The boy stares at me.

His curious blue eyes rake over my quivering hands and the sweat beading on my upper lip as I step away. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears and it sounds like the roar of the plane that brought me to this nightmare and the meaty clicks of my heart as it beats beneath the haven of my ribs. Pressing a hand to my chest, I shake my head.

“Where am I?” I ask him evenly.

“London,” he says without any inflection at all.

“What's the date?”

“It's January. The third,” he amends, gazing at me with something akin to worry and fear.

“2003?” I ask hopefully.

“1941.” He laughs then but it's a startled laugh and I notice a gap in between two of his yellowing bottom teeth. “Is there somethin' wrong with you, Miss?”

Feeling sick, I shake my head again. “Why… why are those buildings--- what's with all the rubble?”

He looks even more frightened. “We're in the middle of a bloody war, you daft git! Don't go askin' questions like that to people! They'll think you're insane like, and throw you in th' institution!”

World War Two, I suddenly recall. I've stumbled into the middle of fucking World War Two and for some reason Quentin Travers is alive and I have to think. Who sent me here? Was the First trying to get me away from my friends? Trying to separate me to keep me from rescuing Spike and… God, does it want—does it want Dawn?

“I'm going to throw up,” I whisper.

“Bloody hell!” the boy emits a grunt and grabs my arm, dropping the papers onto the curb. “Don't do it here!”

His fingers curve tightly around my black lace covered bicep and suddenly he seems to notice what I'm wearing. Taking in my jeans and boots, he shakes his head. “What in th'hell?”

“Don't ask questions,” I mutter. “Just… just – give me answers.”

“Can't do that,” he responds reasonably. “I've no idea what you're wonderin'.”

“That's logical,” I agree, my hand drifting down to my roiling belly. “But I'm still going to throw up.”

“Don't,” he pleads and then pauses. “Who're you anyway?”

“Buffy,” I say. “That's the only name I can give you.”

“Ah, so you're mysterious like?” he lets go of my arm and leans down to pick up the spill of papers that are flapping in the wind. “I'm Parr Wentworth… and you're a bit strange, Buffy.”

I smile slightly at him, ignoring the gurgling in my stomach for a moment. “Understandable.”

“You want a place to puke?”

“What?”

He looks uncomfortable. “My sister… I can take you to a place if you want. You don't look like you have much in the way of a place to go.”

“Your sister goes somewhere to puke?” a smirk plays on my lips as I bend down automatically and help him gather up the newspapers, the ink leaving smudges between my fingers.

He flushes and whispers; “Catharine'd never do that! She's much too dainty. Nah, what I meant was that Cathie has a place where she lives. I can take you there. But you'd have to be quiet 'bout it. I don't take anyone there that I don't trust.”

“How can you trust me, Parr?” I ask him seriously. “I think I dropped out of the sky.”

Regarding me with temerity dancing in the sky-blue of his eyes, he nods again. “Like I said…bit strange. C'mon, then.”

+ + +

I sit very, very still, my breath fogging the pane of glass in front of me. The leather of the window seat crumbled slightly when I sat down hours ago, and it dissolves a little bit more every time I breathe. I'm afraid if I shift or make any sudden movements that I too will fade into nothingness like so much dust to the wind. After all, I don't belong. There has been no birth. No Joyce Summers with thighs stained crimson, wailing against my father's shoulders for me to get.the.hell.out.of.her.

“I don't exist yet,” I whisper to the window. It's an interesting thought, identity crisis's aside.

My fingers tap the smudged glass at the spot where I can see Parr selling papers on the bustling street, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he shouts his wares to the public.

He took me on a tour of the aging building before he left.

Pointing to the sagging side of the wall and the rusty, gaping holes in the floor, he shrugged. “Luftwaffe's air raids destroyed that.”

“Luft… what?”

Shaking his head, he cried, “You really know nothing?”

“It's not my fault I was too busy saving the world to go to class,” I muttered under my breath, pasting on a fake smile as I turned back to where he was standing by the decrepit kitchen sick and blackened oven. “I think I have amnesia.”

“Wouldn't surprise me a bit, Buffy,” he answered caustically. “The Luftwaffe is the German Air Force. Nasty buggers.”

With remnants of High School history beginning to drip back through my brain, I nodded and then asked; “But why are you staying here if it's been bombed?”

“I don' stay here,” he replied, wrinkling his nose. The smell of gunpowder and dust was heavy in the air. “Cathie does. And Raisa. I say with my Mum- but Cathie can't.”

“Why can't she?” I inquired, running a hand over the ragged cushions of the gold and red couch. The material was springy underneath my fingertips and I imagined it as it once was, before destruction.

Parr looked at me. “I can't tell.”

“What?” I replied, startled. “Why not, Parr?”

“You might be a spy,” he said. “I shouldn' even have brought you here. Raisa'll have my guts for garters for sure.”

I laughed at him. “A spy? I don't even know what the Luftwhatever is.”

“That's a good point,” he responded thoughtfully. “And you don' look German—plus, there's no accent to speak of.”

“Exactly,” I said carefully, suddenly aware of how precarious my position here was. I've read books… a couple at least. I know what they did to people back then. Or… now. “I'm not a spy, Parr. I'm just—I'm lost. But I'll find my way back.”

“No doubt,” he mumbled. “You're a bit of a nutter, you know?”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

His eyes widening, he replied stoutly, “You remind me of Raisa. She's got acid for a tongue, that one.”

“Who is this Raisa?” I inquired, the strange name spilling from between my lips like loose change. “I like her already.”

“Cathie's friend,” he answered vaguely. “Bit lost too, I think.”

“Where's she from?” I asked distractedly, picking up a broom that was set haphazardly against one wall and beginning to sweep up the bits of jagged metal on the floor. This Catharine, whoever she was, did not like to clean.

“Russia originally,” Parr said, staring at me. “What're you doin'?”

“Cleaning,” I snapped back. “Your sister's not exactly a happy homemaker, I take it?”

“Cathie doesn't have time,” he defended, picking up his papers from where they lay as a bundle on the rickety kitchen table. “She an' Raisa are always busy doing somethin' and besides, I don't think Raisa likes cleanin' much and she's the one who found this place.”

“Still… if you're around, they should be clearing away all the wreckage from these bombs.” A sharp ache sliced through my chest as I thought of Xander, nailing boards to my windows to keep the night out. “Don't step there—there's glass- you'll get hurt.”

Parr glanced at me, faintly amused. “I think y'are lost, Buffy.”

I gazed back at him, my eyes sliding over the flaxen pale of his hair which fell over eyes the colour at the core of flames and looked as if they had seen far too much. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” he responded, drawing up to his full height. “Much too young for you.”

“What?” I asked, surprised.

“Don't be like those ladies askin' for a kiss,” he shook his finger at me. “May be wartime but I'm no desperate enough to want a woman old enough to my Mum.”

My lips quirked. “Old women come onto you?”

“Wellll…” he muttered, obviously embarrassed. “Times are hard, you know? It's just cause I'm out sellin' papers and they think… well, maybe they think I don't have a home? Maybe I'll want to live with them… and you know.”

“Oh…” I said quietly, suddenly feeling a little sad for him. “Well, hopefully we can just be friends.”

“Oh, right,” he answered, relieved. “Not that you're old. You're quite pretty, I guess— but… oh never mind, I'd best be getting to these papers. They won't sell themselves.”

I wondered if I would ever see him again. Suddenly wondered if he was still alive… in 2003. Did he live in a nursing home now--? My mind whirled as I whispered, “Goodbye, Parr.”

“Bye Buffy,” he waved carelessly and walked out the door, tramping down onto the street to his corner.

I sit now, and watch him. I don't know why he didn't ask why my lip is bruised, why my arms are scraped, why there are deep gashes around my hairline. As best as I tried to clean up before I got on the plane with Giles, I know I still look like I got into some kind of fight. Of course… this is wartime. Maybe he's used to seeing people like me. Lost… with nowhere to go.

It's cold. Wrapping my arms around myself, I curl down into the seat, my eyes drifting shut. I can't sleep. Not until I've found out what's happening—until I've found a way back, found Spike, protected Dawn…

As I sleep, I dream.

Sickening thwack of Faith's body as she fell, fell through to nothingness, the blood from her stomach splattered across my thighs. Quentin Travers', his gravely voice, blunt in the muted air of the Magic Box, “She's a God”. Glory's cackles and Dawn's screams melding into one until I couldn't distinguish and I was afraid I was hitting the wrong one (sister) with the hammer.

Willow's eyes gone red as she surveyed Tara's bent body, the hole in her lover's heart spreading to her own. Xander, lying on his bed listening to the strains of country music as he mourned Cordelia or Willow… or both.

Spike. Cold on top of me as he cried low, again and again, “I love you, I love you, I love---“

Angel. Cool and bright, on top of Cordelia. Whispering, “Buffy?”

I jerk awake, rubbing my eyes as I feel something poking my shoulder. “What?” is all I get out before I'm knocked flat on my back, a hand pressed hard against my throat.

“Who are you?” a voice spits and I blink, glancing up into silver eyes, their lashes blanketing pale cheeks.

“No, who are you?” I choke out; grasping the person's shoulders and hurling him or her up and over my head. Bouncing back onto my feet, I stand, staring as not one, but two women gaze back at me in startled astonishment.

“Parr brought me here,” I say without preamble, to stave off further attack. “He said I could only stay for a little while but I fell asleep- it's not his fault.”

“Parr?” the one with the silver eyes grinds out. “I told you that little shit would only be trouble, Cathe.”

“If Parr brought her here, I assume he knows her,” the other one, whom I think must be his sister Catharine, says calmly. “Who are you and how do you know him?”

“I'm no one, and I'm leaving,” I respond, taking a step forward.

They both advance closer.

“Not until we get some answers,” the one I guess is Raisa snarls. “How do you know fight training manoeuvres? Are you a spy?”

I roll my eyes. “How many times am I going to be asked that question? Because it's starting to bore me. No, I'm not a spy.”

“Then who are you?” Catharine asks, more quietly than her counterpart.

“Buffy,” I say reluctantly. “Look, I was just crashing here for a few minutes. It's not a big deal.”

“Why are you dressed as a man, then?” Raisa inquires coolly. “You must have parachuted in here.”

“It's just my style,” I reply, taking in their knee length skirts and blouses. “You know, androgynous clothing is in nowadays.”

“I haven't heard that, and I read all of the magazines from America,” Catharine says, looking interested. “Is that where you're from?”

“Sort of,” I hedge, not wanting to reveal too much information. “I'm just visiting here you could say.”

“What does that mean?” Raisa growls, the black whip of her hair hanging over one shoulder.

“What is this, 101 questions?” I growl back and they both look surprised.

“Parr shouldn't have brought you here,” Catharine says softly. “But now that you are… well, we'll have to keep you until we find out what you know.”

I gaze at them curiously. “Why do you care if I know anything about you?”

Raisa's glance flits to me. “Did you ask Parr any questions?”

“Only why this place is such a mess,” I reply dryly. “Otherwise… not really.”

“This place isn't a mess!” Raisa exclaims, outraged.



“It is so,” Catharine shushes her gently. “It's not as if we have any time to clean it.” She turns slightly and lowers her voice. I strain to hear her next words, “We have to—bring her—safe?”

“You don't have to bring me anywhere,” I break in. “I'm headed over to Somerset anyway. I'm sure that doesn't figure into your plans so I'll just be—“

“Somerset?” Raisa replied questioningly, the quiver of suspicion in her voice. “What business do you have there?”

“My boyfriend lives there,” I answer, lowering my voice just enough to suggest naughty happenings. “He'll be waiting.”

“Too bad. He'll just have to save his hard-on for another day,” Raisa bites off scathingly. “You'll have to come with us until we find out how much Parr actually blathered about.”

“Parr didn't say anything,” I protest, infuriated. “Personally, I couldn't care less who either of you are, never mind what secrets you think you have.”

Catharine glances at Raisa, her green eyes sparking with amusement. “Are you sure she's not your sister?”

“Oh do shut up, Cathe,” she snaps, but there's a note of affection in her tone that she can't hide. “Well…you'll have to come with us, Buffy.”

“All right, girls,” I reply wearily. “I've had enough with the trying to reason with you. I'll see you later.”

Attempting to brush past them, I find my arms in Raisa's shockingly strong grip. Her hands tighten like vises and she murmurs, “As I said… you're coming with us. Do I make myself clear?”

“Stop being so hard on her,” Catharine says chidingly. “She probably doesn't know a thing.”

“That's what I've been saying,” I answer, frustrated.

“Still, Buffy, we don't know for certain,” she responds. “So we'll have to take you for a bit. Perhaps you'll be more amendable to answering our questions outside? Plus, I'd be appreciative if you could tell me more about American fashions. I'd imagine it's different than in the magazines—“

“For fuck's sakes, Cathe!” Raisa interrupts. “Can't you stop the prattling about fashion for one minute? We don't know who she is. Until we do—keep the questions about business, will you?”

“No need to snarl or use language,” Catharine counters primly. “Besides, I think she's innocent, Raisa. Parr wouldn't have brought her here if he didn't trust her.”

“I'll come, it doesn't matter,” I give in, with the vague idea of escaping when we get near Somerset Street. “Just stop fighting.”

Catharine giggles. “We always argue. It's part of our friendship.”

Raisa scowls at her. “It wouldn't be if you weren't so superficial.”

“It's not really any of my business, but you could stop being such a bitch,” I point out to the black haired girl, a smirk playing on my lips. “Just a thought.”

Raisa looks down at me without even a hint of a smile. “Let's go.”

+ + +

My face and wounds flush pink from the cold as we walk outside, the air sharp and new. I can smell dust and copper, as if blood hangs over the city when it sleeps. Now and again we pass buildings blurry from the bombings, their sides hanging listlessly, rubble spilling from their innards onto the streets. All windows have been blacked out and there are no street lamps. We walk in a cloak of inky darkness.

“Where are we going?” I pose the question without much interest to distract them, keeping a trained eye out for the street I want.

Catharine's brown hair flows down her back, glinting in the watery light of the stars. “We're doing something you wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

“I don't think so,” Raisa answers, looking like a wraith against the night. “We don't talk about our work with strangers.”

“Ok, then… how do you two know each other? Friends from way back?”

Catharine smiles, displaying perfectly white teeth. “Not exactly how you would describe us. We fought in school, actually. Raisa was going out with my brother and I hated her for it. Thought he was too good for her.”

“Ah, so that's why you hate Parr,” I tease Raisa, who doesn't look at me.

“Don't be stupid. It was Cathe's other brother.”

“So… apparently jokes aren't welcome along with questions?” I reply; irritated as I still don't see the street sign I want. “You know, removing that stick from your ass wouldn't hurt you, Raisa.”

“When you lose that 'holier than thou' attitude, I'll consider it,” she remarks, and for the first time, I sense an element of humour to her tone. “See anything, Cathe—“

An arm encircles my neck from behind. I smell vampire on the flesh and feel a prickle of excitement. I chop both hands down on the wrist, eliciting a howl of pain from my attacker and a grunt of satisfaction from me.

Spinning around, my foot lashes out and connects with a snarling mouth. I lose myself in the fight, adrenaline rushing through my veins like the comfort food it always has been. His nails dig into the scrapes on my arms and I groan with freshly remembered pain, flipping backwards and kicking his knees, sending him to the ground. “What's the matter?” I taunt. “Thought you'd be fighting a little girl, huh? Can't deal with the big leagues?”

“Slayer,” he grounds out.

“Oh, that's right. I don't think we've met though. I'm Buffy, and you are?”

He laughs suddenly, and I feel a sudden trickle of sweat down the back of my spine. Squinting in the blackness, I seek out his eyes. Oh, Jesus. Oh… God.

He stands, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. “The name is Spike. Seeing as you've got some back-up, I think I'll be off now. But I'm sure we'll meet again.” He steps closer and I feel his breath on my face. “I wouldn't mind adding another Slayer to my list.”

I watch him fade into the night, my entire body trembling. It isn't until I hear a cough behind me that I remember my companions. Turning to look at them, I'm not surprised to see looks of horror and shock on their faces.

“Look—“ I begin, but Raisa cuts me off.

“If you had needed a stake, you could have just asked.”

“And what were you on, about?” Catharine asks petulantly. “I'm the Slayer.”

“What?” I shake my head to clear it, sure I heard wrong.

“Raisa Volchcova, Slayer in Waiting,” Raisa says, sticking out her hand.

I take it mutely.

“Catharine Wentworth, Slayer,” Catharine says pointedly. “Why didn't you tell us you were a Slayer in Waiting? You must have known who we are.”

“No… I didn't.”

“You didn't?” Raisa looks affronted and then pensive. “Maybe we didn't get the word out well enough. Whistler has been trying to help us but—“

“You know Whistler?” I break in, blood pounding in my ears.

“You do too?” Catharine responds delightedly. “We only know him in passing, really. But he's been our link to other Slayers in Waiting around the world. We give him information and he passes it on. I'm quite surprised he didn't tell you about us.”

“Well I just got to town,” I say weakly. “I don't think he knew I was here.”

My mind is racing. Spike. Whistler. Slayers in Waiting. What have I gotten myself into? More importantly, how different was the concept of a Slayer back then—now? Especially during a War? I have to piece all this together and find a way out of this Hell.

“Bloody Whistler!” Raisa cries. “What a fool. You were obviously wandering around without a clue what to do. I was right then—you did parachute in here, didn't you? To work with us?”

“Umm… yes?” I reply. It seems like the safest answer right now.

Catharine looks relieved. “So that isn't the fashion, then? I thought I must be out of style—“

“We'll get her some clothes later,” Raisa interrupts, sending an exasperated glance in Catharine's direction. “First we have to explain some things to you. About the work you'll be doing. You'll stay with us; I suppose…it's the best Safe House for miles.”

Suddenly I realize what they do. “You work for the Resistance!” I exclaim.

Raisa clamps a hand over my mouth and her long, elegant nails dig into my teeth. “If you ever shout that again, I.will.kill.you,” she enunciates and her eyes go narrow with suspicion. “And who did you think we worked for?”

Realizing that I've again cast myself as the enemy, I clarify, “I thought we were only down with the vampire fighting.”

“Oh, no,” Catharine laughs. “Poor girl… you thought you wouldn't have a heavy work load, hmm?”

“Our vampire Slaying is done on the side,” Raisa whispers, obviously annoyed. “It's strictly forbidden by our bloody contact.”

“Your contact?” I ask.

“He'll be yours too,” Catharine comments.

“Bloody figures he wouldn't want us killing vampires,” Raisa snaps, finally letting go of me.

“Oh, Raisa… he's just doing his job.”

“I still don't like it,” she shoots back. “He's a vampire, himself! Of course he doesn't want us killing his own kind!”

“He's a vampire with a soul,” Catharine corrects her. “That makes the difference, Rai. You know that—Whistler explained it to you.”

“What if one day he hasn't had any lunch and he thinks our necks look particularly tasty—“

I interrupt, rooted to the spot ever since Catharine's hastily spoken words. “A vampire… a vampire with a soul? What's his name?”

They both look at my white, white skin and Raisa shrugs, a worried tone in her voice.

“His name is Angel.”

+++next