard."  --
     The heaves continued long past the point where her stomach had anything significant to contribute.  Fighting to catch her breath, she screwed her eyes shut and held on to the toilet bowl as her head swam and as the pain in her belly slowly subsided--
     --"Then the Rabbi shows up.  Looks like he was next door in the synagogue, and rushed back when he heard the screaming.  He was badly wounded too, but he was armed - a sword - and managed to hurt the thing anyway.  Had a lot of its blood on him, and some bad defensive wounds.  A neighbour heard the screams and called 911.  Adam 17 was already enroute, and they chased the thing off through the backyard, but couldn't pursue until back up and the amb showed up."  --
     Beside her, Cordelia could hear the door being closed and a tap being turned on in the sink.
     "Here."
     Anya passed her a glass of tepid water, which she used to clean out her mouth, spitting it into the toilet before her.  Anya retrieved the glass and handed it back to her filled with cooler water.
     "Drink this."
     The water felt like quicksilver in her empty and abused stomach, but the discomfort was soon forgotten as Cordelia fell back against the wall, pulling her legs tight against her chest.  Anya knelt beside her and bathed her face with a warm, damp wash cloth.
     "Better?"
     "No, but thanks."
     "You're welcome," Anya gently brushed Cordelia's hair back behind her ears before dabbing at her cheeks with a dry towel.
     "Christ, that was professional, wasn't it?"
     It was rhetorical, but Anya answered anyway.  "Not like you're the first cop to puke their guts up at a crime scene.  And you've know them all, what, six, seven years now?"
     "Yeah, 'bout that.  Met Cal when William and I started up the squad."
     Cordelia had first met Caleb Epstein in the emergency room after he had been brought in, the victim of a vampire attack.  No sooner had he moved his young family to Sunnydale, and the Temple Beth-Shalom congregation, then he had been set upon by a vampire.  Only timely intervention by Faith and the immediate dusting of the vampire saved his life.  Over the years Cal had become a staunch friend to Cordelia, and a part-time member of Anya's int cell as a result of an abiding interest in ancient Middle East history.
     Anya hung the towel back onto the rack, taking care to straighten it out neatly.  "It's harder when they're friends."
     Cordelia shivered as if the room's temperature had just dropped.  Unthinkingly, she wiped her hands down her suit jacket
     --too much blood.  He's losing too much blood--
     "Cordelia?"
     She shook herself out of her reverie and flashed a quick, weak smile at her friend.  "I'm good to go, Anya."
     "Really?"
     "Really," she lied as she rose to her feet and turned to the door.  "I need to get out of here though."

*****

     "Babysitting?" the disgust in Amenquale's voice was hard to miss.  So Whitford chose to ignore it.
     "Protective detail, rookie.  Count yourself lucky that you're here.  It's a great learning opportunity," Whitford grimaced at the vending machine coffee he was drinking.  "So shut up and learn."
     Amenquale waited for a couple of minutes, but when it became apparent that Whitford wasn't about to give her any hints about what it was she was suppose to be learning, she decided to head out in search of the vending machine.  Their supper plans had yet to see fruition, and as the clock neared midnight, it was time for her hourly fix of really bad coffee.
     They had almost flown across town, Whitford driving code 3 all the way, only to end up watching two teenagers, a boy and a girl, pace up and down a short length of hospital corridor, their attention focused on a single door.  Whitford had exchanged a short monosyllabic conversation with a black clad behemoth from the SWAT platoon, and then disappeared in search of coffee, leaving her to wait in uncomfortable silence as the SWAT operator ignored her in favour of watching over the two teenagers and the door.
     By the time she returned a couple of minutes later the only thing Amenquale had learned was that no amount of sugar and non-dairy powder creamer was going to make this particular batch of vending machine coffee palatable.  She was tempted to go back for the vending machine hot chocolate on the principle that at least some of it would be actual chocolate when out of the corner of her eye she saw Whitford stiffen up, pulling his usually erect posture into something resembling a Marine on parade.
     "Doctor."
     "Jeff, thank you for coming."
     Amenquale looked up to see that the doctor was a petite woman, mid to late thirties, very attractive.  A nod from her and the two teenagers were rushing through the door she had just exited.
     "Not at all, Doctor.  Any time.  And I'm... I'm sorry about the Epsteins.  I owe Cal, a lot.  If there's anything I can do for him and Janel...."
     "Thanks, Jeff," the doctor gripped Whitford's arm in a familiar fashion, flashing him a small, somewhat lopsided smile.  "I'll let you know.  Right now, though, Alex is good to go, but I can't imagine that they'll want to leave until Heather is released in the morning.  Besides, they're safer here anyway."
     "Heather's been hurt?" the alarm in his voice was plainly evident, as was the relief demonstrated in his body language as the woman hastened to reassure him.
     "Nothing serious, just routine observation.  She was knocked about a bit back at Cordy's place and Doctor Wiest is keeping her overnight to be on the safe side.  She's down in room 326.  Cordy told her you'd be coming over, so you better stick your head in and say hello."
     He blushed!  Amenquale's hard ass field training officer actually blushed.
     "I will.  So, we watch them until morning, and then?"
     "My place, I think.  No sign of intruders, so it should be safe enough, and by then Heather will be able to take over until this gets sorted out."
     Whitford nodded at the door, and the teens beyond.
     "What about them?  They cool with this?"
     "I don't care," her soft voice frosted over for a moment.  "They have their instructions.  You're in charge, Jeff."
     "Yes, Ma'am," there was that Marine thing again.  "Uh, Doctor, what's going on?  Mac, the Epsteins, these attacks, I mean, is it, you know, an apocalypse or something?"
     "I don't know Jeff.  It's bad, certainly, but it doesn't feel apocalypsy.  Not really."
     "'Apocalypsy'?"
     "Sorry, a Willowism," with another small smile at Whitford, and a polite nod at Amenquale, the doctor turned to leave, the SWAT leviathan in tow.  "Thanks again, Jeff.  I really do appreciate it."
     "Rookie?"  Whitford waited until they were alone in the hallway.
     "Yeah."
     "Lesson the first.  The Doc?  You have problems, you know, nightmares, the shakes, that sort of stuff, you talk to her, you tell her everything. Then..."
     He leaned in close; his dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made Amenquale a little uncomfortable.  His professionalism aside, Whitford had seemed a laid back kind of guy up until now.
     "Then you listen.  I mean really listen to her," Whitford pulled away and pointed down the hallway.  "I can teach you how to stay alive.  The Doc? She'll save your soul."

*****

     Xandra wrapped her arms around Alex for a long moment before reaching out to pull Charles into their embrace.  The three friends stood together in the hospital room holding each other tight against the fear and loss that burned cold in their hearts.
     The young woman was the first to break the silence.
     "I love you, little brother," then completely unselfconsciously she added, "you too, Charles."
     Alex nodded.  "Love you, too."
     Charles was content to squeeze his friends' shoulders.
     "It's not real, you know?" he said as he took a seat on the bed, his eyes locked on the floor.
     "I still have a blouse of hers I borrowed last week," said Xandra.  "The blue silk one with the...  Damn it."
     "We... we had chemistry together this afternoon," said Alex, his voice quavering.  "Sarah, she... uh, she asked me to the...  the dance..."
     "Oh, Alex!  I didn't know!"  Tears started to roll down her cheek and she pulled her brother into her arms.  "I'm sorry!"
     Charles looked at his friends for a bit, his face a mask of helpless rage as he watched them confront their grief.  Then, as if a switch had been thrown, he rose and started pacing.
     "Okay.  Alright.  This is big.  I can't remember something this big since...  Since ever.  You guys?"
     Both siblings just shook their heads 'no' as they watched Charles pace.
     "'Kay.  Here's what we're going to do."

*****
Counting Coup 5

     "Charles-"
     "Xandra, we can do this.  Alex does the spell.  The demon finding one? Alex, remember?  The one your Mom uses?  We find out where they are then, BANG!, we clear them out.  I'll take point.  Don't sweat it, these things just look big.  You two do the magick, and if there are too many of them-"
     "Charles, no!"
     Xandra sat on the bed while Charles paced the floor.  Alex stood with his back to them, staring out the window.
     "C'mon, Xandra.  We can totally-"
     "CHARLES!"  A year older, a full inch taller, and every bit her mother's daughter, Xandra had no difficulty bringing her friend's frantic pacing to a halt when she rose and stood in his way.
     "Sit down, Charles.  Please."
     Charles took a seat on the edge of the bed, his face a mask of frustration even as he obeyed Xandra.  It was a good plan, they could totally do it.  They could kill these... these things.  Just like their parents would have done.
     "C'mon Xandra, we can't just sit here.  They killed Sarah and her mom.  Don't you want to kill these things?  Our... our dads would have," he said in what he was sure was going to be his trump card.
     "What?"  asked Xandra as she stood before Charles.  "Charles, this is nothing like-"
     "Sure it is.  Look, my Dad and yours, they did stuff like this all the time.  And Hell, Alex has Aunt Tara's magick.  We don't even need a Slayer."
     "No," whispered Alex as he stood staring out the window.  The others didn't hear him.
     "I'm saying a locating spell, then something to mess them up, a magickal stun grenade kinda thing, then BAM!  We make them pay," he looked into Xandra's eyes.  "They hafta pay, Xandra.  They have to pay."
     "No spells," repeated Alex.  While he spoke a little louder, his words still failed to register with the other two.
     With a sigh Xandra laid her hands on Charles' shoulders and squeezed.  "Oh Charles, they will pay.  Our moms will make them, and the squad, and Aunt Tara, they'll make them pay.  Heather will help, and Faith and Aunt Willow when they get back.  Charles, these things will pay."
     Charles tried one last time to change her mind.  He had to try one last time.
     "Xandra, don't you want to at least try?" he asked.  "You know, like your dad did?  Alex?  Help me out here.  Xander...  I mean shit, you guys, your dad's a hero.  Don't you want to, you know, follow in his footsteps?"
     "NO!" Alex shouted as he spun about and faced an astonished Xandra and Charles.  "No footsteps.  No spells, no magick, nothing!  NOT A GODDAMN'D FUCKING THING!  OKAY?"
     "Alex?  Easy.  I promise nothing big, but you gotta-" Charles fell silent as Xandra squeezed his arm in silent signal.
     "Alex?  What is it?  What's wrong?" she asked.
     The teen was shaking, tears were running down his face, a face that was a mask of anguished helplessness.
     "Alex?  C'mon, you're scaring me," said Xandra.
     "I- I promised.  I promised Mom that there'd be no more magick."
     "Why?" asked Charles in bewilderment.  "You saved Xandra with that spell.  Doesn't that count?"
     "I can't," whispered Alex.  "It's...  Look, it's family stuff.  Private."
     "Family?  Alex, I'm your sist-"
     "No!" he said, his voice heavy with anguish.  "I mean...  I mean Rosenberg family stuff.  Way back, ancient history kind of stuff.  Before I was born, before they got married.  Look, I Promised Mom no more magick, okay?  That's it, I'm sorry, Xandra, but that's it.  Okay?"
     "Oh, Alex, of course okay.  I'm not trying to pry, you know that," she took her brother's hands in hers.
     "I know, Xandra.  It's....  I'm sorry."
     "Now what?" asked Charles.  He was starting to feel a bit left out of the discussion.  He didn't like it, but he trusted Alex and Xandra, so he'd live with it.
     "Mom says that we're to stay here," answered Alex.  "Jeff-"
     "Yeah, he's outside.  And some other cop.  A woman.  I don't know her."
     "That Jeff would stay with us and then once Heather's been released he'll take us home.  My place.  Mom said that it was non-negotiable.  No room for-"
     "I know.  'Creative interpretation', right?"
     "Right,"  Alex wiped his hand across his face.  He was calmer now.  Well, a little calmer, anyway.
     "Right.  Xandra?" both boys looked to her as she turned towards the door.
     "Let's go see how Heather's doing.  I'll ask Jeff to see about Cal and Janel."
     "Then?" asked Charles.
     "Then we wait for morning."

*****

     "Left?" asked Chase-Gunn as she approached an intersection at speed, her emergency lights flashing.
     "Right," answered Harris.
     "Christ, Anya!" shouted Chase-Gunn as she slammed on the brakes, burning through the intersection with a black cloud of burnt rubber.
     "No, you're right, turn left!" snapped Harris back at her, pointing emphatically.
     Chase-Gunn threw the car through the turn, drawing a loud squeal of protest out of the tortured tires, and tore down the normally quiet residential street.  They were on their way to the last known demon attack.  Some neighbours had phoned in reports of gunshots and screaming.  The responding units had chased something away and had entered to find the victim still alive.  At last report the paramedics were on scene, but it didn't look good.
     "One William Ten, this is Dispatch."
     Chase-Gunn thumbed the radio switch on the steering wheel and spoke into the visor mounted mike.  "One William Ten, go."
     "Dispatch.  From King 4, reference their last.  Be advised that the call to 534 Santa Barbara Avenue is now a 187.  Over."
     "Damn it!"  The victim was dead.  That particular case was now a homicide.
     "Dispatch, say again.  Over."
     "One William Ten.  Copy.  Out."
     "Shit!"
     The rest of the short drive was made in silence.
     The house was of a nondescript ranch style typical of the neighbourhood.  It was really remarkable only for the two cruisers and unmarked car out front, bathing the neighbourhood with their revolving lights.
     Inside the house they found two detectives on loan from Major Crimes, their own detectives stretched too thin to cover this attack.  The body was splayed across the living room floor, blood and the paramedic's debris littering the rug.
     Chase-Gunn pulled up short as she saw the body.  It was that of a younger man, maybe late twenties, dark hair, and fair skin--
     --"WESLEY!  DO SOMETHING!  HE'S... he's dying...."--

*****

     "You coming?" asked Sergeant McGarry as she unlocked the door.
     Walthorpe shrugged and followed his partner into her dead lover's apartment.  "Might as well.  Not like you're listening to me any, is it?"
     "No, it's not," MacGarry spat over her shoulder.  He had tried to talk her out of searching Mac's apartment.  Had tried to convince her to let Seaborn and Wilson do it.  It was their case and their responsibility, he had argued.  She had listened politely, in the way people do when they weren't really listening, and anyway nothing you had to say would change their minds even if they were.
     "Right, then.  What are we looking for?"
     "Nothing.  It's all here on his computer.  Give me a sec, willya?"  McGarry sat herself down in front of the small computer desk and started typing away at a furious rate.
     Leaving the computer to McGarry to wrestle with, Walthorpe surveyed Mac's other, larger desk.  Pride of place went to two silver-framed photographs, one each of his mother and Kerry.  A couple file folders, banking information mostly, and a letter tray with some bills, a letter from his mother, another from a local realtor, and one to his RCMP superior back in Vancouver-
     Walthorpe looked closer at the last letter.  It was signed, dated, and with an addressed and stamped envelope beneath it.
     "Inspector Boucher," it read.  "It is with regret that I must decline the offered promotion, and furthermore, tender my resignation from the Force to be effective as soon as it is mutually convenient.  While not an easy decision for me to make, it is the right one.  My personal situation has, of late, undergone some significant changes and I am unwilling to leave Sunnydale just yet-"
     "Got it!"
     McGarry pointed to the monitor screen as a map of Sunnydale appeared.  Slipping around behind her on the pretext of getting a closer look, he surreptitiously re-folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
     "Sunnydale, so?"
     "Mac's been taking spot checks around town.  Measuring the demonic background noise from the Hellmouth.  He has a regular schedule and figures that he's got the Hellmouth's influence pretty much mapped out.  So any sudden changes, or anything big or really localized, that aren't a result of the Hellmouth getting all restless and everything, must mean something else.  Something really double plus ungood, I mean.  A new nest of some sort, or a spell or something."
     "So?  Tara and Will did that years ago.  It's part of the city plan-"
     "So, at the time they were just able to plot the Hellmouth's signature.  Weren't able to do any more.  Mac takes the background 'noise' into account and looks for anything new.  The Doc worked out some sort of new sensor crystal for him a while back.  Really sensitive."
     "Sounds good.  Why's it a secret?"
     "Hey, big collars look good on his record too.  'Sides, he says-" McGarry's shoulders slumped, her hands falling lifeless from the keyboard.  When she started talking again her voice had lost its animation.  "Damn it."
     "Kerry, look, you don't-"
     "Oh no!  Don't you fucking dare!" she hissed.
     "What?  I'm only-"
     "Treating me like I'm helpless.  I'm a cop, William."
     "I know you are, Kerry, but no one's expecting-"
     "What?  You think I can do this?"
     "Hell yes.  You're one of the best coppers on the force," he insisted in total honesty.
     "Really?"
     "Yeah, really."
     "Then show me the letter."
     "Letter?"
     "The one you took off the desk.  The one in your pocket."
     "Kerry?"
     "SHOW ME!"
     He took it out and handed it to her.
     It didn't take her long to read, and when she was finished she returned the letter to the desk, smoothing it out to lie flat on the blotter, before turning back to the computer.
     "I'll save this to disk and have Seaborn and Wilson compare it with his last movements.  Just take a minute or two."
     "Kerry?"
     "Go to hell, William."

*****

     "Name of Gregson.  Thomas Gregson.  Age 28.  Real estate agent.  Married, but his wife's out of town visiting family," Detective Burt Lowe read from his notebook.  A couple attempts had been needed before he could control the shaking of his hand enough to make his notes.  Although, as part of the Major Crimes squad, Lowe had worked the occasional run of the mill homicide, not that Sunnydale had many of those, he, like a lot of his colleagues, had made a point of steering clear of the Special Operations Unit as much as possible.  They gave him the willies.
     This case was doing nothing to change his mind.
     "I'll say this for the poor bastard.  He put up a fight.  His dog's in the back room.  Well, most of it.  And he got off a full clip," a Colt government model .45 caliber automatic, its slide locked back on an empty magazine, lay beside the body; the floor littered with spent shells.  "Manstoppers.  Didn't help."
     Harris knelt beside the body, peering at the damage.  There were some defensive wounds on the hands and forearms that were deep in places, but all would have been survivable.  What was not survivable were the bloodied ribbons of flesh and muscle, and the shattered ends of ribs that framed a large gash down the left side of his chest.  The warm aroma of blood rose from the wound.
     "It wanted his heart," said Harris, looking up at Chase-Gunn.  She leaned against the wall by the door, not having stepped more than three feet into the house.  She nodded absently, not taking her eyes off the body.  Harris tried to make eye contact with her but failed.
     With a sigh she turned back to the detective.  "Thanks, Lowe.  We'll talk later."
     "Sure thing, Lieutenant Harris," Lowe turned then to Chase-Gunn.  "Lieutenant."
     Without a word, she hadn't spoken since entering the house and seeing the body, Chase-Gunn turned and left, Harris following closely.
     "You gonna puke again?" she asked once they had reached the car.
     Handing Harris the keys, Chase-Gunn climbed in the passenger side and sat in silence as they pulled away into the night.
     --"Oh God, Xander, stay with me.  C'mon, you can do this, just stay awake.
    "Xander....--
 
*****
Counting Coup 6

     "You sure?" asked Chase-Gunn as she reached for her 'World's Best Mom' mug.  She grimaced at the battery acid that passed for early morning coffee in the squad room.
     "As I can be, Boss," Walthorpe leaned over Chase-Gunn's desk and tapped the computer printed map of Sunnydale laid out over it.  Spread across it were a number of red splotches of various shades and sizes, all but three had hand drawn X's through them.  "Anya's crossed out the known locations.  That leaves these three as possibles."
     "Kerry?"
     McGarry looked up long from her shoes enough to nod her head.  "Yeah. Possibles."
     Chase-Gunn glanced at her two senior detectives.  Long time partners, and close friends, their relative body languages were strained, and had been since the two of them had gotten back to the squad room.  She couldn't remember the last time she had seen either of them this uncomfortable around the other.  Plus, Kerry was seldom this taciturn, unless she was seriously pissed off at someone.
     "William?"
     "Boss?"
     "Set up the stake outs, and give Augstine-" he was the SWAT platoon commander- "a heads up.  If we haven't learned enough to start eliminating sites we'll take them all down tonight.  I'll ask Anya and Tara if they could pull off a locator spell to be on the safe side.  I know, I know," she added before he could voice his objection.  "Only if they can do it without pissing off Cadria.  God, she bugs me."
     "Boss."
     Chase-Gunn looked back at the map.  None of the three suspicious splotches were near Roosevelt park and the site of Mac's murder.
     "Yeah, I know," Walthorpe said, following her gaze and guessing her thoughts.  "But Mac's latest sweep was what- four days ago, Kerry?"
     "Yeah.  Four days," she answered in a low monotone.
     "So, it could be a new spot we don't know about yet," said Walthorpe after a sidelong glance at McGarry.  "And, hell, it's still possible that the attacks and Mac's-  that they may be unrelated.  The ME said that Mac's neck wounds might have been a vamp or a weapon.  Seaborn's going to pick up the preliminary autopsy report shortly-"
     Without a word McGarry rose and left the office and the squad room.  Chase-Gunn and Walthorpe watched her storm past the other detectives and out the door without a word.
     "What'd you do?"  Chase-Gunn asked Walthorpe.
     To his credit, it never occurred to him not to tell her.
     "I found a letter Mac had written to Boucher.  He was turning down his promotion to sergeant and resigning.  Personal reasons.  He wanted to stay 'ere in Sunnydale."
     "And you tried to hide it from her," she said with a sigh.
     "Well, yeah!" he fired back.  "The only thing worse would have been for us to have found a fucking engagement ring in his pocket!  I only wanted to-"
     "Dumbass," she said without heat.
     "Yeah," he sighed.  "Made a right bollocks of it didn't I?"
     "That's nothing new," she quipped.  The weak attempt at humour failed to lighten the atmosphere in the office.  "Look, I'm just as guilty.  Mac had talked to me a coupla weeks back.  The new detective slot was his as soon as Boucher had accepted his resignation.  I wasn't going to tell her.  Same reason as you."
     "You knew?"
     "Yeah.  Look, I'm sorry, I should've given you a heads up, but I didn't think that she'd check out his apartment," she sighed as his eyes met hers.  "Yeah, well, I'm a dumbass too.  Sorry, I should have told you last night."
     "You think she knew?" he asked.
     "I don't know.  You know how Mac loved to surprise her with stuff, but," she shook her head.  "Resigning from the Mounties and settling down in another country, that's some pretty big stuff."
     "Yeah.  Look, Boss, I'd never-"
     "I know that, and I imagine Kerry knows that, but you're still going to have to make it right with her."
     "Yeah."
     "William?"
     "Boss?"
     "Look, thanks for, you know, last night.  My place, and the hospital with Charlie and Alexandra.  I was...  Well, I wasn't at my best. Thanks."
     "Boss, no one would-"
     With a single knock on the door Winter stuck her head in, smiling apologetically at Walthorpe.  "Cordy, the deputy chief is on line one, media relations is on two, and the Director is on three."
     Chase-Gunn glanced at her watch, 5:30 in the morning, and not thirty minutes since his last call to demand 'updates' and 'appraisals' and 'forecasts'.  The deputy chief, her immediate superior, or as she like to think of him, her theoretical immediate superior, had been in a panic since the attack the night before.  She had been prepared to cut the guy some slack.  He had been attacked in his own home for chrissake.  Then she learned that the demon had arrived after three units, including two SWAT officers, had set up a perimeter, and had been chased away without even so much as stepping foot on his property.
     Needless to say, the fact that the story, with all the usual exaggerations at the unpopular officer's expense, had made the department's gossip rounds before the sun had started to lighten the eastern horizon had done nothing to improve his humour.
     "Thanks, Winter.  I'll take the Director's call, leave the deputy chief on hold," Chase-Gunn didn't give a rat's ass about the deputy chief's humour.  "And tell- is it Amy?  Tell her I'll have to call her back."
     "Sure thing," Winter winked at Walthorpe before adding.  "Boss."
     "You're a bad influence," Chase-Gunn told Walthorpe as she reached for her phone.
     "Really?  I'm not am I, Winter?" asked Walthorpe as he rose to take his leave.
     "Of course, but the good kind."
     Walthorpe's retort was cut off as the door closed behind him.
     Pushing the blinking button, Chase-Gunn answered her phone.
     "Giles, hi."

*****

     High port.  Straight right.
     Charles buried the blade of his battle axe in his opponent's neck.  Thick rancid demon blood fountained through the air.
     High port.
     A second demon clambered over the prostate body of its companion, it's scimitar scything through the air as it pressed home its attack.
     Left parry.  Straight right.
     Blocking the scimitar's cut, Charles spun about, dropping to one knee, before taking the demon's leg off at the knee.  It screamed as it pawed madly at the bloody stump.
     High port.  Pike thrust.
     With a graceful kick he regained his feet and thrust the tip of his axe blade into a third demon's chest.
     Shoulder hook.
     With all his might he pulled, dragging the demon to its knees before him.
     FULL OVERHAND!
     With an inarticulate cry he twirled the battle axe back and over his head slamming it down into the thing's skull, cleaving it in two, relishing the solid 'thunk' as his steel found it's target.
     His heart was racing, his breathing ragged, sweat stung his eyes and camouflaged the tears, and his ribs were sore as he stood over the debris of battle, splintered logs destined for the Rosenberg family fireplace.  The axe, a regular firewood cutting axe, was buried deep in the large stump used as a cutting surface.
     "Feeling better?"
     Startled he spun about, empty-handed as the axe blade refused to budge against his pull.  A stick, about two feet long almost hit him on the face before he caught it.  A second stick, this one firmly held and directed, struck him a stinging blow on his left side.
     "Attack me, NOW!"
     The pain in his side only added to his anger as he brought his 'sword' up in the standard two handed grasp aiming for the top of his opponent's head with a crushing overhand blow-
     "STOP!"
     He froze, his 'sword' slicing empty space.  Heather was crouching beside him, the tip of her stick pressed against his belly below the ribs.
     "In and up under the ribs," she whispered, her voice a savage snarl.   "Your liver is perforated, your lung too.  Blood loss means you're unconscious within seconds, add the shock, and you're probably out before you hit the ground.  Dead in under a minute.  Back up!"
     Obediently, Charles backed up, dropping the stick at his feet.
     Dropping her own stick, Heather rose and stood before the teen.
     "You ever pull a stupid dumbassed stunt like last night again and I swear, Charles, I'll have you over my knee."

*****

     "But she's a babysitter," protested Amenquale.  She and Whitford were sitting in a back booth at a stereotypical greasy dinner, the decor complete down to the reproduction juke box and fifties movie posters featuring Marlon Brando, James Dean, and Marilyn Monroe.  It had been their first stop after having safely deposited the babysitter and the three teens off at a rather nice looking house over on Revello Drive.  Whitford having spent most of the drive over preaching the value of a hearty breakfast as the perfect remedy for an all-nighter.
     While not normally much of a breakfast person, a cup of coffee or three and some toast usually sufficed, Amenquale had ordered the same two eggs over easy, bacon and sausages, hash browns, brown toast and coffee as her partner.  She watched as he diced his eggs into a yellow and white mess, shoveling forkfuls onto his toast along with bacon slices.  The bulk of his breakfast was gone, seemingly inhaled, after a number of minutes of single minded effort until, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he relaxed into the vinyl cushion of their booth.  Having been refreshed and refueled he had actually started to act almost human.
     His transformation would have freaked Amenquale out, except that she was busy taking advantage of his good mood to pump him for some information.  Her first question had been why they had left three kids, the targets of two separate demon attacks, in the care of a babysitter instead of something a bit more robust, like half the SWAT platoon.
     "Okay rookie.  Lesson the second.  The power in this town, the real power against the demons, sure as hell isn't us," he shook his head dismissively as he soaked up the last of his egg yokes with a piece of toast.  "It's not even the special unit.  Well, not all of them anyway.  Heather Childe isn't a babysitter.  Mostly, she's a grad student up at UC Sunnydale, anthropology.  She's also a Slayer."
     "A slayer?"
     "A Slayer.  Capital 'S'.  It's a mystical warrior type gig with super powers and everything; to even up the odds against the demons and vampires.  It's always a woman, well, girl really, they get chosen or called or whatever when they're young; Heather was thirteen years old.  They're trained by an older slayer for a couple of years or so, then set loose on the forces of darkness," he paused to finish off his sausages and toast.  "Then, after a hitch of about five years or so the next one gets called and they get to retire, or go on reserve or whatever."
     "So that's why she's up and about with a concussion and broken ribs?"
     "Yeah, 'cept that she doesn't have a concussion or broken ribs anymore.  Some sort of rapid healing power.  Right now she could PT our asses into the dirt without breaking a sweat.  There's not a single cop on the force that could keep up with her," he grinned.  "She hates it when I say so, but she's a goddamn'd superhero."
     Amenquale could hear the awe in Whitford's voice, competing with a lot of honest affection.  She smiled into her coffee cup.  He was turning into a human being almost in front of her eyes.
     "You said 'not all of them'.  There are others?"
     "Yeah.  A couple.  There's the senior detective, DS Walthorpe.  He's a Limey, nice guy if he likes you.  Don't know his whole story, but he's pretty strong and fast, almost as good as Heather, and he's a subject matter expert on vamps and demons," he drained his coffee and leaned in across the table, his voice dropping conspiratorially.  "Then there's the Doc.  You saw her last night."
     Amenquale nodded as she leaned across the table in imitation of Whitford.
     "She's the big gun.  A witch.  An honest to God witch.  Scuttlebutt is that she even fought a god once.  Some sort of hell bitch who was trying to open a portal to hell or something.  The Doc fought her and won.  Single handed."
     "No way," protested Amenquale as she recalled the diminutive woman from the night before.  She had a bodyguard, the SWAT leviathan, for crying out loud.  How tough is that?
     "Way."
     "But the bodyguard?"
     "Locklear's no bodyguard," he said with a smile.  "He's her liaison officer.  She's a civy, so he does the police stuff she can't do whenever she works a case with the special unit."
     "But I though-"
     "Big guy, big gun, little woman, gotta be her bodyguard, right?"
     "Well, yeah, sorta."
     "Uh huh.  When he's not with the Doc he's in special victims, kids mostly.  He's a great big teddy bear when he doesn't have his war face on.  We hang a bit.  He was in the Navy, a SEAL for almost twelve years.  Won't talk about most of it for security reasons.  Saw squids just like him when I was overseas with the Corps.  Anyway, Locklear volunteered to be the Doc's liaison officer, about thirty of us did, and he got the job 'cause he's smart and fit and fast enough to keep up with her.  She doesn't do it a lot, but when the Doc starts tripping, she really rocks and it's everything Locklear can do to keep up."
     "Wow."
     "Yeah.  Wow.  The Doc's special, rookie," he smiled a fond smile.  "Real special."

*****

     "Kerry?"  Walthorpe stepped into the women's loo, smiling apologetically at a uniformed cop as she slipped past him into the hallway.
     A toilet flushed, and after some small commotion, a stall door opened and McGarry exited, wordlessly walking to the sinks.
     "I'm sorry.  I thought it was the right thing to do, but I was wrong," said Walthorpe over the sound of running water.  "I didn't mean to.... I only wanted to, well, to save you more grief."
     When she spoke it was in a low, toneless voice directed at the sink before her.  "You don't have the right to decide-"
     "I know.  Uhh, I've told Wilson that she'll be partnering with you for the rest of the case.  I'll double up with Seaborn."
     "What?" she asked, her voice still low, but with an edge, as her head came up and she spoke over her shoulder.
     "I said that-"
     "I heard you, I just couldn't believe-  What did I just say?"
     "Uhh, that you heard me, oh, you mean about me not having the right to decide...  stuff."
     "'Stuff'!" she spun about, her voice reverberating through the tiled washroom.  "My personal life is not 'stuff'.  And another thing!  I decide when we're partners, not you!"
     "But, I thought-"
     "No, you didn't!" she snapped as she took a pace towards him.  "And that's what's pissing me off, William.  So get your shiny pale ass out of the women's john, send Wilson back to Seaborn and wait for me in the car.  Understand?"
     "Yeah.  I'll get right on it."
     He turned for the door.
     "William?"
     "Kerry?"
     "I'm still pissed at you."
     "Yeah, I figured."
     "But..." she mustered a small, quick smile that was swiftly overtaken by a scowl.  "I'm still pissed."
     "Fair one.  I'll be in the car then."
     "Be right out."

*****

     "Here."
     Charles swung the axe, aiming for the tip of the stick Heather was using to indicate his target on the large log serving as a sparring partner.
     He missed by a couple of inches, and the axe blade bounced off.  His grip had shifted slightly.  Again.
     "See?  A battle-axe is a lousy close quarters weapon, UNLESS you have way more practice than you have.  It needs power, so it's two handed, and that means that your defensive options are limited.  The most devastating cut, the overhand, is the one that leaves you most vulnerable.  It should only be used to dispatch fallen demons who can't defend themselves."
     "But..."
     "But what?"
     "Well, Dad and Xander used it all the time."
     "Your Dad had the power and the speed, and from what I understand, Xander practiced with it, a lot.  It's a good weapon, but not for a novice."
     "What should I have used then?"
     "Promise you won't get mad?  A battle axe," she smiled at his confusion.
     "Huh?  But you said that-"
     "That you weren't thinking, not that you didn't do good.  Charles, I really am proud of you.  You did good, but not for the right reasons.  You grabbed the battle-axe because of your Dad, all the pictures you've seen, the stories we've all told you.  It was an emotional decision.  You can't afford those in battle," dropping her stick, Heather took a seat on the picnic table, signaling Charles to join her.  "Also, you were in such a rush that you jumped over the railing.  That was stupid, but it saved your life.  Never jump in that close to a demon you don't know, but since you did, that forced you into a crouch, and you stayed low and hit it's leg, crippling it, and because you were low, it couldn't hit you back.  Trust me, that would have hurt."
     Heather wrapped an arm around Charles' shoulders and hugged him tight.
     "You did good Charles, but too much of it was luck.  I ever catch you trusting to luck in battle again and I'll tan your ass.  Got it?"

*****
Counting Coup 7

     "Not a vampire.  You're sure?" Chase-Gunn asked as the detective tossed the file onto her desk.
     "ME's sure, Elltee..  The cut to Mac's neck is consistent with a stone blade, like the ones found at your place and the fire station," Detective Andrew Seaborn paused for a moment, revulsion playing across his features.  "Whitford and his probie must have interrupted it before it could take Mac's heart."
     "Small mercies," whispered Chase-Gunn.  Christ, she needed some sleep.  She'd been running on adrenaline and coffee since early afternoon the day before, and a preliminary autopsy report was not how she usually liked to spend her mornings.
     There had been no sign of the demons since the last attack on the civilian, Gregson.  Since every cop on the payroll was out in force either on patrol or vital point/VIP security, that probably meant that they (however many of 'them' there were) were lying low.  Research had dug up little about the Ucalicoetl outside of the fact that they were big, and not a lot was known about them.  Anya Harris promised more as she picked up her phone and took a huge chunk out of her squad's long distance budget with the latest of many transatlantic calls.
     "Go on," Chase-Gunn ordered.
     "He had some defensive wounds on his hands and arms.  Bruising, cuts, a couple of bite marks.  Mac's knee was twisted and his trousers were torn at the knee, and bits of asphalt were embedded in the fibers, like he tripped or fell on some pavement.  The knee probably slowed him down."
     "His weapons?"
     "No sign," Like the rest of the squad Mac usually carried a spring loaded, oak tipped baton,  wooden cross, and high pressure can of holy water.  He was not legally allowed to carry the ten millimeter SigSauer automatic issued to the squad, but then it was pretty much useless against vampires and demons, and most of the detectives carried theirs only out of force of habit.  "He may have had them and lost them in the fight- they weren't found when CSU swept the park- or just not carried them."
     "Cell phone?"
     "No sign.  No signal either according to the phone company.  Probably destroyed.  There had been only the one call to Kerry telling her he was on his way.  Then nothing."
     "His car?"
     "Same thing, no sign.  It was an old clunker, an '04 Chevy, and he never bothered upgrading the anti-theft tracker.  Said if anyone wanted it bad enough they deserved the maintenance bills.  Uh, Elltee?"
     "Yeah?"
     "The ME's report," Seaborne gestured, hesitant even to touch it as it lay on her desk.  "You want it?"
     "Me?" Chase-Gunn looked up in surprise.  "Put it in the case file with everything else."
     "But...  Look, Lieutenant, everyone reads that file and-"
     "Andrew?  A word of advice."
     "Lieutenant?"
     "I know you mean well, but don't try to shield Kerry.  She's probably tearing William's head off right now.  Imagine what she'd do to you.  Put everything in the case file.  'Sides..."
     "Yeah?"
     "She knows full well that it'll be in the file.  There's no chance she'll end up tripping over it."
     "Elltee.  Sorry."
     "Don't be," she said kindly.  "Have the uniforms work out from the park and canvas for witnesses.  Door to door.  It was at dusk, but someone may have seen something."
     "Elltee."
     "Anything from Gregson's end yet?"
     "We're going over to his office now.  Meeting his supervisor.  But from the stuff in Mac's apartment it looked like he was showing him places in the south end.  Nowhere near Roosevelt Park."
     "Okay.  Let me know what you turn up."

*****

     Charles stared at his reflection in the mirror and ran his hand across his short curly hair.  He had just finished washing up after his work out, or was it his punishment?  Either way, Heather had pushed him fairly hard, leaving him sweaty and tired as he struggled to keep up and not to slow down in front of her.  In the end, he was relieved when she called a halt and ordered him to wash up and catch some sleep on the roll out cot in Alex's room that was set aside for his use.  As usual, Xandra had the spare bedroom all to herself in an arrangement that used to piss him off when he was younger.  Why should she get the spare bedroom all to herself just 'cause she's a girl?
     "Charles?  You going to be long?" asked Xandra through the closed door.
     Double-checking that he was presentable as possible in his t-shirt and pj bottoms he opened the door and gracefully stepped past Xandra out into the hallway.  Like him, she was dressed in a t-shirt and pj bottoms from the overnight bag each teen kept stocked in the event of impromptu 'sleep-overs' like this one.
     "All yours, Xandra."
     "Uhh... got a sec?"
     "Yeah, sure."
     To his surprise, she grabbed his t-shirt and pulled him into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
     "You wouldn't really have done it?  Would you?"
     "What?"
     "Don't 'what' me, Charles," she waved a dismissive hand as he tried to protest her very imperial tone of voice.  "You know what I mean."
     He shook his head, looking downcast.  "No, probably not.  I was mad and scared, and...  well, Sarah is my friend, too.  You know?"
     "I know," Xandra said softly, a warm smile on her face.
     "I wanted to.  I really did, but.. you were right.  'Sides, we wouldn't have gotten away with it would we?  Jeff was there to watch us, right?  Make sure we didn't take off and even if we had of it would have been a stupid thing to do, wouldn't it?"
     "Yes, it would have."
     To his surprise, Xandra leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.  A fleeting brush of her lips that was over almost as he realized it was happening.
     "Uhh..." he said.
     "Thanks.  For wanting to do something.  You're a good friend, Charles," said Xandra.  Reaching past him she opened the door to shoo him out.  "Get some sleep, 'kay?"
     Standing in the hallway staring at the closed bathroom door, Charles tenderly touched his finger tips to his lips and, as he turned for Alex's room, he muttered softly.  "Oh yeah.  Like I'm getting any sleep now."

*****

     "Cordelia?"
     Cordelia moved with a start.  She had been resting her eyes for a bit on the couch in her office.
     "I'm awake.  What time is it?"
     "Almost noon.  Roast beef or egg salad?"
     "What!?"  She pried her eyes open only to see Anya staring down at her, two wrapped  sandwiches in her hands.
     "Roast beef or-"
     "The egg salad.  Thanks," rising off the couch, she almost fell over as her right knee seized up in protest at the sudden move.
     "Damn it!"
     "What happened?" asked Anya taking her place on the couch as Chase-Gunn limped to her desk.
     "Fell getting out of the car last night."
     "That was stupid-"
     "It was at my place, trying to get to Charlie."
     "Oh.  Never mind," said Anya.  "Winter's worried about you."
     "Winter worries too much."
     "Uh huh.  She said that you were talking about Gunn.  That you mentioned how Mac reminded you of him sometimes.  A lot."
     "Any news from the stake outs?"
     "Yeah, Tam called in about one, the old Gummer Building.  It's looking like another group of demons, not the Ucalicoetl.  She's running it down with my squad.  I'll let you know when they let me know.  So any way, Winter's worried that you're doing the post traumatic shock thingie over Mac.  You know, on account of how he reminds you of Charles."
     "Anything on the other two sites?"
     "Nothing yet.  I'm not going to drop this, you know that."
     "You and Tara going to do the locator spell?"
     "Can't.  Wrong time of the month."
     "What!?"
     "Lunar cycle.  Moon's waning.  Best to leave Cadria alone for now."
     "I know how that feels."
     "So, are you?"
     "Am I what?"
     "All post traumatic shocked."
     "No."
     "You're sure?"
     "Yes..." Cordelia stared at her desk, unwilling to meet her friend's eyes while she lied to her.

*****

     "Heather?"  Tara called out softly as she closed the front door behind her.
     "She's in the kitchen," said a voice from beside her.
     "God!  Mom, you startled me."
     "Sorry, Tara," Sheila Rosenberg stepped out of the living room and gave her daughter-in-law a warm hug.  "The kids are all in bed sleeping.  Alex took his painkillers and they put him right out.  They had breakfast.  Tell Heather she needs more for breakfast than toast.  Not healthy for an active girl like her.  How are you doing?"
     Tara leaned against her mother-in-law, inviting a second hug.  "Been better.  Still, Giles called earlier.  Willow will be back tomorrow morning sometime.  Oh, and... uh, Leah and Sarah's bodies won't be released by the coroner until tomorrow-"
     "I've already talked to Ruth.  The funeral arrangements are in hand for tomorrow afternoon.  I'm heading over to hospital now, then to the temple.  To make arrangements," she smiled and brushed some hair out of Tara's face.  "Unless you need me here for anything?"
     "Moral support would be nice," Tara shook her head and smiled.  "Go.  Let me know the details and I'll...  I'll pass the word."
     "Tara?  About Alex.  Don't be too hard on him, please.  It's natural for teenagers to be secretive and flirt with the forbidden-  I know," she interrupted Tara's protest.  "This is magick we're talking about and not sex or drugs, or really bad music, but Tara, Alex is your son, too."
     Sheila smiled a small far away smile.
     "He's very much Xander's son as well.  You need to start giving yourself a lot of credit for being a really good mom to that boy.  I wish I'd have been as good a mom when Willow was that age.  But then again...."
     "'Then again...'?"
     "It ended up so very good in the end.  And that's what counts," said Sheila as she reached past Tara for her coat.
     "I don't know what I'd do without you sometimes, Mom," Tara took Sheila's coat from her and helped her put it on.
     "Of course not.  That's why we have grandmothers."
     With a final hug Tara watched her mother-in-law leave and get into her car before turning back into her house.  Walking into the kitchen she found Heather tapping away on her laptop.
     "Mom says you need to eat a bigger breakfast."
     "Sheila's full of... advice."
     "A grandmother's prerogative."
     "She's not my grandmother."
     "That doesn't matter.  It's another prerogative," Tara said, before stealing a piece of toast off of the plate beside Heather's laptop.  "How's it coming?"
     "Well I'm not typing 'All work and no play make Heather a cranky bitch' over and over again any more, but that's about it."
     "Dean Cregg?"
     "Dean Cregg.  What the hell was I thinking?"
     "She is the best."
     "How's it going down there?" asked Heather blatantly changing the subject.
     "They've come up with three possible nests.  Oh, and Cordelia asked me to tell you that she plans on taking them down tonight.  You up for it?"
     "Yeah, of course.  But what about the guys?"
     "Jeff and his partner will take them to the station while the raids are going down.  They'll be safe there," she leaned across the kitchen table, thankful for the distraction.  "So?  Did he stop by last night?  You know, to say 'hello'?"
     "Yeah," answered Heather, her smile reflected in her voice.  "He was all concerned guy.  Very cute."
     "He is, isn't he?"
     "Hey!  Hands off my boyfriend!" said Heather with a smile.
     "Happily married over here," Tara held her hands up in mock surrender, before turning serious again.  "Mom say's Alex went out like a light?"
     "Yeah.  He's putting on a brave face, but the headaches hurt a lot and..." she looked into Tara's eyes.  "I take it you told him."
     "Some," admitted Tara.  "Enough.  I'm waiting for Willow to get back and the three of us can talk."
     "I... I think it's bugging him, Tara.  Big time.  He hasn't said three words to anyone since we left the hospital.  Not even to Sheila."
     "I'll go check up on him.  Did you call the school?"
     "Yeah.  Let them know they won't be coming in today."
     "Tomorrow either, more than likely."
     "The funerals?"
     "Yeah, and a memorial service for Vijay."
     "I'll call them back.  Uh, Tara?  'Bout the guys."
     Tara sighed and took a seat across from Heather.  "I know.  They're getting to the same age as the original Scoobies were, right?"
     "Right, and, well, look, so far Alex and Xandra have been playing around with magicks behind your backs, and Charles has been training on the side.  Weapons and stuff.  Plus, he has that guilty look of his.  I'll bet my pension that he was planning something last night.  Something like going after the demons on his own, on their own."
     "I wouldn't doubt it.  He's Charles' son, alright."
     "Okay, you guys are the mothers and all, I'm just the babysitter, but do you mind if I make a suggestion?"
     "We've already been talking about it a bit ourselves.  I can't say that I like it, but yeah, it's time isn't it?"
     "Well, yeah.  You- we can teach 'em or they learn it on their own.  The old fashion way, by trial and error."
     "You know what I envy about other parents?"
     "What?"
     "They just have to deal with the sex."
 
*****

     "It's about Xander, isn't it?" asked Anya breaking a long moment's silence after Cordelia's denial.
     Despite herself, Cordelia answered in surprise.  "How'd you-  Oh, Gregson."
     "Well, you basically shut down when you saw him," Anya left unsaid her own shock at seeing the body.  The resemblance to her dead husband may have been fleeting, but it was enough to unnerve her a little.  A lot.  "Wanna talk?"
     "No, I'm-" she stopped and finally looked into Anya's eyes.  "You sure?"
     It may have been almost fifteen years ago that Anya lost her husband, but Cordelia knew full well how fresh the pain of her loss could be.  Every bit as fresh as hers could be at times.
     "Yeah," answered Anya with gentle strength in her soft voice.  "I'm sure."
     "I usually talk to Cal, but-"
     "I can get Tara if you want.  If you'd rather," offered Anya.  "She's at home right now but-"
     "No!  Not with Tara.  It's not... it's not fair to her," said Cordelia.  Then, after a deep breath, she went on.  "But, yeah, Gregson reminded me of Xander.  It was just for a sec, but it was enough.  I've been 'remembering' it all night anyway.  Here, at the hospital, and at Cal and Leah's."
     "Like the last time?"
     Cordelia shook her head.  "Worse.  God, Anya, it's worse than the dreams.  I just sit here and wish I could wake up."
 
*****

     "Alex?"
     Tara knocked softly on her son's door and pushed it open.
     Her only answer was Charlie's soft snoring.  Tara smiled at him; he got that from his mother.
     "Alex?"
     Her son rolled silently over onto his side, turning his back to her.
     "You feeling better, honey?"
     Silence.  He pulled himself in a tight ball, shutting her out.
     Tara sat on the edge of his bed and reached out to brush his long brown hair back from his face.
     "Alex?"
     With a shrug he shouldered her hand off of his face.
     "Alex?  Please, say something, honey.  I-  We never meant for any of this to hurt you.  We thought it was for the best.  I'm sorry-"
     "Don't," he said in a small whisper.  He didn't move, didn't look at her.
     "Alex?"
     "Just leave me alone."
     With a sigh, Tara surrendered.  Bending over she tried to kiss Alex on the cheek, but he pulled away, out of reach.
     "I love you, Alex," whispered Tara as she left the room.
     The soft 'click' of the door latch sent the tears streaming down her face.

*****
Counting Coup 8

     Cordelia knocked on the doorframe as she leaned into the small office.  The nameplate on the wall beside the door read simply 'T Rosenberg, PhD'.  Officially, Tara was the departmental psychologist, having specialized in trauma counseling for her clinical specialty, and having spent the last eight years building up a successful private practice.  Unofficially, she was the departmental witch, and the squad's chief resource on magick.
     "Tara, hey.  You good to go for tonight?  Brandt wanted me to tell you that he'll start the briefing at 6."
     "What?" she asked looking up from her desk and the small frame in her hand, her eyes a thousand miles away.  "Sorry, Cordelia, what did you say?"
     Cordelia stepped into Tara's office, pulling the door shut behind her, before she took a seat.
     "You okay?  How's Alex?  Is he-"
     "He's fine," Tara carefully repositioned the framed photo on her desk, her fingertips lingering on the glass for a moment before she sighed and turned her attention back to Cordelia.  "That's what Sheila and Heather tell me anyways."
     "He's upset then, huh?"
     "Wouldn't talk to me, just told me to go away.  To leave him alone...." her voice almost broke, and it was a long moment could she could speak again.  "He comes to me about everything!  He trusts me and I-   God, Cordelia, I betrayed my own son!  He hates me!"
     "He doesn't hate you, Tara.  He's... confused and, yeah, he's angry; hell, he's a teenager, that's his job description," Cordelia reached across Tara's desk and picked up Alex's photograph.  It earned a smile.  In it, Alex was thirteen, soaking wet and muddy, he had a cut over one eye and a fat lip from where he had been hit by a soccer ball, but a huge smile was plastered across his face.  It had been taken by Tara just seconds after the final whistle of the championship game as he raced out of goal to join his teammates as they celebrated their win.
     What earned the picture a place on Tara's desk was the smile he flashed at her as he sprinted by.  In the midst of his excitement, his biggest smile was for his mom.
     "Tara," Cordelia said as she replaced the photograph.  "You didn't betray him.  You didn't lie to him.  Not really.  And you were...  you were right.  You and Willow.  Sure, he's your son, but he doesn't need to know everything that happened.  Christ!  Tara, there's plenty of stuff in my life I don't want Charlie knowing about, same with Anya and Alexandra.  Some stuff isn't any of their business-"
     "I told him about the spell," confessed Tara, her voice a broken whisper.  "When we resurrected Buffy, and how... hard it was on Willow."
     Cordelia sat in silence for a long moment as Tara's confession hung in the air between them.
     "How hard?" she finally asked.  "Tara, did you tell him about-"
     "No," said Tara, her voice barely a sigh.  "Not without Willow.  I have to talk to her when she gets back.  But Alex deserves to know what happened, and how dangerous things could be for him."
     Cordelia leaned forward and caught Tara's eyes with hers.  "Tara?  Alex deserves to know how much you love Willow, and how much Xander loved her.  Your son deserves to know what you two went through to get his mother back.  My God!  You two went through Hell for her."

*****

     "Everybody got some rest?" asked Chase-Gunn of the assembled officers crowded into the squad room.  In addition to her detectives and Anya's intelligence operators, the room was packed with representatives from the department's SWAT platoon, media and community relations, the fire services' Hazardous Event Response unit, and, last but not least, Animal Control's Hazardous Creature Unit.  Her detectives, the ones she was really worried about, mostly mumbled or nodded an affirmative response, and she knew that they were lying.  God knows she would have as well if asked the same question.
     It was late afternoon and so far a lot of police work had netted little they hadn't already suspected.  The attacks had mostly been launched against the police.  Four patrol units, and selected members of the leadership, including Cal Epstein as a part time member of the int cell, had been attacked.  The two exceptions were the attack on the West End fire station and Gregson.  Though at least with Gregson there was a connection with the police, tenuous as it was, through Mac and his house hunting efforts.  The working theory was that Mac had been identified as a cop by the Ucalicoetl and when Gregson was seen with him, the natural, if erroneous, conclusion had been made.  Interestingly enough, no other civilian had been harmed, in spite a handful of encounters reported throughout the night, and the Ucalicoetl had not been seen since the attacks, suggesting that either they had left town, or were regrouping for a second go.
     No one was betting on the first option.
     Heading the growing list of unknowns was a motive.  Demon or not, perps always have a motive, and often determining that motive was the first step in stopping the next attacks.  Fine, that works in theory, and with human perps a good psychologist can make some fair assumptions, better known in law enforcement circles as 'wild ass guesses'.  With demons, though, the process usually required considerable research before basic assumptions could be made.  Unfortunately, they had damn little to go on as Harris' research had yielded little firm information about the Ucalicoetl.  Native to Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula, with an estimated population ranging between 1,000 to 5,000, and divided into four or five, or maybe more, tribes, the Ucalicoetl mostly kept to themselves.  The existing accounts, the earliest dating from the time of Cortez and the Conquistadors, sketched a picture of a culture that engaged in a series of ceremonial battles, with a subsequent exchange of hostages that were then tortured to death.  The pain and humiliation that the hostages endured before death established the relative standings amongst the tribes and access to scarce resources, including the area's human population.
     "Pleasant buggers," observed Detective Sergeant Walthorpe.  "Though, gotta say, it would sure make the annual budget meetings a damn'd sight more fun."
     On a more positive note, the stakeouts had eliminated two of the possible sites identified on Mac's map.  One was a collection of undeclared Axolotl demons who had promptly been detained and questioned by Anya Harris's intelligence cell, but to no result at least as far as the case was concerned.  The Axolotl clan had just stopped over on their way to Catalina and were planning on leaving with the next tide.  They were spending their last night in Sunnydale as guests of the south end Y.  It had the biggest pool.
     The second possible turned out to be a bunch of teens, a half dozen girls and a pair of boys, who had been playing at witches.  They were looking to attract the amorous attentions of various other teens and a couple of high school teachers that had struck their fancy.  Unfortunately, the erstwhile coven had made the mistake of invoking Asarte, a fertility goddess of rather potent powers and evil humour.  An unregistered amulet, an Asartenian urn, was confiscated and destroyed, luckily for all concerned, especially the two boys, as Asarte was best described as an equal opportunity fertility goddess.  Virgin, or at least unexpected, pregnancies are hard enough to explain away when the mother is a woman.
     That left the third site.  An abandoned warehouse on the north side of the rail yards.  It sat astride a major sewer and utilities line, which meant any number of entrances, none of which could be monitored effectively without giving away the fact that the place was under police surveillance.  The display screen showed the architectural plans for the place, luckily it was the one storey, the known underground connections, and photographs collected earlier that day.
     "Okay, listen up and we'll get started-"
     Chase-Gunn was interrupted as Officer Whitford pushed his way into the room and after searching out Tara Rosenberg and Anya Harris gave the three women a thumbs up.  Smiling her thanks, Chase-Gunn carried on.
     "You all have the detailed notes, but I'll walk us through the high points then the usual back and forth until we're all happy we know what's going on."
     "The entry will go down at 2045, just after last light.  Lieutenant Augustine and his SWAT platoon will secure the outer perimeter by 2000," she pronounced it 'twenty hundred'.  "Media relations has decided on a, what, train derailment?"
     "Yeah," said the media relations rep, a woman by the name of Amy Beauchamp.  She looked nervous, this was her first major operation and she wanted to do well.  So far her cover story about a mugging gone terribly wrong and a savage home invasion had satisfied the press contingent still camped out in town.  The other incidents remained hidden, camouflaged in part by the genuine activities of a police force hunting vicious killers.  "Two ammonia tankers off the tracks, no leak, but we've established a secure perimeter to be on the safe side."
     "Good.  We'll go that route if things go noisy at the warehouse.  My call, remember."  She got a nodded agreement from both the media relations rep and the fire services officer who would oversee the deception.  "Brandt and his squad will establish the inner perimeter at the same time and go in as the first wave.  Detectives and int officers operators second, the rest of the SWAT platoon as necessary.  Remember, we want information from the demons.  Survivors are to be secured and removed to, where?"
     Lieutenant Harris answered that one.  "The old scout camp off Stone Road."
     "Everyone got that?"  There were nods all round.  "Okay, we haven't had something this big in a while, but we all know the drill.  These things are warriors; you've all seen the pictures.  They're bred big and fast.  So far they've killed Mac, Leah and Sarah Epstein, and Thomas Gregson.  There will be NO MORE!  I said that we want, that we need, information, but not at the risk of our people.  This is a high risk entry.  The only casualties will be demons, or I'll be causing more.  Got it!"
     This time the response was a vocal and energetic one.
     "Go over your notes for a moment than we'll have questions."

*****

     "Charlie?"  Cordy was calling her son's name even before she entered the small lounge beside the squad room.  Everyone's questions had been addressed and answered, and with all the i's crossed and t's dotted, they had left to oversee the final preparations.  For Cordy, Anya, and Tara that meant seeing to their children.
     "Lieutenant?" he said, rising as she walked in to the lounge.
     "'Lieutenant'?" she repeated in bemusement.
     "Well, 'Mom' seems too, you know, informal or something," answered Charlie.  Beside him stood Alexandra and Alex, with Heather hovering over them.  She was wearing a black leather bomber jacket, a black knit watch cap over her equally dark hair, a small carryall bag lay at her feet.  A young uniform, Jeff's probie, stood uncomfortably in the corner.
     "You're becoming quite the gentleman, Mister Chase-Gunn," Cordy smiled at her son.  "I approve."
     The other two teens greeted their mothers- Cordelia frowned at the stiff greeting Alex gave his mother- and then turned expectantly towards Cordy.  She waved them into the plush couches and stood before them.
     "Here's the sitch.  Willow and Faith are getting in in the morning.  Your Grandpa Giles pulled some strings with the RAF and they've lent him a plane.  They're going to stop off in Toronto to pick up Rachel and should be in at about half past five or six.  With luck everything will be over with by then, but well-"
     "Never trust to luck.  Right?" interjected Charlie.
     "Exactly.  Nice to see that you listen to your old mom every now and again.  Don't interrupt.  Both Janel and Cal are doing fine.  They've been moved out of recovery and into ICU," she raised a hand to silence the obvious question on the minds of the three teens.  "I don't know when we'll be able to visit.  The doctor said that they still haven't risked telling them about Leah and Sarah, they're waiting for them to regain some strength.  The funeral is set for tomorrow afternoon at the
cemetery chapel.  We'll be there, don't worry.  After the funeral there will be a service out at the airport; the Mounties are flying down to pick up Corporal Bhandarkar.  We'll all be there as well.  Tara?"
     "I've talked to Grace," Grace MacKinnon was Cal Epstein's associate, and like him and Tara, she was a fully qualified trauma psychologist.  "She'll be available to any of you if you want to talk.  We're here too, don't get me wrong, but we all know what it was like to be teenagers, even if it was back in the Stone Age.  Talk to us, or talk to Grace, if you need to, or just want to.  Promise?"
     Satisfied with the response, muted though it was, she turned the floor over to Anya.
     "First off, you guys weren't targeted.  Not deliberately.  The Ucalicoetl are warriors, and, well, there's no honour in killing children," she ignored the three of them as they bristled at being called children.  "The pattern appears to be senior police leadership, including Cordelia and I.  Cal was with me earlier in the week, working the Sennacherib curse.  It looks like he was mistaken for a cop then.  Mac may have stumbled on to something, probably by accident since he wasn't working a case, and the Ucalicoetl killed him, most likely to stop him alerting us.  The civilian was a realtor, who was helping Mac find a house-"
     "A house?" interrupted Charles, forgetting his mother's instruction to the contrary.  "He was going to stay in Sunnydale?"
     "Yeah.  Looks that way."
     "How's Kerry?" asked Alexandra.
     "Dealing," answered Cordy.  With a glance at the other two women she retook the floor.
     "We're taking down the nest, at least we think it's the nest, later tonight.  You three will stay here, with Officer Whitford and..." she smiled apologetically at Amenquale.
     "Amenquale, ma'am."
     "With Officer Amenquale-  No you may not!"  she forestalled Charlie's plea to ride along before the first syllable was out of his mouth.  "You're too young-  And don't you dare invoke your father!  This is so not the same thing."
     "Mom!?" protested Charlie.
     "But Aunt Cordy..." joined Alexandra.  Her brother just sat beside her, his expression unreadable.
     "No.  Not tonight.  Maybe," she took a deep breath.  "Maybe later, if you want."
     Even Alex nodded as Charlie and Alexandra voiced their willing agreement.
     "Wait.  You might not like the conditions."

*****

     "William?"
     "In here, Heather."
     Heather made her way to the back of the now empty squad locker room to find Walthorpe pulling a long black leather duster out of his locker.
     "Ahh, the traditional look.  I like it."
     "You good to go?" he said with a grunt.
     "Of course.  How you doing?"
     "Me?" he paused in surprise as he pulled the duster on.
     "Yeah, you."
     "Fine.  Why?"
     "How's Kerry?"
     "Chewed me a new arsehole earlier today," he said as he clipped his gold shield to his belt.  It was the only thing that identified him as a cop.  "But, she's dealing.  Can't expect much more-  That what this is about?"
     "Dealing?  Yeah."
     "Well, I've nothing to deal with," he slammed his locker shut.  "I liked Mac just fine, but we weren't best blokes or anything."
     "That's not what I meant."
     "No.  Then what?"
     "Loss in general.  Watching Kerry go through her grief.  Remembering how helpless grief made you feel.  Feeling helpless now."
     "I'm not bloody helpless," he said heatedly.
     "How's Kerry?"
     "I just said-  Oh,"  he looked at her with a wry half-smile.  "I thought you were an anthropologist?"
     "Still makes me a student of the human condition."
     "I'm not-"
     "Yeah.  You are."
     "Hell of a thing to call a bloke."
     "So, how you doing?"
     "Shitty.  You."
     "Been better."

*****

     "I kissed Charles," Xandra whispered to her brother.  "On the lips."
     "'Bout time," whispered Alex back, casting a glance over to the far side of the squad room where Charles was talking to Officers Whitford and Amenquale while the five of them waited for word on the raid.  His migraine had mostly faded, though his eyes were still bruised, and he had yet to regain his usual cheerful manner.  Though that had nothing to do with his migraine.
     "It's all your fault, you know that," hissed Xandra in an accusatorial tone
     Alex sighed.  Xandra wasn't going to leave him alone.  "What?"
     "It's your fault for making me think that he might like me that way.  And your fault he doesn't."
     "Okay, yeah, I think that you two should go out, like to the dance-"
     "We're not going to the dance now!"
     "'Course not.  But there'll be other dances, and I still think that you should ask Charles out."
     "But he won't go with me, 'cause he thinks I'm a just a friend, or worse, a sister type friend."
     "Oh, and that's why it's my fault.  'Cause I'm your brother and he's my friend."
     "That's what I'm saying!"
     "I still have a headache, you know that."
     "I'm going to be a nun when I grow up, and it'll be your fault my Mom never gets grandchildren."

*****

     "Xandra kissed me," confessed Charles in a whisper.
     He had had to wait until Xandra left the squad room to go to the washroom before he could slide up next to his friend.
     "What?" asked Alex roused out of his reverie by his best friend.
     "Xandra kissed me.  On the lips.  Today."
     Alex stifled a sigh and said.  "You kiss her back?"
     "Not right away."
     "Huh?"
     "More like later, in my head.  A lot.  Look, do you think this means she likes me?"
     "She kissed you, dumbass.  What's that tell you?"
     "She kisses you."
     "She's my sister!" he objected.  "She kisses me on my birthday and other special occasions like when my hospital tests come back negative.  We're not hillbillies!"
     "Never said-  Shut up for a sec, willya.  So, she leaned in and kissed me.  Real quick like, but on the lips, right?  But then, she calls me a 'good friend'.  What do you think?  Does she like me?  You know, that way?"
     "For fuck sake's just ask her out already," Alex snapped.  "But leave me out of it!"

*****

     The warehouse looked quiet enough, bits of light peeked through the odd broken window, but there was no movement to be seen, either inside or out.
     Chase-Gunn set aside the night vision goggles and turned back to the small knot of officers standing with her behind a reeking dumpster they had selected as their main observation post cum command post.
     "Tara?"
     Tara Rosenberg stood beside her, her eyes closed as she concentrated on reading the magickal energies of the warehouse.  In theory she should be able to pin point the location and type of each demon in the building.  That was the theory at any rate.  The system was far from perfect and was treated as a 'nice to have' by the SWAT team assaulters standing ready to kick in the doors.
     She shook her head, misery and frustration plain on her face.
     "I'm sorry, Cordelia.  There's... there's something alright, but I can't nail anything down,"  she managed to look even more miserable.  "I- there's too much- too much distraction.  I'm sorry."
     Cordelia leaned in, her hand squeezing Tara's shoulder reassuringly.  Which was hard to do through Tara's body armour.  Whispering she said.  "Tara, relax.  Look at me.  We've got the place covered; we're ready to go.  Anything extra you give us, well, it'll be nice, but don't worry yourself sick about it.  Okay?"
     "Okay," she didn't sound convinced.
     "Look, maybe it would be best if you went back to the station.  Be with Alex-"
     "NO!" she turned on Cordelia, loose strands of hair flying out from under her Kevlar helmet.  "No.  I'll be fine."
     "Sure?"
     "Sure," she attempted a small smile then turned back to the plans laid out on the dumpster in front of her.  "The hot spot is still here, in the main area-"
     Tara paused, then closed her eyes, her brows knitting together in confusion.
     "Tara?"
     "Weird."  A whisper.
     "What?  What is it?"  Chase-Gunn knew better than to try and rush her friend, but being patient was so hard!
     "The Macarena."
     "The dance?"
     "Yeah."
     "You're not channeling some 90's musical hell dimension are you?"
     "I'm picking up the Macarena."
     "Anya?" asked Chase-Gunn glancing up at Harris.
     She just shrugged carelessly.  "I liked that dance."
     Ignoring her, Chase-Gunn thumbed her radio switch.  "Two David 10, this is One William 10.  Are your teams in position?  Over."
     "Two David 10.  Yes.  Over,"  Sergeant Marcus Brandt's voice was a bare whisper.  He, like the rest of his team, along with Heather Childe and DS Walthorpe, were crouching beside the three doors they had selected as entry points.  Behind them were the detectives and intelligence operatives who would follow them in.
     "All units, wait, over," releasing her radio switch Chase-Gunn looked back at Rosenberg.
     A soft shake of her head was Chase-Gunn's only answer.
     "One William 10 to all units.  Stand by, stand by...." in her mind's eye she could see the officer's tear the safety clips from their stun grenades as others moved into place with the battering rams.  Then, even as the words were out of her mouth, she was running across the street, Harris and Rosenberg at her heels-
     "GO!  GO!  GO!"

*****
Counting Coup 9

     "I HAVE A PERMIT!"
     The demon shouted his declaration for what was probably the tenth time.  He even waved the paper in Chase-Gunn's face to reinforce the fact that he did, in fact, have said permit.
     The debris of a party laid about them as she, Harris, and Walthorpe stood in the middle of the warehouse floor being shouted at by the outraged demon.
     "Sir, there's no need to shout," said Chase-Gunn in what she hoped was a reasonable tone of voice to a Mainyu demon.
     "WHAT?"
     "I said there's no need to shout!"
     "NO NEED?  I'M DEAF!"
     The entry had been textbook perfect.  The outside doors were battered down, stun grenades were lobbed in, and the SWAT team had followed even before the explosions had cleared.  Only to find a terrified collection of Mainyu demons cowering beneath tables or lying flat on a large dance floor complete with sound system, disco ball, and bar.
     "I know, sir.  It'll go away," she kept the 'I hope' part to herself.  Aside from a brown, white and black pelt not dissimilar to that of a beagle, the most distinctive element of their physiology was their big floppy ears.  Indicative, according to Harris, of their acute sense of hearing.  And the reason the tac teams hadn't heard the Macarena through the walls prior to their entry.  Never mind Spinal Tap's amplifier with it's 11 setting, the Mainyu's system went no higher than 1.
     "I HAVE A PERMIT!  YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO ATTACK US.  THIS IS RACISM, THAT'S WHAT IT IS.  I'M SUING," turning to his assembled clan, those who weren't trying to calm down a large number of frightened young, he ordered them to "GET EVERYONE'S BADGE NUMBER, WE'RE SUING ALL OF THEM."
     "Sir, please-"
     "I HAVE A PERMIT!"

*****

     "We raided a bar mitzvah," said Walthorpe.  "That's one for the books."
     "Shut up," said Chase-Gunn just before she swallowed two painkillers and a glass of tepid water.
     McGarry elbowed him in the side as she shot him a warning glance.
     It was now nearing Chase-Gunn's second midnight of the case, with little sleep, crappy vending machine food, too much coffee, and, the cherry on her shit sundae, she had just gotten off the phone with the deputy chief, the mayor's office, the district attorney, and the town's own attorney.
     In one of those twists designed to further separate her from her sanity, it had been the deputy chief who come to her aid, defending her against the mayor's office and town attorney.  The other two had been freaking over the threat of a lawsuit, while he was still fixating on the fact that the Ucalicoetl were still at large.  The district attorney mostly restricted himself to learned pronouncements that any demon initiated lawsuit was on shaky legal grounds at best.
     The Mainyu had in fact been celebrating the coming of age of a number of their younger members.  Not exactly a bar mitzvah, as Walthorpe put it, but close enough.  The warehouse had been licensed by the city as a rental hall catering mainly to the demon population, and the special function permit the Mainyu elder had been waving in their face had been issued four days ago.  All nice and legal.  The fly in the ointment being the failure of the city clerk's office to forward the relevant notification to either the intelligence cell or the Community Relations office.  But that was a matter for another day.
     "For once I'm glad I don't have Anya's job."
     The second of Anya Harris' two hats was as principle liaison between the force and the demon communities that settled in and around the Hellmouth.  It fell to her to try to placate the Mainyu, and the other communities that threatened unrest on their behalf.  Some were genuinely upset at the assault on the Mainyu, while others were just shit disturbers.  She was now conferring with the Mainyu elders and assorted other representatives, desperately trying to head off a confrontation between a still jumpy and angry police force and a still jumpy and outraged demon population.
     She was 'cautiously optimistic'.
     Chase-Gunn was preparing for the worst.
     "Look Boss, it was an honest mistake," said McGarry.  "Everything was done according to the SOP's.  It was a mistake, but it was still righteous."
     "I know," said Chase-Gunn as she tried to will the painkillers to work faster.  "That's not what's bothering me.  We focused- I focused on the warehouse, on the three possibles from Mac's map, to the exclusion of anything else.  I got impatient, I got sloppy."
     "We all did, Boss," insisted Walthorpe.
     "Well, we're back to square one," declared Chase-Gunn as she left her office to address her assembled detectives, Walthorpe and McGarry in tow.  "We got tunnel vision and fixated on the warehouse.  Okay, we're cops.  If all else fails, we start acting like cops.  From the beginning.  With Mac.  Andrew, Gregson's listings, anything in the area of Roosevelt Park?"
     "None," answered Seaborn.  "And only retail listings for the rest of his office.  No one has residential listings in that area."
     "Period, or just that office?" asked Detective Gina Tam.
     "Just that office," Seaborn held up a small pile of computer printouts.  "These are all the listings for the city.  We're going through them now, but so far nothing in the area fits."
     "Keep looking.  We have to find out why Mac was in the area.  His car?"
     "Nothing."
     "Anyone got anything?"
     She could have sworn she heard crickets in the deafening silence that answered her.
     "Right.  Talk it over and work your way through the case.  I want some answers."

*****

     "Okay," said Heather holding the door open.
     With that Xandra, Alex and Charles moved past Heather into the Rosenberg house while she signaled the 'all clear' to Whitford and Amenquale as they came around the corner after completing their own perimeter sweep.  He flashed her a bright smile, which she returned, and a thumbs up, which earned him an air kiss before she stepped back into the house.
     She found Xandra and Charles in the kitchen, predictably pulling various foodstuffs and crockery from the fridge and cupboards.
     "Where's Alex?" she asked Xandra.
     "Went to bed," said the teen, worry plain on her face.
     "He'll be fine," Heather said in what she hoped was a suitably adult and reassuring tone of voice.  "You two should be in bed, too.  It's past midnight."
     "Yeah," agreed Charles as he handed Xandra bowls for the ice cream she had planted in front of her.  "But our sleep rhythms are shot.  It's bad for us to try and force them.  Better to ease back into the cycle."
     "Alex feed you that line of BS?"
     "Why Alex?" asked Charles in defence of his best friend.
     "'Cause he's the one with the psychologist for a mom."
     "Heather?" asked Xandra as she gestured invitingly with a bowl.
     "What the hell," she sighed in surrender.  "Any chocolate crackle left?"

*****

     "That it then?" asked Amenquale as they returned to their cruiser.
     "That's it."
     "How about something to eat then?  On me?" she asked.
     "Sounds good.  I'm cheap.  You ever tried the ribs over at Bluto's Grill?"
     "That's not cheap," objected Amenquale even as she saw the trap close about her.
     "Sorry.  I meant that I'm tight with my money.  I'm really an expensive date."
     "Sorry I asked."
     "Too late to back out now, rookie."
     "I got that feeling my first day at the academy."

*****

     "Did he ask you out first, or did you?" whispered Xandra.
     "What?" asked Heather as the three of them watched some old movie on TV.
     It was about a princess and a farm boy, or a prince, or a pirate, or something.  The original choices, this romantic fantasy, or another old movie about a guy running around a skyscraper shooting terrorists, had split the group down gender lines, until Charles unexpectedly reversed his vote in favour of the princess movie.  Not that it mattered now, as he snored softly from his place on the floor.  Xandra had covered him with a blanket, and even went so far as to slide a pillow under his head before turning the volume down to avoid disturbing him.
     "You and Jeff.  Who asked who out first?"
     "I did.  He was all shy and everything.  Why?"
     "'Cause a' you being a slayer and stuff?"
     "A bit.  Mostly he's just shy around women.  I ask again.  Why?"
     "Just wonderin'...."  Xandra cocked her head quizzically for a moment while trying to figure out if she missed the wedding scene before realizing that the movie was now in some sort of dream sequence.  Giving up on trying to watch a silent movie she turned off the TV.
     "What?" asked Heather as she watched Xandra's facial expression track through indecision to resolve and back to indecision before coming to a full stop back at resolve.
     "I kissed Charles," Xandra whispered.
     "What?  Way to go girl-  No.  Wait."
     "What?" asked Xandra as she followed Heather back into the kitchen.
     "Ice cream.  These things demand ice cream..." explained Heather as she reached into the freezer.  "Yesss!  Chocolate crackle."
     Handing Xandra a spoon, Heather took a seat at the counter and tore the lid off the ice cream container.
     "Spill."

*****

     "Nothing," spat McGarry in disgust.
     "Nothing yet," amended Walthorpe.
     The two of them had left the squad room to drive around Roosevelt Park in the probably vain hope that something would jump up and break the case.  That something would explain Mac's presence in the area just before his death.  Chances were Seaborn and the others would find something in the realty records before they did just driving about, but both detectives were going stir crazy back in the squad room, and as senior officers they pulled rank and left before it got ugly.
     "Shut up.  When did you become the optimist?"
     "Realist.  There's a difference."
     "Shut up."
     They drove for a bit, Walthorpe behind the wheel, through the old, mostly ugly, stone and brickwork factories that made up Sunnydale's first industrial district astride the river.  Now, except for the reclaimed park, it was mostly warehouses and a handful of empty buildings so run down that even demons avoided the area.  As far as the cops were concerned it was the last 'two cruiser/four officer' patrol beat in the city.  Less for any demon activity, ironically enough, but more for the various gangs that periodically tried to set up shop in the seemingly quiet city.
     "William?"
     "Kerry?"
     "Your being all super-stupid-overly-protective-guy.  That wasn't about that crush of yours was it?"
     "Keep telling you, it isn't a crush."
     "Whatever.  Was it?"
     "No.  Yeah.  A bit."
     "You told me you were over it."
     "I never said I was over it.  Over you," he started at the floor in embarrassment.
     "Yes you did.  When Mac got hurt that one time.  Remember?"
     "Ah!  Well, you see, I did say that."
     "Told ya."
     "And I was pretty much lying through my teeth," Walthorpe glanced at her, a small shy smile curling his lips.
     "William!"
     "Hey!  You had fallen for Mac, and... and it was the...  the honourable thing to do.  To lie."
     "Jackass.  So, do I have to tell you again?"
     "No, but it's not like anything's changed...  Wait..."
     "What?" asked McGarry as Walthorpe slowed the car to a crawl before speeding back up again.  Should anyone, or anything, be watching them he didn't want to tip his hand.
     "Dumpsters.  Back there.  A bunch of them with all sorts of crap, building materials and stuff."
     "Renovations?"
     "Yeah.  Maybe gutting the buildings then putting in-"
     "Apartments or condos," McGarry pulled out her cell phone.  "Seaborn, it's McGarry.  Check city records for construction permits in the old factory district....  What?.....  Oh....  No, we just spotted some dumpsters...  You?....  Wow, good one.  What?....  Okay, tell the Boss we're on the way in."
     "What'd he say?"
     "They already figured it out.  Seem's there was a fire day before yesterday.  A contractor set fire to some... something or other.  West end station responded-"
     "Ahh!  There's that connection."  The attack on the west end fire station had been the anomaly among the demon attacks of the night before.  All of the others had been launched against police targets, either patrol cars or members of the department's leadership.  "Who?"
     "Gina."
     Gina Tam was a recent addition to the squad, though an eleven year veteran of the force.
     "Glad someone's thinking."
     "Augustine and Brandt's going to move the SWAT platoon into position around the area.  Andrew says that the Boss wants to be able to go in before first light if we can."
     "I hate it when she cuts it so close."
     "What did you look like with a tan, anyway?"
     "Never 'ad one.  Sign of the working class you see.  Us poofs 'ad ta stay lily white."

*****

     "How long you been a cop?" asked Amenquale after they had both put sizable dents in their orders of ribs.  Diet?  I hardly knew ye.
     "Eight years."
     "And you're a field training officer?" she said automatically, before wincing at the tone of mild surprise in her voice.
     "Hey, I'm good," he flashed her a small smile as he brushed off her surprise.  "Actually, you're my first rookie, and previous experience counts a lot."
     "I'm honoured, but what would count as previous experience?  You from Sunnydale?"
     "Being from Sunnydale almost never counts as previous experience," said Whitford.  He paused to lick his fingers clean before reaching for his soda.  "You wouldn't believe what people can ignore or forget in this town.  It's scary.  No, I'm from up Portland way.  I joined the Corps out of high school, got out after my five and joined the force."
    "You said something about being overseas?"
     "Third Somalia and Second Sudan Campaigns," he pulled off his watch to reveal a small tattoo of a globe superimposed with an anchor and an M-23 rifle on his wrist.  Below the globe was a small banner that read '34 MEU (SOC)'.
     "Thirty four 'meow sock'?"
     "The 34th Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable).  First ashore at Mogadishu and later into Khartoum.  I was a lance corporal in battalion recce."
     "Wow!  I saw some of that in the news."
     "Not all of it."
     "National security tell-me-than-have-to-kill-me, or just demons and vampires?"
     "Just demons.  Some spooky shit goes on in the old quarter of Khartoum.  I can tell you, after five months we were glad to leave.  We were debriefed back stateside, and I ended up with a referral for the force."
     "Wow!  Sounds like you've been around the block a couple of times."
     "What can I say rookie?  You were lucky-" he was interrupted by a squawk from his radio.
     "Adam 8 this is dispatch.  What is your status?  Over."
     "Adam 8.  Code 10-10.  Over."  Code 'ten ten' meant off duty.
     "Dispatch.  Roger.  Cancel 10-10.  Call One William Ten on landline.  Over."
     "Adam 8.  Roger.  Out."
     "'One William Ten'?" asked Amenquale, as she signaled their waiter for the bill.
     "Lieutenant Chase-Gunn," answered Whitford as he pulled out his cell phone.  "Looks like we're still on the special unit's clock, rookie."

*****
Counting Coup 10

     "What's happening now?" asked Charles.
     It was a little after 6 in the morning and staying awake was a struggle for the teen.  After finally nodding off at Alex's place, he, along with Xandra and Alex, had been awoken after only a couple hours of sleep and brought back to the squad room by Whitford and Amenquale.  At the moment his two friends were sleeping in the lounge next door to the squad room, having staked out places on the couches; something that was looking better and better by the moment, but damn'd if he was going to miss anything!  Give it maybe ten or fifteen minutes then he was off in search of Amenquale and the coffee machine.
     "Well, basically they've established a secure perimeter, or as secure as it can be, then they go in and start searching.  Could take awhile-" the phone interrupted Jeff Whitford's narrative.  Turning, he watched Winter speak softly into her remote.
     "Anything?" he asked when she hung up.
     "The airport.  Faith, Professor Rosenberg, and Rachel are about thirty minutes out.  Wanna go get 'em?"
     "Sure, I'll call the lieutenant," he said scooping up a telephone.  "Give her a heads up."
     Whitford interrupted Charles before the teen could finish drawing breath to speak.
     "I'll ask, but if they still haven't found the nest, your mother will want them out on scene, and there's no chance she's letting you guys anywhere near an active incident site," he turned away to speak into the phone.  "Yeah, this is Whitford up in Special Unit, patch me through to One William Ten.  Thanks."

*****

     "Heather?" hissed Walthorpe.
     Without looking down from her perch in the rafters above him, she just shook her head.
     Nothing.  The third building was empty, just like the other two.  Unlike the other two though this one was more than a gutted shell.  Sheet rock, plywood, framing timbers, and other building supplies littered the four floors, demarcating the future layout of studio apartments and condo's.  He wasn't surprised, the only smells Walthorpe could detect were dust, wood, sheet rock, and discarded lunches.
     With a graceful flip, Heather dropped down, landing lightly beside him.
     "We better hurry," she said, nodding towards the high windows on the eastern face of the building, and the faint grey silhouetting the distant hills.
     "If we have to, I'll take the basement levels and drag Brandt through the sewers.  I could use the laugh."
     That drew a glance from Heather.
     "What you got against him anyway?  He's nice enough, and it's not like he's got a chance with Anya, not really," asked Heather as she followed him back down the stairs to the first floor and the waiting SWAT team.
     "General principles," confessed Walthorpe with a shrug.  "Never thought Harris was good enough for her either-"
     "Is anyone good enough for any of us?"
     "No," came the spinal reflex.  With a slight shrug, he relented.  A bit.  "Well, Will's okay, treats Tara right-"
     "What about Jeff?"
     "Nothing against 'im.  You could do worse, I suppose," he allowed grudgingly as he came to a halt at a steel side door facing the fourth building due to be searched.
     "A ringing endorsement."
     "Two buildings left.  Wanna split up?"
     "Sure, 'cause it always turns out okay in the movies," Heather observed wryly as she passed a series of hand signals to the SWAT officers telling them to wait thirty seconds before following them into the next building.
     "I'll go first, you follow.  On three," he said, overruling her usual complaint about him taking the risks for the both of them.     "Three!"

*****
 
     "Thanks, Jeff.  Yeah, bring 'em straight here-  Hmm?  Oh, he does, does he?  Put him-"  Cordelia paused in thought for a moment.  Almost a quarter of Sunnydale's cops were on the scene in one way or another, including both squads of the SWAT platoon, never mind Heather and Tara, and he'd be plenty safe with Jeff.  'Sides, they were only dropping Faith and the others off then leaving.  Okay, she told herself reluctantly, small steps.
     "Alright," she said slowly.  "If he wants, but tell him it's a drive by, only long enough to drop them off then back to the station.  What about Alex and Alexandra?  Oh-  No!  Leave 'em.  Tara and Anya are with the teams right now, and I don't want to bother them.  If the kids have a problem with it I'll make it up to them later, but might as well let them sleep.  Okay, I'm at Connolly and Bridgeport-  Okay, thanks Jeff."
     "Boss?" Kerry leaned in beside Cordelia and pointed to the map laid out over the hood of a cruiser.
     "Yeah?"
     "Fourth building's clear," fingers danced over the map.  "Brandt's tightened the cordon around the fifth, and William and Heather are going in now."
     "Okay, thanks.  That was Jeff.  Faith, Willow, and Rachel are landing shortly; he'll pick them up and bring them here," Cordelia sighed.  "There better be something in that last building."

*****

     "Damn," Heather's soft curse sounded more like a prayer.  With a small wave, she attracted Walthorpe's attention before pointing to the black tarp, and the burgundy, rust, and primer coloured hood that poked out from underneath.  They had just entered the last building, a century old factory/warehouse as yet untouched by renovations, and were working their way across the first floor towards the main staircase, when she spotted Mac's car.
     This is it, she thought with savage satisfaction.
     With a nod he acknowledged the car, and tapped his finger against his nose, pointing down the stairs towards the basement level.  A feral grin split his features.
     Let's see, she thought, two basement levels in this building.  Turning back to the trailing SWAT team, Heather silently briefed them, her hands flying about like a major league catcher signaling the pitcher.
     'Contact.  Down.  Numbers unknown.  Follow us.'
     "Ready?" she whispered at Walthorpe.
     "Fuckin' right," he snarled back.
 
*****

     "What kind of marks do you need to be a cop?" asked Charles as he and Whitford walked
through the underground garage towards a line of black and white cruisers.
    "No idea," he answered with a negligent shrug.  "I got shit-  lousy grades in high school.  Barely made it into the Corps.  Upgraded with a GED later, but mostly it was my time in the Corps that got me on the force.  Why?  Wanna follow in your Mom's footprints?"
     "Maybe.  I dunno."
     "Not like you have to decide right now, is it?  Here it is," Whitford unlocked his cruiser with the remote and as Charles pulled open the passenger side door, he motioned to the small dispatcher's office by the large roller doors.  "I gotta sign it out.  Be right back."

*****

     Xandra eased the lounge door closed behind her before she headed back to her couch.  With a graceful silence, the young woman moved into the darkened room, anxious not to wake her brother.  As she moved past his couch, though, she paused and knelt beside him, reaching out to tenderly brush his long brown hair from his face.
     "I know you're awake," she whispered after a moment.
     "I know you know," came the soft reply.
     Xandra was relieved to hear a small smile in his voice.
     "How's your head?"
     "Fine."
     "How are you?"
     "Don't," the smile was gone from his voice.
     "Alex, what's wrong?  I don't like seeing you like this."
     With a jerk, Alex tried to roll over and turn his back to his sister.  Xandra grabbed his shoulder and pulled.
     "Damn you, Alex!" she hissed.  "You're so goddamn'd stubborn sometimes that I could-  Ohh!"
     "Xandra?" he said in a voice close to breaking.  "I'm... I'm sorry.  It's... it's just that I don't know what to do.  What to think."
     "What about?" asked Xandra.  She felt her brother's fear; picked it up from his voice.  She shivered slightly in the warm room.
     "Mom...." Alex whispered.  "She told me some stuff...."
     "What?  Alex, it's eating you up inside.  Let me help."
     After a long moment, Alex rolled back over to face Xandra.  With a sigh, he started talking, though he avoided eye contact.
     "Mom... she said... she said that Mom had some sort of problem with magick when she was younger.  Little older than me."
     "Aunt Willow had problems with magick?" asked Xandra.  Unique amongst those who knew Alex, Xandra instinctively knew which of his two mothers he was talking about without additional explanation.  Which was important as he called both women 'Mom' and stubbornly refused to be more specific unless he absolutely had to.  "But she doesn't have any...  Ooh!"
     "Yeah," said Alex.  "Mom didn't tell me all of it- said she had to wait for Mom to get back- but she did say that it was a big spell; something important.  When they were in college, and that it went wrong.  For Mom."
     "Wow," said Xandra beneath her breath.  For as long as she'd known her aunts, Tara had been the witch and Willow the Watcher.  It was just the way the universe was set up, but- "That's it?  Aunt Willow really does have magick, and that they didn't tell you?  That's the big problem?"
     "No.  There's more.  There's..." Alex finally made eye contact, and even in the gloom Xandra could the anxiety in his eyes.  The fear.  "There's Dad."
     "Dad?  What about him?" asked Xandra.  "Why didn't you tell me?"
     "He had to save Mom.  Her life, or..." a whisper.  "Or maybe more."
     "How?  What'd he do?"
     "That's all Mom told me," confessed Alex.  "Said she'd rather wait for Mom to get back.  But, Xandra, that was forever ago and... and it still scares her.  And nothing scares Mom.  Nothing!"
     "Lots of stuff they did was scary," Xandra pointed out.  "Is still scary-"
     "I scare her!" cried Alex in a voice now shaken by tears.  "Me!  I used magick and I ended up scaring Mom even more that whatever it was that happened with Dad and Mom.  Xandra, I tried to be just like her and I...  I scared her-" he looked at Xandra desperately seeking some comfort- "Mom's afraid of me!"

*****

     "Whitford?" called Amenquale as she shouldered her way through the doors to the squad room, a coffee mug in each hand.
     "He's gone out to the airport.  To pick up some people.  Hi, I'm Winter Campagnolo.  I'm the EA for the squad," Winter introduced herself, as she rose from her desk and reached out her hand.
     "Hi, Velma Amenquale," Amenquale moved to shake Winter's hand but mostly succeeded in thrusting a coffee mug at her.   "Sorry.  You like double double?"
     "Black, but I could really use the caffeine.  Thanks," said Winter taking the offered coffee and waving Amenquale into a seat.  "Rookie, right?"
     "Yeah, third week.  It always this..." she trailed off when words failed her.
     "Hellish?  No, but the potential is there.  That's what makes Sunnydale such a fun place to live," Winter said without a trace of sarcasm.  "How's Jeff treating you?"
     "Fine," answered Amenquale automatically.  She quickly continued.  "No, really, I'm learning a lot from him, but...."
     "But?"
     "Well," Amenquale hesitated, but the tall pretty woman seemed pleasant enough, and she was a member of the squad, the first one she's had a chance to talk to since everything started.  "The lieutenant- Chase-Gunn?  Well, she just seems to be using him- us- as babysitters or taxi drivers.  My friend, 'nother rookie, he's been busy these last few days.  Chasing down demon sightings, VIP security, and herding the media around.  All sorts of stuff.  We've been...."
     "Babysitting?"
     "Well, I know that one of them is her kid, but... well, yeah, babysitting."
     "How much you know about Jeff?"
     "Ex-marine.  Young.  Good, too good to be-"
     "He's not wasted," Winter interrupted.  "You're right.  Jeff's good.  The Boss- Lieutenant Chase-Gunn, she thinks he's the best uniform on the force.  You won't find anyone in the squad to argue.  'Cept maybe William, but he's got issues."
     "Sorry?" asked Amenquale.
     "Nothin'.  Inside joke, sorry," Winter apologized.  "Fact is, your partner knows more about all this stuff than anyone outside of the squad.  More than a couple of them, too.  Trust me.  Herding reporters or standing in somebody's backyard waiting for a monster to show?  That would be a waste of his time.  You're lucky.  This is a great learning experience.  Just-"
     "'Shut up and learn'?" said Amenquale, finishing Winter's sentence.
     Winter laughed lightly as she nodded her head.
     "Yeah, but I wasn't going to tell you to shut up."
 
*****

     He could almost taste the rich full aromas of yeast, plant moulds, animal flesh and blood-  Human!  Walthorpe winced at the all too familiar scent of human blood.  Unbidden, a mental image of Sarah Epstein washed across his imagination.  The pretty teenaged girl was- had been- a fellow Manchester United fan.
     He pushed down his rising rage.  Stay focused, he willed himself.
     Beside him, Heather drew her weapons, a matching pair of large daggers, small swords really, holding them at her side in a deceptively relaxed pose as the two of them inched their way down the concrete steps.
     The silence was almost painful.  Absent was even the usual scampering of rodents behind the walls.
     Heather tapped his shoulder once, twice, then, after a double beat, both slipped down the last few steps and into the lowest basement level, fanning out slightly as they left the relative safety of the stairwell.
     A grey-green light glowed softly from the walls, from where a thick moss had been spread haphazardly over its damp surface.
     Dropping into a crouch, Walthorpe turned slowly through a full 360 degrees taking in the entire basement.  Beside him, Heather waited impatiently, tracing lazy figure eights in front of herself with the points of her daggers for the few seconds it would take for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
     "Nothing.  No one 'ome," he whispered.
     *Who is there?*
     "Christ!" hissed Walthorpe as he spun about to face the voice.
     It had come from a dark corner, and as the two advanced warily they could soon discern a demon, lying half-submerged in a bed of warm, moist mould.  It looked smaller, thinner, than the one both had encountered at Chase-Gunn's house.  In place of healthy browns and greens, this demon's flesh was grey, pallid, and its flesh sagged loosely over sharp bones and stringy muscles.  One eye was closed shut, sealed with ancient scar tissue.  The other milky white as it stared blindly into the distance.
     *X'tanama?  Is that you?* it whispered in a choleric hiss before it's breathing broke into gasps and coughs that seemed to exhaust it.
     Heather shot Walthorpe a look, signaling him to be silent, as she moved closer, straining to hear the demon.
     What? Walthorpe mouthed silently.
     Heather answered him with a shake of her head.  She couldn't understand the demon.
     *X'tanama?  X'tanama!  You welp, answer me, or I'll geld you myself,* the demon wheezed between laboured breaths.
     I'll get Anya, mouthed Heather, hoping that she might have better luck with the demon's language.
     Behind them, the SWAT team fanned out across the basement, their flashlight beams dancing across the gloom as they cleared the room, and secured the stairway down to the next level.
     In a move that took both of them by surprise, the demon sniffed tentatively at the air, then pulled itself up into a sitting position, a hand snaking out to seize Heather's arm.
     *Animals!*
     "Shit!" swore Heather as she easily slipped out of the demon's grasp.
     The demon spat an impressive amount of phlegm at Heather before breaking into cackling laughter; a sound like the rattle of dead leaves on dry bones.  After a moment it fell back, exhausted.
     "Hail the brave animals," it gasped.  Heather and Walthorpe exchanged a startled glance as the demon switched to Spanish  "What a conquest; capturing a blind old cripple.  No matter, I will die and X'tanama will be chief warrior and hunt master of the Metztli pride.  His basket will overflow with his enemy's hearts.  His females will grow fat with his whelps.  The stars will scream his name in joy-"
     "Where are they?" demanded Heather, switching easily to Spanish.  Walthorpe followed as best he could, but his mostly forgotten Spanish was of Castilian variety, and even at its best had mostly been employed to secure alcoholic beverages and the favours of women of ill-repute.
     "Where are your warriors?"
     The demon just laughed at her.
     "WHERE ARE THEY?" she shouted in frustration, trying to get through to the thing.
     Before she could even register his movement, Walthorpe reached into the sepulchre and snapped the demon's right arm at the wrist.
     "Where are they?" he demanded, even as the demon failed to react to the injury.
     "Your nest will run red, animal.  Your warriors will fall before our raid like grain before the scythe.  The Metztli will feast on the hearts of your bravest-"
     "Nest... raid... warriors?" whispered Heather as she turned away from the still gibbering demon.  "Ohmigod!"
     Walthorpe felt Heather's fear in the split second her eyes held his, before she spun on her heels and raced across the floor.
     "Shit," prayed William as he ran off in close pursuit.
     Heather had already hit the stairs, knocking a burly SWAT officer on his ass as she bulled up the stairs shouting.
     "CORDY!"

*****

     "Hey, Neuman?"  Whitford raped his knuckles on the closed glass windows of the issue window, as he called for the duty fleet dispatcher.  "Neuman?  C'mon man, I'm in a hurry!"
     Answering the silence with a sigh, Whitford abandoned the window for the door, intending to grab one of the pre-signed work tickets Officer Vince Neuman kept under his blotter for emergency issues.  Like when he was off in the can, or napping in the backroom.
     The door opened easily enough for a couple of feet, but then stopped, blocked by something on the other side.  Whitford instinctively leaned against the door to move the blockage enough to slide past when the wet scent of fresh blood registered.
     It was strong- there was lots of blood on the other side of the door.  Too much-
     Drawing his automatic, Whitford pushed the door open enough for him to slide through.  As with Corporal Bhandarkar, the shock of recognition was physical as Whitford started gagging over the ruins lying at his feet.  Vince Neuman's throat was slashed, and though Whitford didn't look any closer, he knew that his heart was gone, torn out of his chest.
     Later, Whitford would spend many fruitless hours and days condemning himself for the delay as he stood over another dead cop, rooted in place by shock and revulsion.  In fact, it was only a few seconds from the time that he first saw Neuman's corpse to the time he was running back across the garage, whispering urgently into his radio.
     "All units, all units.  99-Victor at the station.  99-Victor at the station," he whispered as he pulled up even with his cruiser- Charles? "They're here.  They're inside."

*****
Counting Coup 11

     "Dispatch, this is One William Ten.  Report," Chase-Gunn shouted into the mike as Walthorpe took a corner at speed, the squeal of tormented tires competing with the hellish scream of multiple sirens.  Following close behind their car was a procession of cruisers, all of them barreling through the largely deserted pre-dawn streets- fast.
     "Dispatch.  We have a code 10-24," the voice stayed impressively calm even as the operator reported the ten code for 'trouble at station'.  "We're at level one lock down-" every door in to and inside the station was locked.  In theory-  "but the board shows multiple security failures throughout the station.  Unknown number of casualties, condition unknown."
     "One William Ten.  Roger.  I'm in route now along with the rest of the William and David units.  Be advised-" she took a deep breath before going on.  "Be advised that there are three minor civilians in the special unit squad room.  Can you secure that area?  Over."
     "Dispatch, wait."
     "William?" her voice quavered with fear.
     "They'll be fine," he answered as he slipped between a stationary garbage truck and an oncoming courier van, missing both by inches, and provoking a frightened barrage of angry insults from the courier driver; his voice lost amongst the sirens.
     "You sure?" she asked, desperate for the reassurance.  They were still several minutes from the station, and her enforced physical idleness was playing havoc with her composure.
     "Yeah, I'm sure."
     "William?"
     "Yeah?"
     You're lying to me, aren't you?  "Nothing."

*****

     May the Great Womb give me succour in my hour of need, prayed the nameless adolescent as he stood watch at the base of one of the station's three stairwells, just off the garage.  And may it make X'tanama's females barren and unruly, and his spawn weak and sickly.
     The petulance, heartfelt though it was, did nothing to lighten a black mood.  He had volunteered to accompany X'tanama and the Elder on this wretched expedition in order to taste blood and earn his name, and a place in the mating succession, not stand a lonely watch inside a dry, sterile warren of stone and metal.  The tang of blood- watery animal blood, but blood nonetheless- wafted down the vertical passageway, telling of fresh kills and of new honour won, of coup pouches filled with still hot hearts while his lay limp and empty on his hip.  In his mind's eye, the adolescent could see the red stained daggers of his older brothers as they tore open the ridiculously soft human chests-
     *ARRRGGGHHHHHH!*
     His frustrations found voice in a pained bellow.  He half hoped that his roar would be heard and that X'tanama would recall him, and put things to rights by assigning him a place in the vanguard.  There he would show X'tanama and the others his true worth as a warrior.  He would fall upon his foes like a storm, crushing all before him.  Truly he would be the greatest warrior the Metztli pride had every seen, his glories sung to the stars themselves, and taught to youths as yet unborn so that they may know the true worth of a great warrior.  He would plant his seed in a thousand females, and be the father of a new line, a new pride.  None would ever forget his name.  A thousand seasons from now his name would still be feared-
     "Hey!  Ugly!"
     The low, weak voice, smaller than that of a mewing suckling, roused the adolescent from his fantasy.
     Shame and anger at having let his guard down, and allowing the human to approach so close, was quickly, too quickly, replaced with elation at this, his first kill.  Reaching for his knife, the adolescent was already rehearsing his retelling of the epic struggle-  No, better to stay casual, nonchalant, as he displayed the heart and told a simple, modest story of victory-
     His own inexperience, and the technological gulf between the Ucalicoetl and even the local farmers they occasionally encountered in their jungle home, meant that the long black object the human pointed at him held no meaning for the adolescent.
     Had he lived but a moment longer, the bright flash of light and roar of thunder would have amazed him.  As it was-

*****

     "You're sure it's dead?" asked Charles from behind Whitford.  His ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast, but he had the presence of mind not to shout out his question.
     "12 gauge high explosive slugs kill lots of things, Charles," Whitford said as he stepped over the mostly decapitated demon and peered carefully up the stairwell, his shotgun in his shoulder and in the aim.  Satisfied that the stairwell was clear of demons, he pulled the door shut and engaged the locks.  Before heading out to check the garage for demons, he had retrieved the shotgun from his cruiser, along with a Kevlar helmet and vest.  So far he had found just the one.  Tugging at his radio mike, Whitford whispered.  "Dispatch this Adam 8.  I'm in the garage level at stairwell two.  The demons are using it to penetrate the station, but one and three look secure.  I've got one officer dead, and one demon dead.  The garage level is clear.  Over."
     "Dispatch.  Adam 8, can you get to the special unit squad room?"
     "Adam 8.  I'll try.  Wait," releasing his mike Whitford backed away from the stairwell, over the carcass and back into the garage.  Pointing up, he spoke to Charles in a soft, urgent whisper.  "I'm heading back to the squad room.  You're staying here.  Here-" he pulled his car keys off of his belt and handed them over- "lock yourself in the car until the squad gets here-"
     "No way!" interrupted Charles, pulling back away from the keys as if they were red-hot.  "I'm coming with you!"
     "Not a fucking chance!" answered Whitford with a snarl.  "Get your ass in that damn'd car and stay there-"
     "But, Jeff," Charles interrupted him.  "I've fought one of these before-"
     "You got an assist with a Slayer!  And dammit Charles, I'm no slayer.  So if you think I'm going to face Heather- or your Mom!- if anything happened to you...  Get in the car-" he thrust the keys into Charles' hand- "and stay there.  Your mom will be here any minute."
     "But-"
     "GO!"
     Whitford watched until Charles climbed into the cruiser and closed the door.  Satisfied that the youth was as safe as possible, he keyed his radio mike.  "Dispatch, this is Adam 8.  I'm heading for the special unit squad room now.  Tell William Ten that her son is in the garage, locked in my cruiser.  Tell her to come in that way and up number one stairwell.  I'm going radio silent.  Over."
     "Dispatch, roger.  Good luck, Jeff."
     Turning his radio off, Whitford gingerly checked out the stairwell, satisfying himself that it was clear at least as far as the first landing, before slipping through the door and starting his climb.
     That he didn't hear the car door open behind him could hardly be considered his fault.  Though in hindsight, he really should have seen it coming.
 
*****

     CRASH!
     X'tanama punched the wall in violent frustration.  The splintered drywall gave him no satisfaction, and the unmoved reinforced concrete revealed beneath merely added to his embarrassment, not to mention his pain.
     *AGAIN!* he ordered his warriors in a shrill voice bordering on blind rage.
     Obediently, they returned to the task of trying to batter their way through a stout metal door.  Behind it sheltered a number of animals, their scent strong, their fear obvious, even through the close fitting doorway.
     So far they had only found a handful of animal warriors-   No, not warriors!  Warriors fight!  The first animal fell without a struggle worthy of the name, startled in its burrow.  Then the alarm had been sounded, loud trumpeting that echoed throughout the passageways and bright lights that flashed in concert, and the others were on the alert.  Two had been wounded in the opening melee, but they had defended themselves with their damnable weapons, wounding three warriors.  They then took shelter behind this door, helped by others, who in turn killed Que'tlan even as he tried to rush the still open doorway.
     It was not supposed to be this way, thought X'tanama helplessly as his warriors failed to make any headway against the door.  The stultifying influence of the Dark Maw was supposed to enfeeble the animals living in its midst.  The tales he had sought out all told of a vast herd of the willfully blind and deaf.  They told of cattle cowering in their hovels with the coming of the dark, all the while telling themselves that there were no predators stalking the night.  Telling themselves that swift and savage death was not poised in the shadows cast by their cold pale lights.
     It had been easy enough to use those tales to secure the senile old fool's sanction for the expedition, and convince a large number of warriors of the glories to be found so far away from home.  With an easy victory, with many full coup pouches, leadership of the pride would fall to him, and with it would come the personal loyalty of all the warriors of the pride- well, all the surviving warriors.  Then, upon his triumphant return, he would lead his pride, and those hungering for more, out of the jungle to put an end to the desecration of their Great Womb, and to reclaim territory lost to the ravenous humans.
     Truly, then would X'tanama take his destined place as high leader and chief elder of all the Ucalicoetl.  Then would his dreams be realized!
     But not at this pace!
     *ARRRGGGHHHHHH!* roared X'tanama.  Reaching out he grabbed a warrior, a youth smaller than himself, and threw him to the floor, ferociously kicking him into submission all the while screaming at the others.  *STOP!  SPREAD OUT.  BATTER DOWN EVERY DOOR, AND KILL ALL.  BRING ME THEIR HEARTS, OR I'LL CASTRATE YOU ALL MYSELF!*
     Leaving the battered youth to scuttle out of range, X'tanama followed the others into a stairwell.  Finally a smile lightened his countenance.  He could smell females and they were frightened.  By the Great Womb, the aroma was intoxicating!
     Maybe there was some sport to be had after all.

*****

     Cordelia was pushing on her door even before William finished braking; the rest of the cruisers were taking up position to encircle the station.  The door opened freely, but to her confused astonishment she couldn't move.
     "What the fu-Let go of me!" she snapped at Walthorpe.  He had her arm in an iron tight grip.
     Instead, he pulled her back into her seat and leaned in close, his pale grey eyes boring into hers.
     "We got a problem, Boss," he began.
     "What!?  I know that!  Charlie's in there-"
     "And we're going to get him and the others out.  That's not the whole of it."
     "'Not the WHOLE....  You bastard, my son-"
     "Is with Whitford, and there's about a dozen cops.  Winter, too.  Trust them.  The kids'll be fine, but, yeah we gotta hurry."
     "Hurry?  William, what are you talking-"
     "We're on a timetable.  We have to end this quick," he glanced at his watch.  "Twenty minutes or so, I reckon-"
     "Timetable?  Why?  What are you-" Cordelia's eyes grew wide with fear as she grasped Walthorpe's meaning.  "Ohmigod!  Willow!"
     "Yeah.  Willow.  Look, I trust her.  I really do, but if she thinks Alex- if she thinks her son is in danger..." he trailed off.  "I don't want to see her put to that kind of test.  And there's still Tara and Anya.  They need you to be strong, 'cause if either of them panics, things could get real ugly.  Understand?"
     Cordelia nodded, slowly as full comprehension of the situation dawned on her.
     "Good.  Run it like a drill.  Keep calm, and they'll stay calm, but, Boss, start to lose it and-"
     "I... I'll try."
     "Not good enough," he hissed.  Then his face softened.  "Cordelia, I mean it.  Stay calm and you keep them calm, if either of them senses a reason to panic everything could fall apart.  Bad.  Keep Tara and Anya with you, I'll lead with Heather, leave Brandt's crew to clear the rest of the station; we'll head for the squad room.  Once we've got them we get them out.  The first thing Willow's going to see is Alex waiting for her all safe and sound with his friends."

*****

     "Hello?"  Alex spoke into the emergency phone in the lounge.  The alarms had startled the two of them rather badly, and though they had mostly died away, the door was still locked shut.  "Hello?"
     "Anything?" asked Xandra.
     "Nothing," he said as he hung up the phone.  "You?"
     Xandra had been trying to work the door controls, trying to unlock the door, so that they could get next door with the others.  Her efforts had mostly consisted of entering her mother's badge number followed by that of her Aunt Cordy, then, when that failed, she just entered random numbers on the key pad hoping for the best.
     "Zilch."
     "We wait then," said Alex.  "Or..."
     "'Or'?" she repeated automatically before his meaning dawned on her.  "Alex!  No!  It's too dangerous.  You said so yourself.  Look, we're in a police station.  Our moms will be here.  And William, and the squad.  Let's just be patient okay?  We're fine.  We wait.  Okay?"

*****

     "Screw this," snapped Winter as she peeled off her useless phone remote and reached for a radio nestled in the recharger tray.  The station's phone system was down, damaged by whatever it was that was causing the alarm.  "Whatever it was?" she snorted in self-derision.
     "You thinks it's the demons?" asked Amenquale, before wincing at herself for stating the blindingly obvious.
     Winter ignored her and keyed the radio mike.
     "Dispatch, this is William Zero, over."
     "William Zero this is dispatch.  What is your condition, over?"
     "We're in lock down.  EA Campagnolo and Officer Amenquale in room 402.  There are two minor civilians in 403.  We're going to go get them now."
     "Negative!  Winter, it's me, David Scott.  Look, the demons are moving up stairwell two and three-" muffled by the locked down door the two women could hear a commotion from the other side- "Damn.  Winter, they're on your floor-  We've just lost the camera feed; they're trashing the place.  Stay tight.  Jeff's on his way, and the special unit just pulled in."
     A frantic pounding began on their door as the demons began to try to batter it down.  Amenquale drew her automatic, knowing that it was quite useless against the giant creatures, but comforted by the weight and the feel of the pistol in her hand nonetheless.
     Suddenly, the pounding stopped, only to be replaced by a slightly more distant sound.  Amenquale and Winter exchanged a glance as the significance of the change occurred to them both at the same time.  Winter pulled the radio up to her mouth.
     "David, we don't have time.  They're after the kids."

*****

     "Augustine, secure the perimeter, and get on to Amy Beauchamp, make sure she's running the deception plan- last thing we need is the press," Chase-Gunn spun about her finger stabbing at the next officer in line as she rattled out orders in a staccato rhythm.  "Brandt, once we're in start clearing the station, get to operations and work out from there.  Heather and William will head for the squad room.  We'll follow-" Chase-Gunn looked at Anya and Tara and forestalled their pleas- "right behind them.  Locklear'll cover our asses."
     The large cop merely nodded, then bent down, and whispered into Tara's ear.  She slowly nodded her head and essayed a small, tentative smile in thanks.
     "Kerry," continued Chase-Gunn.  "Half the squad with Brandt, the rest with us.  Once these things are down, you're in charge of the investigation.  First thing we gotta know is if this is all of them.  Get on to Animal Control and get that one from the warehouse over here.  I want answers.  Brandt, you've got one minute.  William?"
     He followed her as she left.  The assembled officers rushed away to finish the preparations for the assault, leaving Tara and Anya standing small and alone together in the parking lot.
     "Doin' good, Boss," he whispered as they sought the cover of a cruiser clear of the others.
     "I-  I can't take this," Cordelia blurted out.  "Call Dispatch-"
     "Jeff's on radio silence," Walthorpe said softly, trying to be reassuring; and coming damn'd close too.  "He's heading back to the squad room.  Charlie's in the garage.  It's clear and he's locked in a cruiser.  We go through there and he's the first one out.  Boss- Cordelia, it's all going to be okay.  Believe it."
     "I want to...."

*****

     "Here!" said Winter as she keyed her access code into a wall mounted security panel and nodded at Amenquale's pistol.  "Put that away.  This-" a wall panel slid aside revealing a small armoury with various blade weapons, and a variety of firearms.  Reaching in she pulled out an automatic shotgun and handed it to Amenquale- "will do the trick.  Use the HE slugs.  Ah ha!  Come to momma!"
     With that, and much to Amenquale's astonishment, Winter pulled out a blade weapon out of the locker.  At five foot eight inches in length it was almost as tall as Winter was, with two and a half foot long, wickedly curved blades at either end; a stout wooden pole joined them together, providing ample grip.  Winter hefted it easily, obviously accustomed to its weight and balance.
     Amenquale loaded the shotgun as she watched Winter run a quick practice kata of strikes and blocks with her new toy.  She ran through the kata a couple of times until she heard Amenquale jack the shotgun's slide back and forth, loading the first shell into the chamber with a satisfying
    *clack*.
     "Ready?" she asked.
     "You a Slayer, too?" asked Amenquale as she moved to a position beside the door.  How many were there, she wondered.
     "Nope," answered Winter with a wink.  "I just sleep with one.  Start firing soon as I open the doors.  Clear the way to the lounge and keep them back 'til we can get in to the kids.  Then we'll make for the main stairwell and the garage level.  Sound like a plan?"
     "You done this before?"
     "Something like it," Winter answered with a bright smile.  "Once or twice."
     "Good enough.  'Lay on MacDuff.'"
     "'And damn'd be he who first cries 'hold, enough,'" Winter giggled at Amenquale's quizzical stare.  Taping at the door controls, she explained.  "Drama major."
 
*****

     Whitford moved with what his old recce platoon sergeant called deliberate haste, a careful balance of speed and caution.
'Makes no sense if ya be the fastest sumbitch in the battalion, an' ya get ya'self killed by some bastard ya never saw.  Recce sees without being seen, 'member that!'
     God bless Staff Sergeant Thorne, thought Whitford.  He had one more level to go and so far had not encountered any more demons.  They seem to have left the stairwell on the first floor, passing the ruined doorway he had spotted a number of demons trying to smash their way into the operations centre.  They all had their backs to him and he was sorely tempted to open fire, to cull their numbers down a bit, but operations was well shielded and his mission was to get back to the fourth floor and get to the kids.
     Stay focused on the mission, he reminded himself.  Stay focused on the mission.

*****

     The pounding on their door was increasing in tempo and volume.  A building sense of menace drove the two teens back until they were brought up short by the wall.  As they watched soft concrete dust began falling away from around the door and its fittings.  Xandra was certain that the door was starting to move.
     "Alex-" she said, her voice thick with fear.
     But her brother was already sliding down the wall, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, his eyes shut as he softly mumbled something under his breath.  After a moment he looked up and shouted-
     "Calefacio!"
     Within moments howls of pain and rage came from the other side of the door as Xandra watched the door begin to glow a dull cherry red.  Almost immediately she could feel the heat on her face from across the room.
     Satisfied that the demons were at bay for now, she dropped beside Alex, and, strangely unwilling to touch her own brother, she looked him over, desperately hoping that-
     "Alex?"
     "I'm fine," he whispered impatiently before resuming his soft chant.
     "No you're not!"
     His eyes were screwed shut, and she could tell that he was trying to keep the pain of a migraine at bay.  A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose and across his upper lip to his chin.  As she watched, the first drop of blood fell away and stained his hand, as it lay clenched in his lap.
     Xandra reached out and pulled her brother into her arms.
     "Stop it!  Alex, stop, please," her voice teetered on hysteria as she rocked her brother, pulling his head against her chest, desperate to muffle his soft droning voice.  "They've gone away.  ALEX!  STOP IT! You're scaring me!"
     Alex started, his head coming up with a snap, and he blinked a couple of times, looking for all the world like he had just woken up.  In any other circumstances, his appearance would have drawn a laugh from Xandra.
     "God, I'm sorry, Xandra!" he hugged her back.  "Don't be afraid of me, please.  I'd never...  I'm sorry-"
      BOOM!
     The siblings looked back at the door, catching the first faint tremours from the renewed assault.
     BOOM!
     BOOM!

*****
Counting Coup 12

     As Whitford passed the third floor, he paused to confirm that the stairwell door, like the second floor one below, was still locked down, before making his way up to the fourth.  He inched his way up towards the landing, holding his shotgun in the aim, pulling the stock into his shoulder as he pointed its muzzle up the stairs.  He was two steps from the landing and once there, his plan was to squat low, below floor level, and slowly ease himself up to where he could see the door.  With a bit of luck it, too, would be closed-
     The demon was almost on him when Whitford spotted its movement out of the corner of his eye.  A mass of brown and green charged up the stairs at him, an arm the size of a small tree lashed out-
     The blow drove Whitford down onto his back, and, though his vest absorbed most of the force- certainly it saved him from a couple broken ribs- it left him winded and momentarily dazed.  Before the demon could react with a more damaging attack, Whitford brought his shotgun around-
     *CLANK*
     For Jeff Whitford time seemed to take on a strange split personality.  Even as the demon drew its arm back in preparation for a second blow, and with a speed that would dazzle a snake, Whitford lay frozen as he stared at his shotgun, its barrel ensnared between the upright bars of the stair railing; impotently pointed away from the demon.
     With a hellish high-pitched scream, the demon lurched forward, but even as Whitford flinched against the expected blow, it dropped to its knees below him, and reached down to grab its groin.  Thick brackish blood soaked its crotch and ran over its hands and down its thighs.
     In a heartbeat, Whitford was crawling up the stairs out from under the stricken demon.  His shotgun abandoned, he drew his pistol, his mind filled only with the thought of emptying its magazine into the thing's head.
     *SNICK*
     Whitford would always swear that he had heard the blade as it slid through the demon's neck from behind, erupting through the skin just below its jaw line.  Its spine severed, the demon collapsed, briefly trapping Whitford's legs beneath its bulk.
     Charles tugged hard on his short sword, pulling it free with a grunt even as Whitford wormed his way out from under the demon carcass.  Charles was wearing a black Kevlar helmet and vest- the small name-tape on the vest read 'Amenquale'- over his t-shirt and jeans, he was breathing hard, and sweat ran down his face from underneath the helmet.  Whitford could feel his own cold sweat along his spine, and his breathing was still ragged and rapid.  Holstering his pistol, he climbed to his feet and pulled the shotgun free of the railing.
     "Stay close," he ordered before turning back to continue his climb.

*****

     Xandra stood and helped her brother to his feet, only to have to take him by the arm when he lost his balance and fell back against the wall.  He flashed her a small smile of thanks, the most he could muster against the pain and nausea of his latest spell.
     "You okay for a sec?" she asked.
     "Yeah," he whispered.  "Whatcha gonna do?"
     "I need a weapon," she said as she scanned the room.  "Something.  Anything."
     Like most institutional settings the lounge was spartan to begin with, and in any event, since it was in a police station, there was an added incentive to reduce the number of weapon-like objects.  Still, the pounding only increased in tempo as the door's temperature rapidly cooled without Alex's spell to sustain it.  They would be through any minute and she had to try.  She had to do something.
     "Wait," said Alex.  Turning away from her with a lurch, he ran his hand along the wall, as if feeling for something in the dark.  After a moment, he stopped and took a step back.  All the while, Xandra watched her brother with growing concern.
     "Alex?"
     She got her answer as a length of steel piping, one inch electrical conduit about five and a half feet long, erupted from the wall in a cloud of dust and a shower of splintered drywall.  The piping flew lightly into Xandra's hands, severed wires laying limp down the wall.
     "Good enough?" Alex asked.
     "Good enough," replied Xandra as she hefted her new weapon.  "Alex?  The teleportation spell?  Can you?"
     "I think so," he said after a moment's hesitation.  "Only little stuff though-"
     "Perfect," interrupted Xandra.  In a rush of words, she explained her plan to her brother.

*****

     "Brandt?" demanded Chase-Gunn as the SWAT sergeant struggled with the garage door controls.
     "Can't Elltee.  The power's out," turning from the control panel, Brandt waved an officer forward.  He carried a large circular saw. "Just take a minute."
     "We don't have a minute," snapped Chase-Gunn.  Over the roar of the saw she called out.  "Tara!"
     In response, Tara Rosenberg stepped up towards the doors and reached out, swatting the air in front of her with her right hand.  As the officer touched the saw to the garage doors, five great tears appeared over his head and the door was pulled to one side, falling to the concrete floor like so much tin foil.
     Even before the SWAT team could react, Chase-Gunn had run into the garage, down along the row of cruisers towards one in the middle.
     "Charlie!" she called out in a hoarse whisper.  Behind her the SWAT team fanned out through the garage, checking out the many hiding spots afforded by the parked vehicles and stacked equipment.  There-
     Whitford's cruiser, call sign Adam 8, was parked about halfway down.
     Cordelia felt like she had just been punched in the stomach.  A low pained moan escaped her lips, and she staggered back in shock.  Behind her, Tara and Anya both reached out to grab her shoulders and steady her.
     The cruiser was empty, its passenger door, and trunk left open.
     "Cordelia," whispered Anya as she and Tara pulled the unresisting woman away from the cruiser.  "Let's go."
     At the far end of the garage Walthorpe and Heather ducked through the door into the hallway leading to the stairway.  At first Cordelia followed as if in a dream, as her two friends pulled her along through the garage, her imagination preoccupied with the image of her husband sleeping in his favourite ratty old recliner, an infant Charlie nestled safe in his father's arms.  Ohmigod, Charlie?
     With a shake, Cordelia threw off her despair along with Tara and Anya's support.  Charlie was Gunn's son; impulsive, certainly, but he was also strong, smart and a fighter....
     But he was still only fifteen, and... and he still needed his mother.
     Be careful, Charlie, she prayed as she ran to the stairwell.  Be careful.

*****

     "Ready?" asked Winter, her finger poised over the door's control panel.
     Without taking her eyes off of the door, Amenquale nodded and, as Winter keyed in the code, took up first pressure on her shotgun's trigger.
     With an audible 'click' the door's locking mechanism disengaged and Winter pulled one of the double doors open, sheltering behind it as the first shot boomed out inside the enclosed space.
     The first demon to die fell without ever knowing that it was dead.  The high explosive slug caught it from behind, right between the shoulder blades.  A second demon, standing just off to one side, turned, startled by the shot.  It stood rooted in place for a half second or so as it did a double take between its now dead companion and the now open door.
     Amenquale took it down with her second shot, this one a classic 'between the eyes' shot as the demon stared blankly at her.  The thing was falling before she even realized that she had fired.  She was in automatic mode now, servicing targets as if she was back on the Academy close quarter range.
     A small knot of demons stood in front of the lounge door, using some sort of battering ram in an attempt to break it down.  They were already dropping their burden in response to the shots when the first of their number fell screaming and clawing at its ruined chest.
     Amenquale was tracking onto her next target, a very large demon that looked to be directing the others, when a green mass suddenly filled her field of vision.
     With a roar, the demon smashed its way through the second door.  It had been standing beside the doors, out of her immediate line of sight.  Smoothly, she shifted her aim, stepping back and to her right, as she swung her shotgun over to take out this new threat.
     Before Amenquale could fire, a dull grey streak lanced out and buried itself in the demon's throat.  The stricken demon staggered back a half step; all the reaction it could muster before Winter stepped in and, putting all of her power and weight into her second stroke, decapitated it.
     Not wasting time with a now harmless corpse, Amenquale turned her attention back to the main group.  A couple of them tried to be heroes, charging at her, ineffectual stone knives in hand.  Neither made it more than a handful of steps before being cut down.  The rest were crowding the door to the far stairwell, pushing and clawing at each other in their frenzied flight.  Three more fell to Amenquale's fire, their carcasses serving only to obstruct their comrades' escape.
     "LOADING!" Amenquale shouted automatically as she pulled replacement shells from their place clipped to the shotgun's stock.
     "AMENQUALE!"
     The shout came from the hallway outside the squad room.
     "JEFF?" shouted Winter, before Amenquale could respond.  "That you?"
    Two shots, and two more dead demons were her answer.

*****

     "Ready?" Charles asked as he entered Whitford's authorization code into the door control panel.
     "Yeah.  Open it and stay behind it.  Nice and low," Whitford ordered.  "Then follow me in real close-"
     A fusillade of shots rang out from the other side of the door, swiftly joined by the high pitched warbling scream of the demons.
     "Open it, and get down!" shouted Whitford as he brought his shotgun into the aim.
     Charles pushed the unlock button and pulled hard on the door, dropping into a squat behind it.
     While there were a great many demons in the corridor outside the squad room, most lay sprawled on the floor, though Whitford saw with grim satisfaction that some still writhed in their death agonies.  A handful struggled to get through the single doorway to the second stairwell.  As Whitford watched three more shots rang out, and three of the demons fell, adding to the confusion and chaos.
     "LOADING!"  It was Amenquale's voice.
     "AMENQUALE!" he shouted, hoping that she would be able to hear him after her barrage.  Too many accidents happened during firefights because cops were temporarily deafened by their own weapons.  Especially indoors.
    "Jeff?" he heard Winter answer him.  "Is that you?"
     The last two demons left struggling at the doorway looked back, maybe surprised by the sudden absence of gunfire, or attracted by the sound of human voices.  It made no difference.  Whitford shot them both.
     "Winter?  Amenquale?  You guys alright?"
     "Yeah, we're okay-"
     "Good to go!" confirmed Amenquale.
     "Alex and Xandra are in the lounge," shouted Winter.  "Can you see the door?  I don't think they got in."
     At the sound of his friend's names, Charles poked his head around the door, looking down the corridor.  The door to the lounge was closed, though badly battered, and covered with a dark stain.
     "It's closed," Whitford confirmed.  "You see any more of these things?"
     "Nope," answered Winter.
     "Negative," said Amenquale.
     "We're coming in.  Watch it."
     "Covering," shouted Amenquale.
     "Moving," replied Whitford.  With a jerk of his head he ordered Charles to follow him.  Within seconds both men had joined up with Amenquale and Winter in the squad room.  Whitford was pleased to see Charles pull the stair door shut behind him, pushing on the handle as he confirmed its lock down status.  He flashed the young man a quick smile of approval.  But only a quick one, he planned to have a serious and completely one way man-to-man with him later.  Elltee's son or no.
     "Winter, Charles, stay here," he said, flashing Winter a significant glance that drew a curt nod as she gently pulled Charles further into the squad room with her.  He looked up at her in surprise, then, reluctantly, nodded his acceptance of the situation, though he kept his borrowed sword in hand, and did not remove his helmet or body armour.  "We'll check the rest of the floor, then go after Xandra and Alex.  Ready?"
     "Ready," Amenquale replied as she checked her shotgun, satisfying herself that it was loaded.
     "Let's go."

*****

     "Shots!" the single word electrified everyone who heard it pass over the radio net.  "All units this is One David Ten-" Lieutenant Augustine radioed from his position on the outer cordon- "we have shots fired on the fourth floor.  Two David Ten, are they your people?"
     "Negative," answered Brandt as he watched his people spread out across the second floor.  "We're still clearing the second-  Wait!"
     A long burst of automatic fire interrupted his report.  One of his operators called in a quick report, her voice competing with multiple bursts of fire.
     "This is Two David Three, we have contact with deltas in the number two stairwell, second floor.  Bunch of 'em were coming down.  Fast.  I think something up there's got them spooked, over."
     "This is Adam 8.  The fourth floor is secured.  I say again, the fourth floor is secured.  William and David units can come up number one stairwell-" a couple of shots, the low 'boom' of shotguns, overwhelmed even his loud clear voice-"-two is swarming with the things."
 
*****

     The sound of the shots was unmistakable, as were the screams of the demons that followed, and Xandra was certain that she could hear human voices, badly muffled though they were, through the thick walls.  The resulting silence was therefore oddly comforting as she imagined the demons being chased off by the police.
     She took her brother by the hand and pushed him into a chair, kneeling beside him, careful to lay her makeshift quarterstaff within easy reach on the floor.
     Alex looked terrible, pale and exhausted, his eyes screwed shut against the pain, his lips and chin covered in blood.  Tenderly, Xandra brushed his hair off of his face.
     "I think we're saved," she said with a sigh that was supposed to signal her relief.  To her surprise, and even greater relief, Alex chuckled softly.
     "Don't sound so disappointed, Xandra," he chided her.  His voice was low and laboured, but still light with gentle humour.  "It was a good plan.  'Sides, I bet we'll be in mortal danger again."
     "Promise?" she asked with a smile and a laugh of her own.
     "Pro-" he stopped talking and cocked his head to one side, as if listening for something as a smile lit his face.
     "Alex?"
     "It's Mom," he whispered, his voice filled with awe, and affection.  "I can feel her.  I can hear her."

*****

     "Cover the stairwell," ordered Whitford as he stepped past Amenquale and back into the fourth floor corridor, gratefully turning his back on the bloody stairwell.  "Sing out, if anything moves.  If it keeps moving-"
     "Kill it," Amenquale finished his sentence for him.
     "Kill it," confirmed Whitford.  "I'm going to open the other door for the squad.  Winter!-" he shouted back at the squad room-  "tell dispatch-"
     He was cut off by the sound of tearing metal as the stairway door split down the centre, the two pieces flying away from the wall with enough force to carry large chunks of concrete with them as they slid across the floor.  Through the billowing dust strode a dark shadow, backlit with the emergency lights on the landing behind.  Amenquale spun about, dropping to one knee as she brought her shotgun around to engage this new threat.
     "Steady," ordered Whitford as he pushed her shotgun down out of the aim.  His own was slung low across his hips.  "Steady, partner.  It's the Doc."
     As Amenquale watched, the petite woman she had first seen at the hospital strode through the dust and into the open air of the corridor.  Try as she might, Amenquale would never be able to adequately describe what she had seen as the woman emerged from the dust.  It almost looked like she floated above the floor, and that nothing about her moved but her head as she stared at the still unopened lounge door.  Amenquale was struck by an incredible feeling of power, almost as if waves of static electricity were washing over her, filling her with a sense of....  Of relief, even tranquility.  It took an effort for Amenquale to turn away from the woman and back to covering the stairs.
     "Doctor!" Whitford said, trying to get her attention.
     "Jeff?" answered Tara, finally tearing her eyes from the door.
     "Doctor, we haven't-" he nodded at the lounge, desperate to reassure her, but afraid that he couldn't, not yet.  "We don't know-"
     "He's fine.  Both of them.  Thank you, Jeff," she reassured him, and touched a hand to his cheek with a smile.  "Thank you."
     "Uh, umm, ma'am...." Whitford stammered, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
     "Hi, Jeff," said Heather brightly as she, Walthorpe and Locklear emerged through the shattered doorway.  She had to repeat herself when he failed to respond, pointedly so, and with a more-or-less playful punch to his arm that left him momentarily without feeling below his bicep.  "Hi, Jeff."
     "Oh, uh, Heather, hi," Whitford said, rubbing his arm as he smiled his apology.
     Before he could say more, though, he was thrown hard against the wall.  Strong hands held him pinned there as Walthorpe leaned in and snarled, "I ever find out you let 'im come with you-"
     "William!" Heather shouted as she made a grab at Walthorpe's arms.
     But before she could grab the detective, Whitford twisted out of his grasp and pushed hard at Walthorpe, knocking him out of arm's length before he could regain his balance.
     "I didn't," he said, his voice pregnant with menace of its own.  "And it's none of your-"
     "Bloody 'ell it isn't-"
     "Enough," said Tara in a low, calm voice that easily bent both men's attentions away from the other and towards her.  Whitford and Walthorpe each took a pace back from the other, looking a lot like a pair of unrepentant schoolboys after being chastised by a favourite teacher.
     "Ma'am."
     "Tara."

*****

     The altercation between her training officer and the detective came as something of a shock to Amenquale.  Her reaction was largely a result of the fact that she was still young and idealistic enough to think of the force as one big happy family, and the sudden exchange, with its heated words and overt physical hostility, left her feeling uncomfortable about the implication that it wasn't anything of the sort.
    Before she could respond, though to be honest she wasn't sure what she could do, just that she should do something to back up Whitford, the black clad bulk of Officer Locklear settled down into the stairwell door beside her.
    He caught her eyes with his and jerked his head back at the two cops and gave Amenquale a dismissive look that said, 'boys.'
    She grinned in response, but before she could turn her attention back to the stairs, Locklear looked back at the demon corpses littering the floor behind and whispered, "You?"
    "Some," admitted Amenquale.  She tried to add more, tried to say that the bulk of the credit should go to Whitford, and that while she had a shotgun, Winter had beheaded one of the things more or less by hand, but Locklear cut her off.
    "Did good," he grunted before focusing his attention on the stairwell.
    Did good? thought Amenquale.  That pompous... what did Whitford call him?  Oh yeah.  Squid.  The pompous squid shows up after the works all done and he's got the nerve-
    Amenquale decided then and there that she didn't like Locklear.  So, with a decidedly chilly expression, she turned from him and resumed covering the stairs.
    Pompous squid.

*****

     Even taking the steps two, and at times, three, at a time, Cordelia and Anya still failed to keep up with Tara and the others, though they reached the fourth floor in time to see the tense standoff between Walthorpe and Whitford, and Tara's gentle intervention.
     "CHARLIE!" shouted Cordelia as she stepped over the debris in the doorway, and around a couple demon carcasses.  Taking in the hallway with a single glance, she turned into the squad room, to find her son standing before her, caught in the act of pulling off his helmet.  Charlie looked over at her, a hang dog expression on his face as he prepared himself for an outburst.  Instead, she shot him a severe frown, and mouthed the single word 'later'.  He answered with a nod, delivered with all the solemnity of Sidney Carton before the guillotine.  Satisfied that she had re-instilled the fear of God into her son, and even more importantly, that he was safe, Cordelia turned back to her assembled officers.
     "Well?"
     "Floor secure, no casualties.  Lots of dead demons though," answered Whitford, pointedly turning his back on Walthorpe as he made his report.
     "So I see," Cordelia surveyed the damage in the hallway outside the squad room, kneeling to examine a peculiar looking corpse.  It looked stunted, an effect not entirely the result of its absent head-  No!  It had a head.  It was just that it was reduced to a wet mass of pulp that, left undisturbed, oozed across the floor.  "My God!  Did they really...."
     "Yeah," Whitford answered her unfinished question.  "That's demon blood and... stuff, on the door.  They've seen too many cartoons, if you ask me."
     Dismissing the corpse with a shake of her head, and an uncharacteristic shudder, Cordelia nodded at the lounge door.  "Tara?  We're secure now.  It's okay."
     This time the door was moved out of the way without any melodramatics.  It shuddered once, twice, then slowly and gently fell away from its frame to rest on the carpeted floor inside.  It hadn't even stopped moving when Anya ran lightly across it, joined immediately by Tara, with Charles right behind her, moving as soon as his mother nodded her permission.
     Anya hugged her daughter for a long moment before reluctantly releasing her.  "I've got some work to do.  Stay here with your brother and Charles-" she nodded towards the youth standing by the door, then frowned at the look he was giving her daughter.  Oh no!  Teenaged hormones!  She had not been looking forward to this!  "We'll move you guys downstairs in a sec'.  'Kay?"
     "'Kay, Mom," Xandra said, but before Anya could leave.  "Mom?"
     "Yeah, sweetheart?"
     "Was it... was it like this back then?  When you guys... when Dad was our age?"
     "Not really," Anya said with a whisper, her eyes distant.
     "Why not?" asked Xandra, already guessing the answer as she squeezed her mother's hand.
     "I miss him too much."

*****

     "Mom?" Alex tried to rise to his feet, but his mother waved him back down onto the chair.
     "Alex?  Oh baby, are you all right?  I was so scared!" Tara fell to her knees in front of her son and pulled him into her arms.
     "But not of me.  Right, Mom?" Alex asked, the relief in his voice almost palatable.
     "What?" asked Tara in confusion.  "No, Alex, of course not!  Whatever gave you that idea?"
     "Well, when you were talking about... about Mom and Dad.  I thought that since it scared you, that... that my magicks- that I scared you too."
     "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry!  No, you're my son.  I could never be afraid of you," she smiled and wiped at her eyes.  "There's too much of your father in you."

*****

     The animals swarmed over the fallen bodies of his warriors like vermin stripping the flesh from carrion.  X'tanama could see them posturing as they reveled in their undeserved victory over the champions of the Ucalicoetl.
     What victory was this? he raged in his heart.  What honour is there in dismembering your foe from beyond arm's length?  Where was the satisfaction of feeling flesh part beneath your blade?  The intimacy of your opponent's final spasms?  The sport?
     X'tanama had been shielded from the lightening and thunder of the animal weapons by his assembled warriors.  One, an otherwise worthless and nameless spawn of a much enjoyed female and a sick and lame wreck of a warrior too long left alive, saved his life when, its entrails torn out, it fell against X'tanama, knocking him to the ground and covering his body with its own.
     He had been about to push the thing off of himself when a second animal appeared and more warriors died.  One fell across his legs, and before he could free himself, the animals were on him!  Then past, as they ran to continue with their slaughter, plainly believing him as dead as the others.
     So he played dead.  Watching and waiting for his chance to escape back into the tunnels.  But more animals followed, clustered warily about their lair, and X'tanama despaired of either escape or a final challenge worthy of his own death in combat.
     Until....  Until the matriarch appeared-  By the Great Womb, how did these animals stomach being led by females?  X'tanama recognized her as the head of this warrior caste, the one he had sent Huatcoatl to slay in her nest.  The deference paid to her by the males was sickening.  Still, here was a worthy kill, the matriarch herself, while surrounded by her gelded drones.
     X'tanama regretted only that his death would be so far from the Great Womb, and that his song would not be sang beneath the tree of his birth.
     It would have been a glorious song.

*****

     "Winter.  Get on to Brandt, and see if it's clear yet.  I want the kids- and you!-" Winter was a civilian employee after all.  "-out of here as soon as possible.  Tara!  Anya!  You guys good to go?"
     Both women nodded and, reluctantly, turned away from their children with a final hug.  Stricken with a little touch of guilt at the sight, Cordelia leaned into the lounge to speak to her son.  Her guilt at having neglecting him was largely forgotten when she saw that all his attention was focused on Alexandra as she stood beside her mother.
     Aw, shit, she thought.  But he's only a baby!
     "Elltee!"
     Before she could speak with Charlie, Whitford called her back into the corridor.
     "Augustine says that Faith and Professor Rosenberg are here, and do you want to let 'em-" he shook his head, and smiled.  "Never mind.  They're on their way up now."
     Cordelia returned the smile.  "Like he could have stopped them-"
     *ARRGGGHHHH!!!!!*
     The scream startled everyone badly; shattering as it did the calm that had descended over the entire station in the last several minutes.  A demon corpse shook and rose from a large pile by the lounge door before flying across the hallway and tackling Walthorpe before he could respond effectively.  A second demon corpse leapt out of the pile, this one knocking Winter to the floor.
     As Cordelia watched a third corpse- No!  This one was alive!  It had been hiding beneath the dead-  The living demon lunged across the corridor, closing the distance between it and her with two great strides.
     But Cordelia was already moving back out of reach, only to stumble on a demon corpse, giving the living demon the time and opportunity it needed to close within knife range.  It slashed out and down with its knife, aiming to disembowel her with one stroke.
     The blow knocked her completely off her feet, but she hadn't even finished falling when she realized that the blow hadn't come from the demon, but from Whitford as he shouldered her out of the way, and stepped in to shield her with his body--
     --"Cordy!  Look out!"
     Xander roughly pushed her to the ground as the last remaining acolyte charged towards her, its sword already swinging in a wide arc.
     She watched helplessly as the tip of the sword slipped in under Xander's own desperate parry, and slid across his abdomen with obscene ease--
     "XANDER!" she screamed as the demon's knife took Whitford across the chest, knocking him to his knees--
     --Faith's crossbow bolt killed the acolyte before he could raise his sword a second time, but the damage was already done.  Cordelia frantically crawled across the grass and pulled Xander into her arms--
     The demon ignored Whitford as he fell at its feet, but before it could launch another attack against Cordelia, two loud blasts filled the corridor, one right after the other, as Amenquale fired a double tap right into the demon's chest, into it's centre of mass.  Like a puppet with its strings cut, the demon dropped, hitting the floor with a wet thump.
     "XANDER!" Cordelia screamed again as she pulled at Whitford's arm, desperately pulling him into her arms.
     "CORDY!" the voice seemed to come from far away, and it took a second shout before she looked up; up from the memory of her dead friend. "MOM!"
     "Anya?  But... but you weren't there!" she protested as Anya and Charles pulled her to her feet.  Behind them, Amenquale and Locklear helped Whitford to his feet, as he wheezed and winced in pain.  "You weren't there!"
 
*****
Counting Coup 13

     "Amenquale!  Hey, man.  Fun coupla days, hey?" asked Officer (Probationary) Karl Grievy, an Academy classmate of Amenquale's, as he sidled up beside her.  The two cops were waiting at the back of the station's gym for their field training officers to finish their own BS session with the shift supervisor before heading out on patrol.  The gym had been commandeered as the briefing room until repairs had been made to the thoroughly trashed bullpen.
     "Not sure I'd call it fun, Grievy," Amenquale answered.  "Busy, though."
     "Perspective is everything, man.  Hey!  You know Noelle Cartwright?  The blonde from the six o'clock news," he mimed either a prominent bust line, or advanced arthritis in his hands, to clinch his description.
      Amenquale sighed and nodded reluctant agreement.  "Yeah?  What about her?"
     "I bought her coffee," he boasted with obvious pride.  "Two days ago.  I was in on the deception scheme while this was going down.  So there I was, hobnobbing with Noelle Cartwright and the redhead from channel seven.  Crystal or Carley-" he shrugged his shoulders- "whatever.  So, what about you?  Peres says you were protection for some bigwigs' kids.  Babysitting, hey?  Man, that sucks and blows."
     "Yeah," she shrugged, not wanting to talk about it, well certainly not with Grievy, who she thought of as something of a flake.  "Protective detail.  Not much to tell-"
     "Rookie!" Officer Glenn Fuller barked in a voice that echoed throughout the gym.  "Bore her with your love life on your own time.  Let's go."
     "Talk to you later," said Grievy as he turned and jogged in pursuit of his training officer.
     "Amenquale?" this was from Sergeant Linden, the shift supervisor, as he waved her over.  He was standing beside Whitford, his face twisted into its usual sour expression.
     'Like someone had just pissed on his shoes,' was how Grievy once described Linden's expression.
     "Sergeant?" she asked, wincing at the nervousness in her voice.  Being called to one side by your supervisor's supervisor was never a good thing.
     "Good work, Amenquale.  The wyrd sisters-" he coughed in embarrassment as he caught a disapproving glare from Whitford.  "The lieutenants up in Special Unit?  They called me yesterday.  Told me you did good.  You even got fan mail from Doctor Rosenberg's pet SEAL.  Can't remember the last time anyone impressed Locklear.  So, uh... well done.  You too, Jeff," Linden smiled for a moment.  The effect looked decidedly waxen as he contorted his usual scowl out of shape, and the resulting grimace vanished after exactly two seconds.  "Now get the hell out of here.  The both of ya."
     "Okay, Sarge-"
     "Don't call me 'sarge', ya damn'd jarhead," Linden's time in the service was spent in the Air Force.
     Whitford burst into laughter and headed out of the gym.  "Come on, partner."
     Partner?  Amenquale smiled at Whitford's back and followed him out into the early morning sun.
     Partner.

*****

     "Hey, how'd it go?"
     Alex looked up from his breakfast to find his sister standing at the back door.  She was wearing her exercise gear, runners, shorts, and a hooded sweatshirt against the morning chill.  She dropped her backpack by her feet and pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar beside him.  Xandra was relieved to see that Alex's black eyes had mostly cleared up, and that he was as chipper as ever.  Which, since, like his mother, he was most definitely not a morning person, wasn't all that chipper, but, at least he wasn't moping.
     "Still going," he said.
     "Huh?"
     "I'm grounded.  'Til midterms," he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice that surprised Xandra.
     "You're taking it well," she pointed out, then paused in confusion.  "Why?"
     "Mom said that if I could learn teleportation, pyrokenesis, and levitation- and the hard way too!" he interjected with some pride.  "She said that I had no excuse for still getting C's in school."
     "Ouch!" Xandra stole a piece of Alex's toast, ignoring his dirty look.  "So, you're grounded 'cause of school?  Alex, you're always being grounded 'cause of your grades, what about the magick?"
     "I'm grounded for that too.  For doing it behind their backs.  But Mom and me, we start lessons Tuesday.  Twice a week at first until I bring my grades up," his demeanour slipped a bit.  "And Mom's tutoring me in history and English, Mom's doing the math and science, and they've got Heather to help me with my Spanish.  At least I get to train with you guys.  I'll be there Monday after classes."
     "Today?" asked Xandra as she helped herself to his orange juice.
     "Family meeting," answered Alex as he reached into the cupboard behind him for a replacement glass.  "That family stuff I told you about?"
     "Yeah?"
     "That.  Uh, Xandra, you gonna be home tonight?" he asked shyly.
     "Yeah," she said, pouring some orange juice into his glass.  "Call me, okay?"
     "Thanks, Xandra," a sly smile lit his face.  "So, you and Charles going be getting all sweaty, huh?"
     "Pig!" said Xandra with a smile of her own as she punched Alex in the arm.  "Yeah right!  Charles and me all alone... with Faith, and Heather, and Rachel.  Three Slayers, no waiting."
     "Leave you and Charles out of it, and it seems like a good deal to me."
     "Oink!"
 
*****

     "Addicted?"  Alex sat with his mothers in their living room.  "Like drugs or alcohol?"
     "Not so much addicted.  More like I reacted badly to the power.  Like in corrupting absolutely," answered Willow from her place on the couch beside Tara.
     "Not absolutely," insisted Tara.
     "No, but only just," Willow admitted.  "Alex, I used magick for all sorts of things.  At first to help.  To help your Dad, and Buffy, and the others, but... later on I did it just 'cause I could.  I just thought that I was using short cuts, but nothing bad.  Nothing to worry about.  But it wasn't long before I was using magick to change... change things..." - a whisper- "people...."
    "People?"
    "My friends.  Your mother," Willow pulled her hand from Tara's long enough to wipe at her eyes before pushing it firmly back into her wife's grasp.  "I thought that anything was possible with magick, that if I didn't like something I could just... change it, change them.  And... and I was convinced that I needed the magick to make me special.  That if I didn't have it, then Buffy and your father wouldn't need me, wouldn't want me around.  I wasn't the most secure person you'd ever meet, and I almost lost everyone who ever meant anything to me, because I was abusing magick and not paying attention to its consequences.  When everything came crashing down on me it should have been the end-"
     "The end?" his voice was sharp with fear.  "What?  You mean you almost...  died?"
     "Not died, Alex," Willow looked at her wife, desperate for support.  "Worse."
     "You came back, didn't you?" said Tara.  "Alex, your father-"
     "And your mother," added Willow.
     "-he saved her."
     "I didn't deserve-"
     "You did," said Tara simply.  "You do."
     "So, I- I unlearned magick, then I learned it all over again, only this time I had help, your Mom and your Grandpa Giles," Willow leaned over and planted a soft, lingering kiss on Tara's cheek.  "But it was hard on everyone.  Real hard, and we were all afraid that you....  That since I'm your birth mom, that-"
     "That I'd maybe be addicted, too?"
     "Yes.  And so before you were born, right after we decided to try, I stopped doing magick altogether, and after you came along, only when I was in England with Giles.  As far as you were to know I had no magick, that your Mom was the only one.  So we lied to you.  I'm sorry."
     "So why can't I... why wasn't I able to teleport all of the demon?  If you have all that magick?"
     "Because your father didn't have any magick," explained Tara.  A fond smile lit up her face as she added, "Well, none of the mystical kind anyway."
     "And that's what we all forgot," said Willow as the two women shared a smile.  "That you're just as much Xander's son as you are mine.  Just as much Tara's.  I'm so sorry, Alex.  We lied to you, and we-  I didn't give you the benefit of the doubt.  I-"
     "We, Alex," Tara said interrupting Willow.  "Both of us are guilty of not treating you like, well, like the young man you are, and we're both sorry."
     "It was it really that bad, Mom?" he asked.  Alex was having a hard time getting past the fact that his mom almost....  What's worse than death?
     "It was Hell, Alex," confessed Willow.  "But I had help.  I had friends."

*****

     Charles tossed Xandra a towel as the two teens stood in the hastily redecorated back room of the Magic Box, trying to catch their breath, and mop off their sweaty faces.  They had just finished a five mile run, sprinting much of it in order to stay up with their trainers, and as it was they were still a good four or five minutes behind when they finally returned to the bar.
     "Damn.  That was fun," deadpanned Charles as his breathing all too slowly returned to normal.
     "It was.  Wasn't it?" asked Xandra wryly.  Her face was as flushed and slick from exertion as his was.
     "It will be," said Charles.  "At least that's what I keep telling myself."
     With a soft laugh, Xandra tossed her towel over Charles' head and reached into the small fridge for a couple bottles of water.  "Here."
     He pulled the towel aside in time to catch the tossed bottle, smiling his thanks.
     "I like that," said Xandra, her voice a whisper.
     "What?  The Slayers' death race?"
     "No," she said.  With a shy smile of her own, Xandra went on.  "I mean your smile.  I like it when you smile... smile at me."
     "Oh," Charles' face, already ruddy from the effort of the run, darkened even more as he took a sudden interest in his running shoes.
     "Can I have it?" asked Xandra.  She put down her water bottle and stepped up in front of Charles.
     "What?" he asked, his expression tentative and hopeful at the same time.
     "Your smile, dumbass.  I want it."  Another half step and she was well inside his personal space.  He stood his ground in the centre of the room as she took his water bottle out of his unprotesting hands and tossed it aside.  "All to myself."
     "My smile?"
     "Yeah."
     "All to yourself?"
     "Your smile.  All to myself."
     "Always," he whispered, then, after a deep breath, he added.  "Anything Xandra, you know that."
     "Do I?"
     "Well, I hope so, but I'm not much good at... stuff."
     "Maybe we should get together and, you know, talk about it some more," Xandra smiled shyly as she looked him in the eyes.  "I'd like to know what else I can have."
     Charles took a half step of his own towards his friend.  He could smell her shampoo, and he could feel her body heat as he took her hand in his.  He smiled at her, a soft shy smile that was for her alone, as he answered her.
     "As you wish."

*****

     "So.  You want to confront your hormone ridden teenaged son about his designs on my virtuous and pure baby daughter, or do we pretend nothing's happening while spying on their every move?" asked Anya.
     She and Cordelia were sitting in Cordelia's office.  The required reports were all done, printed up, signed, and forwarded up the chain of command, and the two women were relaxing for the first time in days as they listened to the muted hammering of the repair crews in the hallway beyond the squad room.
     "Anya!  I trust my son!" protested Cordelia with maternal reflex.  Then,  "let's just spy for awhile.  It may just be a post traumatic episode thing.  You know, fear being sexy and all."
     "I never found fear sexy," replied Anya.  "There's that whole wanting to vomit thing that kept getting in the way."
     "Yeah?" said Cordelia in surprise.  "Well I did.  Big time.  I remember there was this one time.  Gunn and I were on a stake out-  I still had the visions then, and I was majorly freaked by this living colour gore-arama vision of a Klachnor demon feeding on a Renaissance fair troupe.  You know the Klachnor?  They think that ribs make great chopsticks, and well, let's just say it was about a year before I could eat Chinese-"
     "Cordy?" interrupted Anya gently before Cordelia could ramble on any further.  "You gotten any sleep lately?"
     Cordelia stopped talking and stared down at her desk for a moment before she spoke.
     "You don't have to do this, you know that," she said, still staring at her desktop.  "I'll understand if you don't want to."
     Anya reached across the desk and took Cordelia's hand in hers.
     "Yes, I do.  I do want to.  You've helped me, Cordelia, a lot.  And not just with the suicide thing, either," she squeezed Cordelia's hand tightly.  "It's my turn now.  Let me help.  Please?"
     Cordelia left her hand in Anya's grasp as she took a deep breath and, holding Anya's gaze with her own she began.
     "Okay.  If you're sure-"
     "Cordy!"
     "Sorry," Cordelia apologized, then with another deep breath went on.  "Okay.  Uh, well, we hanging about the Magic Box, Xander and me.  It was Wednesday and... uh he, uh, he hadn't been sleeping well- at all since...  since..."  She trailed off into uncomfortable silence, her eyes unable to meet Anya's.
     "Since I'd left?" Anya finished her sentence, her voice matter-of-fact.
     "Well, yeah," agreed Cordelia in a whisper.  "I mean, between you and the Emergence... well mostly, you know, your leaving, he was a wreck.  Still, when Wes told us that he'd screwed up the translation, he was good to go.  So, while Tara and Wes got the magick supplies together, he went over the plan with Faith and me...."

*****

     "Where we going-  Oh."
     Kerry had been silent since William had picked her up at the station, answering his questions with monosyllabic responses, those that weren't outright grunts.  He hadn't pushed the point, just pulled out of the parking lot, and headed towards the north end of town.  Only the unexpected turn was enough to provoke a muted response.
     He had turned onto Rodeo Drive, a service road that ringed the largest cemetery in town, pulling into a small parking lot, taking his usual spot under the single lamppost.
     Wordlessly William left the car, walking around it to open her door and with a small graceful wave, invited her to walk with him.
     Kerry left the car and walked with William as he cut across the well-tended lawn.  In the years since she had first been partnered with the British detective she had often waited patiently for him while he had disappeared beyond the hedge that acted as the northern boundary of the cemetery.
     This was the first time she had ever accompanied him.
     The cemetery was quiet, the fading dusk providing just enough light to navigate through the headstones.  She followed her partner past a final row of stones and through another, shorter, hedge, this one closed off with a wrought iron gate.
     Inside the gate, in the middle of the small open space, were two head stones in front of a tall, slim pillar of polished stone.  A small spotlight illuminated the black stone of the pillar as William stood still for a long moment, brushing his fingertips across its surface.
     "Empty tomb."
     "Sorry?"  Kerry wasn't even sure he had spoken aloud, his voice was so low.
     "This is a cenotaph.  It means 'empty tomb' in Latin or Greek, I forget which.  It's for when a body is buried elsewhere..." his voice faded to a whisper.  "Or never found...."
     "Who?" Kerry asked stepping up beside William, trying to read the engraved name beneath his outspread hand.
     "Buffy.  Buffy Summers.  This," said William pointing to the first stone, "is Joyce Summers, her mother.  She was a lady.  They both were.  This" -the second stone- "is Xander Harris-"
     "Anya's husband?  The one the Elltee...."
     "Yeah.  We never got along very well- at all, but he could be a decent enough bloke.  Eventually.  Still, he did what needed doing.  Not everyone can say that," William pointed to the pillar, at another name carved into its surface.  "Charles Gunn.  He's buried in England.  Near Oxford.  Never really knew him.  Met a couple of times, but...  Anya and Cordelia loved them- still love them."
     "And you?"
     "Yeah.  I still love her.  I'll always love her."
     He stepped back out of the way, gesturing politely.
     Kerry stepped up to the cenotaph, her eyes already stinging from welling tears.  The engraving was fresh, the rough surfaces still slightly dusty as she drew her fingertips along the familiar letters-

Corporal Vijay 'Mac' Bhandarkar
RCMP
Sunnydale Police Services

    "I'm sorry, Kerry.  I'm sorry that this is now your place too."

*****
Counting Coup Epilogue

     Cordelia draped her overcoat onto the back of a dining room chair, and after a brief but searching tour of the dining room, pronounced herself satisfied with the repairs.  Though, to be brutally honest, the replacement side table just wasn't working out.  With a mental note that it was going back on Monday, Cordelia headed into the kitchen, pausing only to shout back up the stairs at her son.
     "Charlie!  You almost ready?"
     The muffled answer from inside the bathroom sounded enough like a cheerful affirmative that she kept on into the kitchen in search of her pearl earrings.  Tonight was a mother-son dinner out, a long-standing Chase-Gunn family tradition, and now that her 'baby' was a young man- and that was a frightening thought, she was trying to wean him off of fast food and chain restaurants.  Tonight they had reservations at the Georgian, one of the finer dining establishments in Sunnydale.
     "The blue bowl," suggested Heather as Cordelia started her usual haphazard search through the kitchen.  Heather was sitting at the breakfast counter, her laptop and assorted books arrayed before her.  Her body language that of fatalistic resignation to a life of monastic academia.
     Ah!  There they are.  Cordelia scooped her earrings out of the bowl and leaned against the counter as she put them on, watching Heather tap away for a moment.
     "It's Saturday, girl.  You gonna be doing this all night?"
     "'Fraid so," Heather answered distractedly.
     "Jeff not call?" Cordelia asked with a suggestive smile.
     "Yeah, but I gotta get this done- Damn it," reaching for a book, Heather started hitting the delete key like a starving woodpecker.  "I should have stayed at the library.
     "Peace and quiet," she added, casting a dark glare at Cordelia.
     "Heather?"
     "Hmmm?"
     "Look at me."
     "What?"
     "Call Jeff.  Get him to get you drunk, then take advantage of him.  This-," Cordelia tapped the laptop.  "Will wait.  Love doesn't."
     "But-"
     "'But me no buts.'  Call.  Him.  Now."
     She picked up the phone to emphasis her point.
     "If I'm late-"
     "Just promise me you'll name her Cordelia if it's a girl."
     "Cordy!"
     "See.  It's such a nice strong name," Cordelia pushed the speed dial button marked 'Jeff' and handed the phone to Heather.  "It's ringing."
     Heather snatched the phone from Cordelia's hand.
     "Hi, it's me.  You still-  Sounds good!  Give me ten- no, thirty minutes."
     Smiling at young love, Cordelia turned back into the dining room to retrieve her gold shield from the china cabinet.  She was clipping it on to her belt when Heather fairly danced by.
     "Wish me luck."
     "Good luck," called Cordelia.  Brushing her jacket hem over her shield, Cordelia followed Heather up the stairs to find her shouting from her room.
     "Charlie!  Hurry up in there.  I have to get ready!"
     "Heather, use my bathroom," said Cordelia.  "Charlie?  Come on, kiddo, we're going to be late."
     "What?" came the reply from the bathroom.
     With a sigh, Cordelia poked her head in through the bathroom's half open door.
     "God, and men say it takes us a long-"
     Her baby, her 15 year old son, Charles Liam Wesley Chase-Gunn, stood poised over the sink, his right hand frozen in the act of drawing a razor across the top of his head.  He was almost done, nothing but a few streaks of foam were left.
     "Mom!" he snapped in protest at the invasion of privacy.
     Cordelia just stood there, rooted to the spot.  She couldn't breathe as a peal of thunder seemed to crash about her ears, and for a moment the image of her son dissolved into-
     Gunn?  Oh my God, Gunn.  I love you, Cordelia prayed.  I miss you.
     "Mom?" Charles dropped the razor and took a small tentative step towards his mother as she stood there, her eyes brimming with tears.
     Mutely shaking her head as she wiped her hand across her eyes, Cordelia tried to reassure her worried son with a smile.
     "Charlie, you... you missed a couple spots," she said when she regained the power of speech.
     With a deep calming breath, Cordelia stepped up beside her son and took his razor in her hand.
     "Just like your dad.  Here, let me."

End
 
 

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