We walk. I concentrate on breathing, watching the way the watery lanterns flicker along the hall, casting strange shadows over Angel and Spike's faces. Neither of them are looking at me. Am I still such a ghost to them? Do I really walk alone as the first Slayer told me? Maybe. I'm not sure, and I never was. Even with all my friends, with Dawnie… with Riley… I always felt somehow alone.

After he left, that is.

When he was with me I was part of something. Stupid, wasn't it? To believe…

I cough as the dust is disturbed from the floor, billowing around is like a sickly grey sheet.

“What month is it?” I ask the two vampires who both glance at me with startled expressions, as if they'd forgotten I was there.

“November, luv,” Spike finally responds, and my eyes lock with his. “Christmas is comin' with a vengeance.”

“There won't be a Christmas this year,” Angel breaks in wearily. “Just like there hasn't been any other year since they took over.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds; “And Spike… shut up.”

The blond flushes with a slightly laconic anger as he gazes at his Grandsire. “It's so good to have you back, Peaches.” He scratches his temple. “Darla tells me you've lost your manly swagger since the chit took that flying leap… I thought it was a bloody shame. Great though that now that she's back and you can give her a good fuck you've got your---“

I watch with detached interest as Angel grabs him by the collar and slams him up against the wall. A red, waxy candle falls and splatters across the floor. Some of the burning substance splashes against my legs, looking like blood and burning like it too. I don't make a noise- what would be the use? I still don't feel much. The tears didn't change that.

“If I hear one more word from you, boy,” Angel snarls, his lips drawn back against his teeth, “what's left of you will fit into an ashtray. Do I make myself clear?”

Spike laughs, and his eyes seek mine over Angel's shoulder. “Do you hear that, blondie? Your boyfriend is back. And in such a bad way. Makes you want to fall into his arms, doesn't it?” He pauses. “You do realize you burned her legs with that little stunt, don't you?”

Angel drops him and turns, glancing down to where the candle pools in a mass of hardening wax around my feet. His palms caress my shoulders absently. “I'm sorry, Buffy. Does it hurt badly?”

I slide away from his touch. “No. Can we just get to the meeting?”

He glances at me with some surprise, and then the cold light of anger dawns. I see the change, and square my shoulders.

“Of course,” he says coolly. “It's this way.”

Spike has a small smirk playing on his lips as we resume walking, but I don't feel like laughing. I feel like screaming. Am I really so alone in this world? I can never be who I was before. The girl who soared into the white morning, to save her little sister. Was the first Slayer right? Would I never know anything but the kill? The kill of the enemy- the kill of my lover- the kill of myself?

A door is set deep into the wall, and Angel opens it with his long, slim fingers. I watch him helplessly. The thrum in my blood never ceases. I feel his every movement as acutely as if they were my own. His hand brushes my back as lightly as the raven's wing, leading me inside to a sea of faces, none of which I recognize.

A woman comes forward. Her hair is long, black and drawn into a thick braid which spills over one shoulder. She assesses me with cool blue eyes, smiling slightly. “Ms. Summers… I'm pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you,” I say, ignoring my own state of bewilderment. “But it's just plain Buffy. I don't go for the formalities.”

She doesn't look surprised. “I thought so.” What does she mean by that? “I'm Bronwen Henley. Please call me simply Bronwen. I work for Angel.”

“Well… congratulations,” I answer blankly. “Is anyone going to explain to me what work you do? What's going on? Who the bad guys are?”

Bronwen smiles. “You're just like I've read about.” She notices my confusion. “You've become somewhat of a heroine to us, Buffy. What you did for your sister- the Key- was truly admirable. I, of course, have studied you as we all have and you are known as one of the greatest Slayers ever called.” Her hand reaches out and she touches my arm. “And now you are back, which is excellent news for the Rebellion.”

“Why do I suddenly feel as if I'm part of the cast for “The Empire Strikes Back?” I quip, and I hear Spike give a soft laugh. No one else looks even faintly amused.

Bronwen's sharp eyes glare into mine. “This isn't a joke, Buffy. The humans… they have been taken- in droves to huge camps set up all over the world. They are run by only the highest of the elite vampires, known as the Ventrue. Do you know who I mean?”

“No,” I say shortly, not liking the way she reprimanded me.

I suddenly feel Angel at my side. The sleeve of his leather jacket presses close to my bare arm and I feel every hair prickle. “Perhaps, Bronwen,” he says in his quiet, yet forceful tone, “we can explain everything to Buffy. She's had a rough few days and she's feeling disoriented.”

“Of course,” Bronwen hastens to amend, her voice chastised, and she leads me to a chair beside the head of the table, where Angel sits, his body tense. I glance at him, the skin of my legs burning. I feel sweat pooling in the hollow of my lower back and bite my lower lip nervously. Spike stands against the wall, leaning indolently as he lights a cigarette, cupping a pale palm around the flare of the match.

Everyone stares at me. I estimate fifty people in the room, an equal mix of men and woman, some who resemble demons, some who don't. Bronwen sits down as well, her body rail thin in a light grey suit. She's not really beautiful- but she has a striking presence and I notice that everyone looks to her and Angel for guidance.

“I'm sure you have been told of the attacks after the veils between the worlds weakened, Buffy,” Bronwen states, and then continues, “after that… of course, as you can imagine, chaos reigned on earth. The demons used this to their advantage. They didn't want to kill the humans because they still need food. And so they took a page from Hitler's book and rounded them up, tossing them in large camps. Most of them are located in barren regions of the world, and they are extremely unhealthy, dirty and cold. The humans in the camps were put to work… making clothing, weapons, buildings- anything that the demons need to survive on this earth.”

My mind whirls. “It sounds impossible. To stop them, I mean.”

A voice speaks up, and I realize its Darla. “Not impossible, Buffy,” she informs me calmly, her skin glowing- translucent. She is so beautiful it sickens me. “Every year they hold a meeting. All the demons in the world are invited- and most show up. In past years, we have not had the manpower, nor the resources to launch any kind of attack on the building where they hold the meeting. However… now that you're back, we're hoping that—“

“And you care, why?” I break in. “You're a vampire, aren't you? I know you've wanted to kill me a great many times. What makes it so different now?”

Darla smiles slowly. I notice everyone staring at me with something akin to fear and confusion, all melded into one. I feel Angel's fingers on mine suddenly, and it's almost as if he's warning me. He's furious, I realize. He's forgotten what I'm like. He's forgotten me.

“I'm a vampire with a soul,” Darla points out. “Like Angel. Like a few others in this room. I regard you as someone who can help us, Buffy. But only if you act like an adult and not like a child.”

“Oh thank you Darla,” I coo. “I so need lessons from you on how to act like an adult. You must be the authority on that! Wasn't it you who shot at her ex's new girlfriend?”

Darla remains as cool as ice. Angel's palm grounds down on mine, and instead of being frightened, I want his anger. I remember how I liked it when he lost control. To me, it meant he still cared. I realize how sick that is and use all my Slayer strength on his hand. He doesn't even flinch.

He speaks, his voice balancing on the tightrope between rage, desire and the attempt to remain calm. “I don't think is the time nor the place to be discussing that,” he warns. “The past is the past. We need to concentrate on the present. Bronwen, can you explain to Buffy what's going to be happening over the next few weeks?”

The woman nods, her brow pinched as she stands. “Of course, Angel. The convention, slash, meeting is held on December 25th- a day which we know as, of course, Christmas Day. The demons regard it as the start of the mortals, and therefore, they have chosen it as the day they meet and celebrate their victory over the humans. Through a series of missions, we will be infiltrating the camps- to steal weapons and food. On the day of the meeting, hopefully we will be able to somehow take over the building and kill the demons in one fell swoop. It seems impossible now, but if we work together, perhaps we will be able to take a giant step forward. Any victory is a good victory.”

Angel smiles slightly at her, but I see there is no warmth in it. His muscles are tense. He wants a fight, and I know he wants it with me. I feel dizzy. He smells coppery and musky- like the incense he used to burn at the mansion- and like sugary, salty blood. His skin is paler than ever and I wonder how often he gets to feed now. He jerks on my hand, pulling me up.

“I'm going to take Buffy on a tour of the hotel. Show her the facilities and the training room,” he announces, and as Bronwen, Spike and Darla take a step forward, he sends them all pointed glances. “Alone.”

They fall back, but Spike's eyes lock on mine, burning me with their lust and fury and loud pleas. He's remembering- what it was like in the hotel, when he'd blow the marijuana smoke into my mouth and slide his cool lips over mine. I haven't forgotten either. Perhaps I never will. But he lied to me. He's always lied to me. He made my sister crave his blood like candy and I can't even forgive that. I can't ever forgive a lot of things.

As he watches us leave, I think that it's going to be a long December.

~~~

Angel throws open the door to the Gym with a resounding bang. I don't even wince, walking in with my hands on my spare hips, tossing my fringe of blonde hair down my whipcord back. Every so often as we travelled through the maze of hallways, all lit dimly, I let myself gaze at him and I saw how tightly he held himself. How much he was aching- trembling for a fight. But I think… it might go deeper than that. He's hungry. For sex. And for blood?

He's beautiful.

And I remember. I remember what he's like. How he smiles, how he smells, how he moves. How he fights, how he kisses, how he sweats. How he makes love.

Yeah, I remember it all.

But does he?

I don't know.

He faces me on the mat which covers half of the huge room and rolls his shoulders slightly. “What was that about?” he asks finally, in a controlled tone.

“What was what about?” I respond, deliberately attempting to antagonize him.

It works. His mouth twists. “That bratty display in the hallway and in the meeting, Buffy,” he snaps. “What are you trying to do?”

“Get you to admit you're mad at me?” I wonder aloud, and he sucks in a breath, rearing backward as if I hit him.

“I am not mad at you,” he snarls.

“All evidence to the contrary,” I laugh flippantly, circling him, like the raven in my dreams. “Look at you. You're textbook definition of 'seriously mad at Buffy.'”

“I'm irritated with you,” he amends, and clenches his fists. “But I'm not mad at you.”

“Then what was that scene with Spike all about?” I ask harshly, taking a step closer to him.

“Must everything be about you?” he inquires furiously. “Spike and I have a history of not really liking each other.”

I scoff, “You picked a fight with him, Angel. For absolutely no reason. Admit it… you want a fight. You want to get something off your chest. What's the matter? Did you miss me a little bit? Isn't there anyone else who can take you?”

“You think you could take me?” he breathes. Our noses are almost touching. My throat feels coated with syrup and my breath is hot and sticky.

“Think?” I whisper. “I know I could, Angel.”

“Then let's go,” he replies, throwing off his jacket and revealing the tight black T-shirt underneath.

“Fine with me.”

He smiles- sneers- and then I feel the fight taking over. It's a blur, really. With Angel, it always is. He moves like James Bond, smooth and tight and fast as lightening. Sometimes I can be sloppy, but I'm smaller, and I know what he's going to do, when he's going to do it. He knows me too. Sweat pours, hot from my skin, and I see it on his hands as he throws me over his head and I somersault onto the mat, arcing into the air to give him a sharp left hook across the cheek.
That's when his fist hits my nose.

In fights before, and this one, we'd always sparred with our bodies, never really hurting each other- just seeing who could pin each other first. Yeah, we had bruises later, yeah we'd hit each other… but I'd never felt pain like this from Angel. Fire screams from my nostrils, snaking up into my brain and sending sparks through my eyes.

Jesus.

I fall, feeling the drip of blood on my face, rolling over. He stands over me, his face cut and a little bloodied as well. “Fuck you,” I whisper.

“No, fuck you”, he shouts, his skin red and shiny from exertion and anger. “How could you have died? How could you have left me? You took that jump- you killed yourself- and you didn't even think of what you were leaving behind! How could you have been so selfish, Buffy?!!”

“Selfish?” I scream, my voice cracking. “I did that for everyone! I did that so everyone, including you, could live! How in the fuck is that selfish?”

He laughs, roughly, and bows his head, grabbing my shoulders and hauling me to my feet. My head rushes with dizziness and pain. Blood splatters unbidden and unwanted down my chin. I'm going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. “Don't give me that…” he mutters harshly. “I know that you wanted to die. I know that you were unhappy during the last years of your life. I know, Buffy. I know that you've always wanted a way out!”

“So what if I did?” I shout. “So what if I jumped and a small part of me felt relief? Don't I deserve that?”

“NO!” he screams, and his eyes glow for one frightening instant. “You told me to fight! You always told me to fight!”

“I told you we'd fight together!” I yell back, and he lets go of me so suddenly that I stumble, and feel the tears burn and spill from my eyes. “I told you together! I never said anything about being alone, Angel. Did I? Did I say I wanted to do it alone? No… I know I didn't. But you left me. I'd never done it without you… never wanted to. And you left me.”

“Would you have jumped if I'd still been living there?” he asks, and I know from the emotion in his voice it's a question he's asked himself millions of times since my death. “Would you have? If we had still been together?”

I think for a moment, exhausted. “I don't know. I don't remember what it was like when we were together.”

I see his tears then, and he draws me forward, into his arms. His T-shirt is soaked with sweat, and I press my face into him, inhaling his smell, touching his muscles, his strength, his skin. Tilting my face up, I look into those eyes. Those Angel eyes I know better than my own. “Do you hate me now?”

He sighs, and his finger curves underneath my chin, bringing my mouth to his. His lips slide over mine and it feels like golden sunshine, so hot, so burning and red and bloody and inevitable like the stars. I moan and wrap my arms around his neck, letting him pull me up and into him, feeling his heaviness throbbing against my stomach.
He breaks away, panting, and whispers, “Does it feel like I hate you?”

“Angel…” I murmur, my skin flushed, my thighs aching. I can feel the wetness slipping down my inner thighs like little kisses and know it's not sweat. “The curse…”

His eyes burn into mine. “Buffy…” he says softly, “My soul is bound.”

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