It had come for her at last.

And there was no place left to run.

The girl halted in the center of the alley, fixing the dead end with a furious glare as if that would move it aside. The solid wall before her didn't even flinch beneath her gaze. Not that she expected it to. For all her so-called "power," she was helpless. She had always been helpless, fragile, in the line of fire. That was nothing new. In the past year of her life, she'd constantly found herself chased or captured, treated like a commodity - as a hostage, as a tool, as a midnight snack. So she wasn't entirely surprised to find herself in this situation once again.

But this time, there was no protector to save her.

~left them all behind~

She could hear its approach, and turned slowly to face the shadowy figure advancing towards her. Light flickered over its form at intervals, each time illuminating a different face. A woman with curly blonde hair and an insane glint in her eyes. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie, his human form flickering into a snakelike demon. A dark-haired man in a black trenchcoat, his handsome features rippling to reveal yellow eyes and fangs.

The mouth of the alley was clearly visible past him, and she was surprised to see a man standing there, watching impassively. He was her father's age, with thinning black hair and a look of disapproval on his face. As she stared at him, the alley became cold. "Help me!" she cried to him.

But he shook his head, taking a drag on his cigar before throwing it away. The smoke curled up from the discarded cigar, forming the shape of a bull before it - and the man - disappeared.

~you can't trust him~

Her pursuer advanced, its shadowy form becoming less human and more bestial, until it approached her on all fours, its muscles tensed to pounce. It was still too dark to make out any features. She flattened herself against the wall, desperate for some help, any help.

Her dreamself imagined a protector between her and the monster: a small blonde woman, her petite stature concealing her strength and speed as she faced off against the creature. But it was only a dream within a dream, a memory. This time, she was alone.

The creature knew this, and reveled in the scent of her fear. Just as it reached the edge of the light, it crouched down and launched itself at her, all claws and dripping fangs. She shrieked and closed her eyes, bracing herself for the claws that would tear her flesh apart.

Instead, the creature's roar was cut off by a shriek, followed by a gurgling squeal. Surprised, she opened her eyes to see the predator speared through the belly by a long blade. It slid off the blade and fell to the pavement with a dry, cracking sound, crumbling into rubble. There was no blood, no flesh, just a lump of broken stone instead of a body. The only evidence that it had once been alive was the black blood remaining on the blade, and that, too, crumbled off the metal like dust.

Stunned, the girl looked up to see her savior. The armored woman was not the protector she knew. This woman was taller, with long dark hair. The blade seemed to be an extension of her arm. It retracted smoothly, disappearing into the armor. As she turned, her expression was one of surprise.

~not as alone as you think~

And then the dream ended.

The young girl rolled over, staring at the neon sign outside the motel room window. Fuzzily, her brain registered the reality of her surroundings, the cheap motel room, that damn neon sign flickering outside. Even with its dull red light, she could tell that the sky outside was no longer pitch black; morning had come, gray and pale. She turned over again, trying to burrow beneath the sheets.

Sleep never seemed to come nowadays without another of those dreams, the ones that seemed dead set on warning her that she was in danger, that she was alone with no one to protect her. She'd left all potential protectors behind. It was for their own good. She just had to keep telling herself that.

One last thought drifted through her sleepy mind as sleep reclaimed her. So who was that woman?

For the first time in weeks, Sara Pezzini awoke from a dream fairly peacefully - which meant she didn't practically jump out of bed upon awakening. Her eyes snapped open, and she lifted her head from the pillow, a sleepy and perplexed look on her face. Now that had actually been a mild dream compared to the usual. Although that was probably deceiving.

She stared at the bracelet on her wrist. The crimson eye of the Witchblade was alive with shifting, flowing light. "Are you trying to kill me?" she asked it. The Witchblade, naturally, did not answer. Sara groaned and buried her face back into the pillow, trying to recover a few more hours of sleep.

Her alarm clock went off a second later, and was promptly silenced as it went flying across the room.

The first rays of morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, squeezing in through the nailed-up boards to illuminate the still figure lying on the concrete floor. One pale hand was caught in the beams, and a second later, the hand in question was on fire.

"Bloody hell!"

Spike could go from "Inanimate State" to "Alert and Cursing" in under a second, and this particular morning was no exception. Being sober for a change helped. He leapt smoothly to his feet and bolted for a dark corner of the room, plunging his hand into the bucket of dirty rainwater he'd set there to deal with a leaky ceiling. It wasn't like he could call the super; the building he'd holed up in was condemned.

As his hand cooled, he glared fiercely at the bright crack in the far wall. He'd been able to patch up the openings the night before, but he must have missed one. Or it was just his luck getting worse. He was starting to wonder if it could get any worse.

That kind of thinking always led to trouble.

Kenneth Irons stood at the window, watching the sun rise. Clouds were rolling lazily across the sky, doing their best to blot out the golden splash of dawn that was peering over the horizon. They would most likely succeed, he mused; the forecast called for thunderstorms. Which was nothing new.

It had been raining on and off for the past week, shrouding the city with a gray, damp veil. This was the first sunrise to shine through the cloud cover in several days. Irons took a deep breath and let it out slowly, keeping his attention fixed on the eastern horizon. There was something reassuring about the sight of the morning sun, but for the life of him he could not determine why. The weather never bothered him. Fascinated him, yes, but never disturbed him. It was a minor detail whether it was raining or snowing, sunny or overcast - it didn't usually affect business. Unless you were a weather forecaster.

He shifted, feeling uneasy. Since the Periculum, many things had become unclear. Sara's dreams had become vague and difficult to remember - not for her, but for him. He'd woken before sunrise from a particularly vivid dream - and for the first time, he could not recall even a bit of it. It was as if the Witchblade was pushing him away, keeping him out of the loop. Irons did not like it.

Worse, there were portents on the horizon. Certain planets were aligning, and coupled with the weather conditions, the signs of Something Significant were popping up all over. The few prophecies Irons could find were too vague, and none were complete. He had pieced together all the warnings, but he had yet to find out what the signs meant.

For the first time in many years, Kenneth Irons had almost no idea what was about to happen.

He didn't like it one bit.

Sara could tell where the crime scene was the moment she entered the townhouse. She didn't need to use the Witchblade. She didn't need to look for the cops clustered around the door. All she had to do was follow her nose. Literally.

The stench was overpowering as she stepped through the bedroom door, jerking backwards slightly as the miasma assailed her senses. No one laughed; even the "veterans" at the scene - the cops who'd seen it all - were covering their faces to block out the odor. Bill Riley, the man who ate onions for breakfast, looked a little green. It wasn't just the scent of a two-day-old corpse, but a mixture of scents. There were overtones of something that reminded Sara of a wet dog. A very large and shaggy wet dog that hadn't bathed in several months, had turkey bacon for breakfast and had just had a roll in the garbage.

The two-day-old corpse had been identified as one Edward Travers, the fifty-ish owner of an antique book store downtown. Sara had passed the place a few times. Judging by the townhouse he owned, it did pretty good business. It was going to be hell to get the stench out of the carpets.

Some of the cops moved aside to let her through, and a hand thrust a roll of paper towels into her hand. She turned to see Jake standing there, a handful of paper towels pressed against his nose and mouth. "Sorry, Pez," he said, muffled by the towel. "Only thing we could find."

She gave him a weak, but grateful smile, tearing several towels off the roll and pressing them to her face. It still stank, but at least now she could breathe. "God, couldn't anyone find a gas mask?"

"Dante's too cheap for that," someone muttered.

The body, naturally, lay in the epicenter of the stench, but its appearance belied the smell. True, there was nothing pretty about a mauling, but Sara had expected the victim to be in far worse condition. He was in his mid-fifties, his leathery face twisted in pain and rage - more angry than afraid, but it was hard to tell with the parallel gashes crisscrossing his face. Definite claw marks.

Jake stood beside her, looking ill but doing a good job of suppressing it. Sara smiled. Most rookies would probably have dashed for fresh air by now. "Damn. Looks like he had a run-in with Wild Kingdom."

Sara crouched down beside the body, somehow managing to retrieve and don a pair of latex gloves while keeping the towels pressed to her nose and mouth. God, the smell was worse the closer one got. She steeled herself and brought her attention back to the victim. The claw marks on his face were an angry red, but they were needle-thin; deep, but the claws that made them were small. It looked like a cat had gotten in a really lucky and direct shot. They were the only marks of that kind, however. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were rolled up, and his arms were festooned with small teeth marks. "Hey, Jake, check this out."

She turned the arm ever so slightly so he could get a good look at the most visible bite. "Whatever it was tried for a taste. Several times."

"Looks like a weasel bite," Jake said confidently. Sara stared at him, wondering where on earth that had come from. "Camping trip. Long story."

"Uh-huh." She glanced at the hole in the victim's chest. Jake flinched a bit. "Know any weasels that could do this kind of damage?"

He looked up at the ceiling, thinking, but mostly trying not to look at the corpse. "I don't know. Something chomped on him after the fact?"

"Not that fresh." Sara stood up, giving Jake a worried look. He was putting up a brave front, but he wasn't looking well. "You check the downstairs. I'll meet you out front."

For a second, he looked like he was about to protest, but then he understood. "Thanks, Pez."

"Anytime," she muttered as he beat a hasty retreat. Most of the officers had drifted out of the room, ostensibly to take care of other matters now that she and Jake were there. Sara knelt down by the body again. It was only then that she noticed the victim's left hand. His fingers were bloody stumps - even the bone was gone. Gnawed away.

Sara frowned. Who - or what - would follow this kind of M.O.? It made no sense.

Responding to her unspoken question, the crimson stone of the Witchblade flared to life. Her surroundings seemed to dissolve, the sunny, ransacked bedroom replaced with a darkened corridor, made blurry by movement and fear.

There was the sensation of running, thundering through a house that could not possibly have been as big as it seemed, knocking over furniture and dashing through hallways in search of escape. A black shadow trailing behind, radiating animal musk and pure hunger. Yet it was not purely animal; there was an edge of calculation, perception that no beast would have...

A door was flung open, and slammed again too late for the pursuer to follow, battering ineffectually at the barrier. There was a pause, a moment's relaxation, and the world exploded into blackness and pain, a series of hazy, indistinct impressions.

So many of them... swarming, snarling, teeth tearing to the bone... testing his boundaries...

Surging forward and clawing, scraping away existence, thought, reality...

Sara jerked back to the present with a gasp, wrenching herself out of the vision. A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, turning to see a tall, skinny man standing there. It took her a second to recognize the photographer. "Hey, Pezzini? You all right?"

She glanced around, noticing that they were the only two left in the room. Everyone else had found some excuse to escape. How long was I out? "I'll live. Where's my partner?"

"Dry-heaving out front." The cloth over his face obscured his smile, but she could see it in his eyes.

She stood up. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna join him."

He snorted, and she could hear his startled murmur as he got a good look at the body as she made her escape downstairs.

Jake was leaning against the railing when she came out. He looked pale and queasy, and the only reason he wasn't getting harassed was because the smell had gotten to most of the cops out there. "Sorry, Pez. Just couldn't take it in there anymore."

"Another second and I would've passed out. Don't worry about it." She took a deep breath of air. The lingering exhaust from traffic smelled like a spring breeze after five minutes at the crime scene. "Any witnesses?"

The change of topic was enough to distract him from his condition. "Next-door neighbor said she heard some heavy thudding late last night, but she thought he was moving furniture again. No sign of forced entry, and no one in the area noticed anything unusual."

Except for the smell this morning, Sara added silently. That was what had tipped off the neighbors in the first place. Travers wasn't a recluse, but he'd been under the weather, so his neighbors assumed that he was staying in sick. "They don't see a lot of strays around here, do they?"

"Nah. I asked around. No sign of any stray animals."

She scowled, remembering the vision. It was vague - too vague, especially for the Witchblade. While it certainly supported the assumption that it had been an animal responsible, that didn't explain that presence, the calculated menace which meant that there was a method behind the murder.

It occurred to her that she was being watched. Sara glanced up in time to see a dark shadow perched on a nearby roof. When she looked again, it was gone.

No matter. She knew who it was.

She was aware that Jake was staring at her, and forced herself to lighten the mood. "No swarms of rabid weasels?"

Jake snorted. "Not unless you count the lawyers on this block."

Sara actually smiled at that. "All right. Let's finish up here and see what we can dig up on Travers."

Ian Nottingham watched them go from his perch, wrinkling his nose slightly as his heightened senses picked up a whiff of the stench below. No wonder some of the officers looked distinctly ill. He'd thought that it was just Sara's partner being useless, but for once he could identify with McCartey.

But he still didn't like the man.

Irons' orders had not been very specific - they never were, but he was more vague than usual. His guardian was trying to hide it, but he was clearly uncertain about something. So Ian had simply decided to watch over Sara, since he didn't need to be told to do that. She'd seen him, of course, but he wasn't trying to hide from her.

Something was going on. Ian was sure of that. He would just have to wait and see what.

The brown-haired girl was back again.

Bryan had first seen her a few days ago while walking dogs, and was immediately fascinated by her - and not because she was cute. Oh, she was pretty - slim but not anorexic-thin, large eyes and a curtain of chocolate-brown hair. Problem was, she couldn't be any older than fifteen or sixteen, and the word "jailbait" immediately came to mind. There was something startlingly real about her that seemed to clear the air wherever she went. He couldn't put his finger on just what it was about her that had that effect.

At first, he'd mistaken her for the typical yuppie runaway, the type that took off because of problems that a good shrink could sort out. The type whose Daddy and Mommy didn't pay enough attention to. But she was a little too smart - the motel she'd picked was just cheap enough to let her stretch out some cash, but just clean and nice enough so she wouldn't have to worry about drug dealers. She'd done her homework. Then he'd managed to touch her on the street - not a bad touch, just brushing past her in the crowd. It was enough to get a hint of her feelings, a hint of the pain.

He'd been able to pick up on emotions since he was twelve. It was a gift, and one that came in handy around here. It helped him figure out who was worth helping... and who was just looking for a free lunch. This one might be worth helping.

Every city in the world attracted demons. And every city had at least one hangout for them. Sunnydale had Willy's bar. Los Angeles had Caritas - although many insisted that the no-violence karaoke bar didn't really count. Manhattan had the Pit.

The name didn't quite do the place justice; true, it wasn't quite as pristine as Caritas, but for a renovated sub-basement of one of the city's worst human clubs, it was a decent place. It was amazing what the addition of a bar, some a couple pool tables, some well-placed lighting and a sewer entrance with an airlock to eliminate the smell could do. The overall effect was of a dungeon renovated to serve as a sports bar.

But even so, Benny was not concerned with the decor. The proprietor of the Pit was having too lousy a day to care.

Truth be told, good days were few and far between when you managed one of New York's busiest underground demons-only bars. Especially when your clients tended towards killing, maiming and destroying property when they were in good moods. And when you were a five-foot-five blue guy with horns, it wasn't like you could tell them where to stick it.

Oh, the bouncers helped - T'las and T'rol, the twin Horlak demons, could take out a whole posse of Fyarl demons without breaking a sweat. They were nearly eight feet tall and looked like they were made of granite. But even they couldn't prevent the violence from breaking out. His clientele at least had the sense not to take out their frustrations on the proprietor. If they did, they'd have to find a new place to drink. Besides, the fact that the place was funded by a nasty gang of Dinyaari was sufficient incentive for even the nastiest bastard to behave.

Then again, even the best security had its flaws.

"Look, you bloody poof," the vampire snarled, "I'm going to ask you one more time. Where - is - Rylos?" Rylos was the head of the Dinyaari gang, and the reason the Pit kept operating. This was looking like trouble.

"Uh, hi, Spike, how you doing?" Benny managed to gasp out in spite of the fact that he was being lifted by the throat. "Haven't seen you here since the seventies. Kill any more Slayers?" Spike's grip tightened at that. Wrong choice of words.

Benny turned his head as best he could to glare at T'rol and T'las, who were standing there watching the show. "You two gonna come and help me sometime this century?"

The two titans shook their heads.

Spike grinned ferally. "Tweedledum and Tweedledee owe me one. Now give me Rylos or I take it out of you."

Benny glanced wildly around the room. The bartender was pretending they didn't exist, and the group of Ano-movic demons in the corner booth were too absorbed in the Yankees game to notice anything short of the ceiling collapsing. No help there.

"I can't!" Benny croaked, and Spike growled. "No, really!" He glared at the bouncers. "Ask them! They'll tell you!"

"That's it," Spike snarled, his grip starting to tighten.

Benny's eyes bulged. "He's dead!"

That did it. The hands around his throat suddenly snapped open like a bear trap, dropping Benny to the floor. Spike stared at him, furious and stunned. "Dead? I talked to him yesterday!"

"Yeah, well, that was yesterday," Benny gasped, rubbing his throat. "We found him last night out back - well, we think we did."

Spike glanced over at the twin terrors. T'rol shrugged. "You know, a piece here, a piece there... that kind of thing."

The blonde vampire stood there for a few seconds, not saying a word. Then he snatched up a stool and threw it against the wall. It smashed into the stone wall, splintering in several pieces. Benny squeaked in fright as Spike advanced on him. "I've been tracking someone for days when I get the tip from him," he said quietly. "I come all the way here from Sunnyhell, nearly get torched, come through the bloody sewers to get here - and you're telling me he's dead?"

"No, please! I'll give you anything! I've got three hundred bucks on me! Cash! You can have it!" Spike seemed unfazed, yanking the little demon off the floor. Benny squeaked again and closed his eyes, but the end never came.

He opened his eyes and abruptly realized why. Spike's lip curled in disgust. "Money'll do."

Hands shaking, Benny reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a wallet. Spike snatched it away and dropped Benny to the floor again. "Two eighty-five. You said three hundred."

The Anomovics in the corner started cheering and yelling; the Yankees were ahead by two runs. Benny moaned in frustration.

"I'll let it slide," Spike grunted, gesturing at Benny's suit. "Looks like you're going to need the extra cash." He turned and strode out, nodding to the bouncers.

Benny glared at T'rol and T'las, who were chuckling in spite of themselves. "Shut up and get me a clean pair of pants!"

Fifty-two... fifty-three... fifty-four...

Dawn Summers counted out the pennies, knowing in spite of herself that it wasn't going to be enough. She'd managed to stretch out the money she'd stolen from the Magic Box's register for three days now, but it was finally running out. There was no way that she'd be able to spend another night at that motel, or anywhere else for that matter. She bit her lip, fighting back tears as the count only came to fifty-seven cents. Even with a discount, it wasn't enough to buy a lousy hot dog.

A freckled hand slammed a dollar down beside her change. "Hey, Ellis. I got it."

The vendor grinned at the young man standing beside Dawn. "Robin Hood. Wondering when you'd get here."

"Shut up and make her a hot dog," her savior said agreeably, retrieving a dollar and some more change from his pockets. "Gimme one too while you're at it. The usual."

"One ketchup and relish and one heartburn-in-a-bun to go," Ellis replied, hastening to make the order.

As he slathered the hot dogs, Dawn took a good look at the guy who had bailed her out. He was a few years older than her, but not that much taller. If it came down to a fight, she could probably take him - even if it mostly involved hair-pulling. His reddish hair seemed to stick out at all angles, and if he had any more freckles she could have played connect-the-dots on his skin. Tall, dark, and handsome? Not really. But this was preferable. "Thanks," she said nervously, never taking her eyes off of him as she accepted her hot dog.

"No problem." He took the heartburn-in-a-bun - it was impossible to see the hot dog beneath the toppings - and took a big bite. "I'm Bryan," he mentioned offhandedly through a mouthful of food. "Bryan Cornish."

"Dawn." She kept it brief, taking a small bite of hers. Might as well make it last.

"Um, I'm probably gonna screw up and creep you out, so I'll get it over with," he continued after swallowing. "I've seen you coming here a lot."

Oh, great. Dawn tensed, preparing to run for it if she had to.

Bryan barreled on hurriedly. "Not that I'm a stalker, I've just been taking this route when you have every day, and it was my route first, anyway," he added hastily. "And I just turned into a babbling idiot now."

She gave him a strange look, but held her ground, deciding to hear him out. There was something oddly familiar about him. "I kind of noticed that."

Bryan looked sheepish. "Um, the reason I'm babbling is, you look like you're running from something."

"Everybody's running from something," Dawn informed him matter-of-factly through a mouthful of hot dog. She couldn't suppress the flash of memories. Of her mother's still bodt. Of Doc, smiling sweetly as he cut her skin with a knife. Of Buffy leaping from the tower to her death, her golden hair streaming behind her as she dropped into the bright distortion.

It must have shown in her eyes, because Bryan practically flinched. "Listen, I'm not gonna feed you any lines." He reached into his pockets and retrieved a card. "Friend of mine runs this kind of shelter uptown. No drugs, no violence, no questions. You need a place to sleep in between running, give her a call. Tell her Bryan sent you. If a guy answers, it's just Gabe, tell him the same thing. He helps out from time to time when he's not managing his store."

Dawn's suspicions were starting to erode slightly. Maybe it was the fact that he was keeping enough distance between them, maybe it was because he'd bought her the hot dog, maybe it was because he seemed to have diarrhea of the mouth, but he didn't seem like that much of a threat. Reminded her of Xander, only not as cute.

Oh, God. Xander. Spike. Willow. Giles. Tara. Anya. She missed them so much. She even missed Anya. And that in itself was a bad sign.

"I'll think about it."

"You do that." He checked his watch, and made a face. "Hell. I'm late for work. Call that number!"

She watched in fascination as he stuffed the last of the hot dog into his mouth easily - seemingly defying the laws of physics - and hurried off. Shaking her head, Dawn took one last look at the card before stuffing it into her pocket and walking away, nibbling at the hot dog as she did so.

Sara sighed as she reviewed the files on Travers for the fifth time. The man led an utterly boring and law-abiding life. There was nothing that could possibly serve as a motive for murder. Hell, even his medical history was above average; he was a vegetarian who would run ten miles every morning even at the age of ninety. As far as family was concerned, he had a cousin in London, but that was about it. Sara had no intention of placing a call to Quentin Travers only to have Dante stick her with the phone bill.

She set the latest set of photos down and rubbed her eyes. The vision from the Witchblade had given her the impression of a single assailant at first, but it had shifted to become a swarm. But how could the neighbors not notice a thing?

A tap on the doorframe startled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Jake. "Hey, Pez, get yourself a gas mask." He sighed. "We got another one."

(Sunnydale, California)

"Giles, don't you think we should put the Sobekium Bloodstone on the top shelf with the major arcane items?" Anya Jenkins suggested, surveying the shelves critically. "Or in the locked cabinets this time? You know, so you don't accidentally sell it to another hellgod?"

"Mmm-hmm," Rupert Giles replied absently, his attention focused on the book in front of him.

"Or maybe Xander and I could have wild monkey sex right here on the counter. That'd attract business, right?"

The Watcher made a noncommittal sound in response. Anya was by no means an expert in human behavior yet (having only been human for about two and a half years now), but she knew enough about Giles to know that he wasn't listening. The mere offhand mention of Anya and Xander's sex life made him twitch. She really didn't see what the big deal was; it wasn't like he had Olivia come to visit to play checkers. "Orgasm friend" was an appropriate term, no matter what he said.

Anya scowled; while he was technically the proprietor of the Magic Box, she had been the one doing all the managing today. Really, if he was just going to spend his days poring over that stack of books one of his Watcher buddies had sent him, he should just give her the shop already.

She opened her mouth to ask him for a raise, but the jingle of the bells above the door interrupted that train of thought. "Xander! What are you doing here?"

"What, I can't visit?" Xander Harris grinned and leaned over the counter for a kiss before he realized they weren't alone. "Oh. Hi, Giles." Giles, naturally, was oblivious, muttering and flipping madly through the books. Xander turned back to his fiancee. "What's with him?"

"He got some books from somebody in the Council, and he won't pay attention to anything else," Anya explained. "I mean, why are you here and not at work making money to pay for your apartment?"

Xander grinned at that. "Lunch break, An. Breathe. I just came in for some love."

"Not that kind of love," Giles interrupted. He finally looked up at the two of them. "I am here, you know." He blinked at Xander. "How long have you been here?"

"Man, you really are wrapped up in that stuff," Xander observed, coming over to the table with Anya beside him.

Giles sighed, adjusting his glasses. "There's some sort of prophecy about to occur--"

Anya snorted. "Again?"

"Yes, again, and it's more important than usual." Giles glared at her. "First off, there have been an incredible number of portents, but piecing together their meaning is incredibly difficult. Second off, the Council actually saw fit to send me some information, which means it must be serious. Third off, without a Slayer here to handle it..." He trailed off, looking pained.

It had been two months since Buffy had sacrificed herself to save Dawn, and still the mention of her - even indirectly - brought a fresh flicker of pain to all of them. Sure, they'd all been coping reasonably well; Willow had re-programmed the Buffy-bot as a temporary solution to handle the vampire population and make it appear that the Slayer was still around. No one had liked the idea much, but with Dawn's father still missing, the double threat of the Sunnydale vampires and Social Services was too much to deal with.

Then Dawn had run away.

Giles regained his composure, looking down at the books. "I suppose I needed to take my mind off of things," he finished distantly.

"Well, we can help you research," Anya suggested brightly in a rare moment of generosity, which was tempered as she added, "I'm not going to get anything done here anyway."

At the word "research," Xander's motor functions had shut down as his brain worked overtime to generate every excuse he had not to participate. Fortunately for him, the phone chose that moment to ring. "I got it," he said, trying and failing not to sound incredibly eager as he all but vaulted behind the counter. "Magic Box."

A recorded message greeted, "You have a collect call from--" It paused as a familiar voice snapped, "Spike." Xander nearly dropped the phone as the recording took over again. "Please press 'one' to accept the charges."

Ordinarily, Xander would have hung up, but these were special circumstances. He pressed the required key. "Spike, where the hell are you?"

Hearing that, Giles dropped the book.

Bryan stood in front of Travers' Rare Books and pondered the current state of reality.

Sky free of airborne pigs? Check.

Hell was as hot as ever? (Well, it was eighty-nine degrees in L.A.) Check.

But he had hurried to work - late as usual - fully expecting his anal-retentive boss who opened the place at seven a.m. sharp no matter what to give him hell. Instead, the door was locked, and he stood outside for half an hour waiting for good old Ed to show.

It was now twelve-thirty p.m., and there was no sign of Ed.

Now this was a sign of the apocalypse.

"The body's actually older than the last one by the looks of things," Jake said as he came back from the officers he'd questioned. "Only reason it was found later is because it was found in a dumpster."

"And you'd expect the stench there," Sara finished as she crouched over the body, uncomfortably aware of the clothespin over her nose. The forensics guys at the scene had the foresight to distribute them, so if she looked silly she wasn't the only one. Pulling on the gloves, she lifted one wrist, examining the victim's arm. The current victim wasn't in as good shape as Travers - an extra day in a dumpster hadn't helped. The woman was in her early thirties, with long blonde hair that was now streaked with dried blood and dirt. But the killer's marks were still there. "More weasel bites. Figures."

Jake was moving idly down the alley, examining the brick wall. "Hey, Pez, look at this."

He pointed to the base of the wall, where the brick met the asphalt. The old brick was scored in a few places by rows of parallel slashes. Claw marks. "Looks like it happened around here."

Sara frowned and scanned the surrounding area. The asphalt and the brick walls were swept clean of debris - and there was no such thing as a clean, neat side alley in this part of the Bronx. The Witchblade seethed, and she felt the first shift of a vision. Jake was engrossed in the claw marks, so he didn't notice as Sara's eyes glazed over, and the current surroundings darkened into a scene from the past.

But just as the picture started to form, it fuzzed back into the present day, as if it had been hastily erased. Sara blinked, confused. Like the blood and debris, the memory had been swept away.

She nudged Jake to get his attention. "It's also a little too clean, you notice that?"

"What're you saying?" Jake asked. "Our perp tore apart the victim like an animal, then took the time to clean up the mess?"

"Yeah." Sara stared at the marks, thinking. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Harris?" Spike hadn't been expecting him to pick up, but it didn't matter. "None of your business. Put the Watcher on."

"None of my business? Listen, pal, we haven't heard from you in two--"

Xander's annoyed tirade was cut short by some scuffling and muffled cursing. "Watch it!" he heard Anya shout in the background. "Do you have any idea how much those protection amulets cost?"

Spike snorted in amusement. Well, Anya hadn't changed. "Spike, where have you been?" a new voice gasped. Giles had wrested control of the phone. "Checking in regularly does not translate to giving us a ring every few days."

"I've been trying to find a payphone in the shade," Spike snapped. "It's not easy to place a collect call when you're lit up like a bloody Roman candle. Remember? Sunlight? Vampires? Instant barbecue?"

"And a collect call means that *I* am paying. Get to the point."

Muttering under his breath, Spike fished a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket and lit up. "New York." Before the inevitable 'why' could be asked, he continued. "Been followin' her trail almost dead east. Last I checked, she hitched a ride towards New York State."

"So why New York City, then?"

"Big town, lots of people, good place to disappear. I've got some underground connections here."

"They're called the sewers," Anya answered helpfully. Damn, they'd put him on speaker phone.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Certain big-time demons here owe me, all right? Got a call back from this bloke I knew in the seventies. Bailed him out of a racketeering scheme that went wrong. So he says one of his toadies who cases Central Park saw this girl coming by a few days. Stoppin' at the same hot dog stand to get a bite. Brown hair, blue eyes, always carrying this yellow backpack with fringe. Not to mention packing a cross and a few stakes."

"What? Where in Central Park?" Xander asked eagerly.

"Working on that," Spike said evasively. "Errand boy who saw her's still out, and he didn't tell Rylos what block or what stand."

"Well, stop talking to us and go find it," Anya huffed, as if it was that easy.

"And end up as a big pile of ash? Harris, I hope you're not marrying this woman for her intellect."

There was an indignant shriek that was cut off abruptly, followed by scuffling and muffled protests, then the slam of a door as Xander got Anya into the back room before she could kill the phone. Once they were gone, Giles sighed audibly. "You're sure that Dawn is in New York?"

"She's got to be," Spike insisted. "Listen, Rupert, everything's pointed to the Big Apple. I know the Bit's here. I can feel it."

Giles didn't answer for a few seconds. "You'll let us know the second you know anything."

"Cross my heart and hope a stake doesn't." Spike edged closer to the wall, avoiding the beam of sunlight that was inching closer and closer to his back. "It's getting a bit bright here for my taste, so I'll be off. Say hello to Red for me."

"Now wait--" Giles began, but Spike had already hung up.

He swung around the corner into the shady alley, thinking. All right, so he'd broken a ground rule and lied through his teeth. But what was he supposed to tell them? That he'd been going strong tracking Dawn for the past few days, missing her departure by hours, sometimes minutes? That he'd used every connection and favor he could think of to get to Manhattan - only to find out that his last link, his last and most potentially helpful lead, was dead?

Sure, Dawn was in New York. Of that much he was certain. But it wasn't like he could find her out of seven million people purely by smell. Not even vampiric senses could pull that off. If Buffy were here, she would have thought of something, anything. The Slayer would have gone through half the demon population of Manhattan to find her little sister and then some. She would have come up with some brilliant plan at the last second.

Spike didn't have a damned clue what to do.

It was the eve of destruction, the night when Glory planned to destroy their dimension so she could return to hers, when he made his single promise. With everything at stake, Buffy had only asked one boon of him. To look after her baby sister.

~I'm counting on you... to protect her.~

"Til the end of the world," he murmured, repeating his answer aloud. He'd certainly done a bang-up job of keeping that promise.

His cigarette had burned down to one long cylindrical ash. Spike scowled and let it fall to the asphalt, stubbing it out with his boot. There was only one thing he could do about now: get extremely and profoundly drunk.

Sara held the plastic bag up to the light, staring at the bits of hair inside. They had been found on the scene, and didn't match that of the victim: too dark, too coarse. Hell, they could belong to any number of the countless bums and drunks that staggered down these back alleys in the wee hours of the night. But as she stared at them, she could almost feel the memory trying to form, like an afterimage at the periphery of her vision. More fear, more claws, and even more vague than the last time.

But, hey, it was something.

"Everything is 'something' for you, Pez. How long is it going to take for you to realize that?"

She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before speaking to the ghost standing beside her. "Danny, where the hell have you been?"

Danny Woo smirked at his former partner. "You're not telling me to leave before someone sees you talking to thin air and thinks you're nuts. There's a first."

"They already think I'm nuts. And besides, I expected you to pop up hours ago to dole out some cryptic commentary." She hesitated as one of the technicians on the scene approached her, ostensibly to collect samples. "Hey, Parnell. Get Vicky to check out these samples. See if she can figure out what they belong to."

He took the bag and studied the samples, grinning at the prospect of a new challenge. "Will do, Pez."

Sara sighed as he strode off. Kid enjoyed his work too much. She turned back to her perusal of the wall, speaking quietly to Danny. "I don't need the Witchblade to know this is one of *those* cases."

He raised an amused eyebrow. "Those cases?"

"You know, psychotic fashion designers, super-soldiers, odd-eyed clones, possessed priests--" She clamped her lips shut, cutting off the tirade as a couple of officers passed by. "Get on with it, Danny. Tell me what I'm missing."

"Pez, you already know what you're missing."

She turned, ready to tell him off, and caught herself as she realized she was looking at the wrong partner. Danny had vanished, and Jake was standing there, looking at her curiously. "We're going to clear out of here. Coming?"

"Yeah," she replied, distracted. "They got an ID on the victim yet?"

"Not yet, why?"

~You already know what you're missing.~ The Witchblade seethed, warm against her skin. It was almost roiling with frustration, at its inability to pick up on the memory.

Because there was no memory to pick up. It had been hastily erased, leaving only traces of the murder that had been committed. This was no accident. Whoever was behind this knew what they were doing, knew how to erase things from even the all-seeing eye of the Blade. She could only think of one person who might be able to do that.

"Do me a favor and dig up everything you can find on Travers," Sara told her partner. "I think I'm going to have to pay someone a visit."

"Who? Kenneth Irons?"

Sara stared at Jake in surprise, and the rookie cop shrugged. "Come on, Pez, I don't like the guy either, but you can't assume he's behind every crime in the city."

She smiled a bit at that. "Only the weird ones."

"Pez--" Jake stopped and calmed himself. "Look, before you interrogate him, I got to tell you something. Dante wanted to know where you were when Conchobar was killed." He saw the stiffening in her spine and the faint flicker of pain that memory caused her. "He provided your alibi for me - told Dante you were taking his deposition in the Boucher case."

"You asked him to," Sara realized, disbelieving. "Why?"

"Only thing I could think of at the time. Dante wouldn't have taken my word for it." Jake frowned. "I don't know what Irons' deal is, but you've got to be careful around the dude." Sara couldn't help but snicker as some of Jake's surfer accent broke through. "Shut up. I'm just saying he's not what he seems."

Now there's an understatement. "I'll be careful. Promise. I've just got a hunch." She strode out of the alley, heading for her bike. "Call me when you turn something up."

From the shadows, he watched the cops disperse, trying to scan the morass of flashing lights and people. It was a good thing he'd returned to clean up - if he hadn't, he wouldn't have picked up on the presence of a seer. He didn't know who or where the person was, but he knew it was someone who might have been able to reach back and see what had happened. The second he sensed that mind, he'd cleaned up as much of the psychic traces as he could.

Of course, he hadn't erased everything. There wasn't time. But even if the seer pieced everything together, it would be too late. The Boss was already gaining power, and once all the elements were in place, there would be nothing to stop him. Besides, even now the Boss was more than enough for a mere seer to handle.

He smiled to himself and turned away. Time to meet up with the rest of the cleanup crew.

It took Kenneth Irons a few minutes to get a hold of the right person. The law firm of Wolfram and Hart had been exceptionally busy this week; even its most high-paying clients had to be put on hold. "Lilah Morgan."

"Miss Morgan. It's a pleasure to hear your voice again. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

"Flattery will get you the world, Mr. Irons," Lilah replied, her tone businesslike but amused. "I'm guessing there's a reason for this call?"

"I happen to be in need of some information that pertains to your division," Irons continued. "Specifically regarding the convergence of several anomalies around the Manhattan area in recent days."

She did not reply immediately, to Irons' mild surprise. Which meant that there was something significant here. "Mr. Irons, I'm afraid I can't disclose any information on that subject."

The intercom buzzed, and his secretary babbled something about someone barging in. Irons murmured something to placate her and shut it off. "Can't or won't?"

"At present, my division is not authorized to pursue that line of questioning." There was a familiar edge to her voice. It was slight, but Irons recognized it. She didn't know because she was not permitted to know, but admitting that up front would be relinquishing an unacceptable amount of power and control. He wasn't at all surprised at her refusal; he'd been concealing the Witchblade for years, using the law firm for legitimate purposes and attributing his youth to other sources. He had to walk a thin line, but no other law firm would be discreet about his longevity.

The doors to his office were thrown open. "You're early, Detective," he commented as Sara Pezzini stormed in. To Lilah he added, "Miss Morgan, if you'll excuse me, I have prior business to attend to."

She chuckled bitterly. "Don't we all."

He exchanged a brief farewell and shut off the phone. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Sara?"

For answer, Sara slapped a couple black-and-white photos onto his desk. "This ring any bells?"

Irons studied the pictures, lip curling slightly in distaste. "Not as such. Do you always bring your work home with you, Sara? I would think you'd prefer to escape the gruesome details from time to time."

"Two victims, same M.O., killed a day apart," Sara continued, as if she hadn't heard him. "And someone went to a great deal of trouble to clean up after themselves."

"I'm amazed you haven't used the Witchblade yet, my dear."

"I would - if someone hadn't 'erased' the memories from the crime scene." She was leaning across his desk, her green eyes blazing.

Irons leaned back, forgetting to hide his astonishment. "Erased the past? From the Witchblade?"

Sara nodded. "The only person with the resources to do something like that? You."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"Bullshit, Irons. It almost always leads back to you."

"Sara, you must believe me. I have never heard of such a thing."

She glared at him for another few seconds. The Witchblade seethed, and her eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment. Irons frowned; whatever the Witchblade was showing her, he could not see it.

Sara straightened. "But you know something."

He smirked, more out of relief than anything else. "There have been several portents in the past few days - weather anomalies, the alignment of the planets - that would preclude a significant event."

"Oh, really. Back off, Nottingham."

The man in the shadows started in surprise before retreating to his position of subservience. "Yes, Lady Sara."

Irons raised an eyebrow before continuing. "However, I have yet to discover just what the signs point to. None of my resources have been any help. Ancient prophecies, urban legends - some of the signs are present, but not all. The information I have is too vague to lead me to any sort of conclusion."

Sara did not reply. She continued to stare intently at him. "I would be happy to provide assistance..."

"Assistance?" Her voice was like the crack of a whip. "I remember what happened the last time I came to you for 'assistance.'"

This time he could see the flicker of images from the Witchblade. The torn page from the story of Cathain, thrown into his own fireplace. Sara laughing at Conchobar's tales. The musician's beaten and bloodied face as he lay on the floor of the warehouse. Ian, slipping out of the mansion unseen with the bag of stolen money to assist her where Irons had refused. Sara weeping over her lover's body.

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

"I don't want assistance. I want answers."

He stared at her for a few moments, feeling a rare jolt of fear. He was not inclined to give answers, but for once he did not know everything that was going on. He had to cooperate.

But only to an extent.

"Have you ever read about the hunting of the Calydonian boar?" he asked her. Sara just raised an eyebrow, and he took that as an invitation to continue. "It's one of the most famous episodes of Greek heroic legend. Oeneus, the king of Calydon, failed to honor Artemis, and as punishment she sent a savage boar to lay waste the countryside. Oeneus called together a great host of Greek heroes to rid his country of the boar. Several men were killed before anyone could wound the creature."

"And your point is?"

"Think about it, Sara. Some of the greatest heroes of Greek myth banded together to track down a single boar. The sacred animal of the Celtic goddess of the hunt? A boar. The primordial "Mother of All" in Pictish legend had a boar's tusks." As she continued to stare him down, he got to the point. "Such an inelegant creature, yet it is continually a figurehead of myth, part of the hunt. The symbol, the object of the eternal pursuit."

Sara folded her arms and stared at him like he was a bug splattered on her windshield. "Uh-huh. That's all?"

"As I said, the information I have is vague at best."

"Even if it wasn't, you'd still be giving me this cryptic shit," she snapped, grabbing the pictures off his desk and turning to leave. "I don't have time for a lecture on Greek myth."

Irons leaned back in his chair, putting a hand to his breast. "Sara, Sara, you wound me."

She did not turn around. "Get used to it."

As the door slammed shut, Irons turned to Ian, all traces of his cool demeanor gone. "Watch over her. Assist her, if possible." Ian's eyes widened in surprise, and Irons added, "We are all blinded in this affair, and if there is in truth something that can hide from the Witchblade, I must know how to control it."

With a brief nod, Ian departed as quietly as he had come.

Jake was sitting at the computer when she returned, staring intensely at the screen as he typed away. Sara paused in the doorway, watching him with mild surprise. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her doofus rookie partner so focused, so intense - so seemingly competent. "Hey, Jake. Any news yet?"

"Huh?" He jerked up, nearly falling backwards in his surprise. "Nope. Samples aren't back from the lab yet. But we got an ID on the second victim." He handed her a folder. "Cassandra Dalton, lives in Queens, part-time aerobics instructor and part-time waitress. Can't really find a connection to Travers."

Sara scanned the report and froze. "She waits tables at someplace called the Boar's Head Tavern? In New York?" She turned and stared at one of the photos tacked on the wall. Something small and white was poking out of Travers' shirt pocket. There was writing on it, but she couldn't make it out.

"Go figure." He saw her expression. "What?"

"Jake, you still got the personal items that were found on Travers?"

"Sure." He opened the case and brought out a series of plastic bags. Sara snatched up one, holding it up so they both could see it. It was a book of matches - or rather, the remains of one, with part of the logo torn off. But below the visible "The" were two prominent words: one that began with a "Bo" and one that began with an "H." It didn't take a genius to figure out what the words really said.

"Okay," Jake said, "that looks like a connection to me."

Sara smiled. "Feel like checking it out? You look like you need some time out of the office."

"What are you talking about? It's only been--" Jake looked out the window and blinked. The sun was hanging low over the horizon. "Three hours."

"Yeah, you're right. You can stay here." She grinned and left the office, striding purposefully down the hall. Jake suddenly realized that Dante had noticed their presence and was about to come and chew one of them out. And Sara had a head start.

He was on his feet in a second. "Hey, Pez, wait up!"

Iona McCleary muttered some choice words under her breath as she swept up the last of the broken glass from the floor. What on earth had possessed her to take on this job? She was already busy with the homeless shelter - although a generous donation from Vorschlag Industries had allowed her to renovate and attract more help to ease some of her burden - but she had been mad enough to let a friend talk her into helping run a youth center on top of that.

Oh, yes, she remembered now. Because a youth center had so much less potential for danger than the homeless shelter. Because as insane as they were, the kids there weren't about to drug her, tie her to a rock and make her a ritual sacrifice.

Compared to that, she could live with the occasional broken window. Especially since it really *was* an accident.

"Need some help?"

Iona glanced up and smiled when she saw the girl hovering in the doorway. "I think I've got it covered here," she said, dumping the glass into a paper bag. "So what's the story? You probably heard a better version than I did."

"Someone tried to play baseball with hockey sticks," Dawn answered, toying with a lock of her hair. "Alberto, Danni, and Nate were all blaming each other."

Yes, just an accident. Good. Iona sagged a bit in relief, then turned to study the girl for a moment. Dawn was a rather odd case. She didn't seem like the typical runaway; she actually seemed to have a reason to be running. Oh, sure, a lot of runaways had legitimate grievances - abusive parents seemed to be the most common. But Iona had the feeling that whatever Dawn was running from, it wasn't something that Social Services could handle.

Besides, Bryan - Bryan Cornish, she reminded herself, not the last Brian she'd put her trust in - had brought her in, and Bryan usually brought in the special cases. Dawn put up a facade of indifference, but there was a haunted look in her blue eyes, a pain that could not be put into words. Because if she tried to tell anyone what she'd been through, they would think she was crazy.

Iona thought back briefly to that awful night, when she'd woken up chained to a stone slab with Brian standing over her, chanting madly with a knife in his hands as the air above them seemed to shift and change. She heard once again the sound of the detective's voice, saying things that made no sense to calm Brian down - and then when he'd handed her the knife, the gunshot that ended his life. As misguided as he was, that had only added to the horror and the tears.

Her attention snapped back to Dawn. Right now, she was still hovering, hoping for something to do so she didn't have to go back to the gym where the culprits were probably still blaming one another.

"Would you mind helping me out in the kitchen, love? I've still got to get the bag lunches together, and I haven't had a chance to start."

Dawn actually smiled a bit at that. "Sure."

Yes, whatever Dawn was going through, Iona could relate. The girl just needed time.

"See anything yet?" Jake asked for the third time. They were parked across the street a block away from the Boar's Head, not so close that it was obvious but close enough to get a good look at the entrance.

Sara shrugged, keeping the binoculars trained on the entrance to the pub. "Nada." She paused. "Now that's strange. Jake, what time is it?"

"Uh, almost seven-thirty."

She lowered the binoculars and gave him a look. "You know of a single bar around here that closes before eight p.m. on a Monday night?"

Understanding, Jake started the ignition. "Not if it wants to stay in business."

"Got that right. Let's check around back."

The blond man stared blearily at the bartender over a nearly empty bottle of bourbon. "Y' ever been in love, mate?"

"Once upon a time," the older man replied mildly, glancing anxiously at the clock. He really should have kicked him out an hour ago, but he felt sorry for the Brit who'd been downing whiskey and bourbon like there was no tomorrow. Besides, he'd paid for every bottle up front.

"No you haven't." Spike dismissed that with a gesture that was meant to be expansive, but ended up looking like a bad attempt at the backstroke. "This girl... she was special. Had reason to hate me, you know? Told me to stay away, but... I couldn't."

"Really something, eh?"

Spike took another drink. "Better believe it." His mind seemed to wander off again. "That hair... closest thing to sunlight I've seen in years."

He continued rambling, but quietly, and the bartender ignored him, hastening to clean up the bar as he tried to think up a polite way to get the drunk to leave. He was passive now, but he'd shown incredible mood swings in the past few hours he'd spent at the bar: one moment he was ranting at the top of his lungs, the next he was gallantly helping a small blonde waitress clean up the glasses he'd knocked from her tray.

Now the rest of the staff was gone, and it was nearly seven-thirty. They were coming here. Not that he wanted them anywhere in his establishment, but he didn't have a choice in the matter.

He turned back to Spike. "Listen, buddy, I hate to do this, but--" He stopped as he saw that Spike's ramblings had ceased. The blond appeared to have dropped off into a dead sleep. Sighing, the bartender extricated the half-empty bottle from Spike's unresisting fingers, shaking his head. "Now what am I gonna do with you?"

Before he could answer his own question, the back door swung open and three men in raincoats, the hoods thrown over their heads came in. Their attire was a bit strange, considering that there was nothing more than a light misting of rain, but the bartender immediately knew the real reason behind it. "You're early."

The tallest of the three shrugged. "Plans changed." The other two were silent, scanning the premises like a pair of Dobermans eyeing a fresh T-bone steak. The bartender was suddenly glad he'd sent the rest of his staff home.

"Look, I know I owe you," the bartender continued nervously, "but are you sure you want to meet here? I know a place downtown--"

"Shut up," the leader snapped, cutting him off. His attention moved to Spike, who remained motionless and oblivious to the world. "What's with him?"

"Huh? Oh, he's been here for hours. Been drinking himself senseless over some girl."

"Well, wake him up and get him out of here," one of the other two said. "This's a private meeting. The Boss won't be happy if we got another witness to deal with."

Nodding, the bartender shook Spike's shoulder roughly. "All right, buddy. Time to get up." There was absolutely response. "Hey! Get your sorry ass offa that stool!"

Impatiently, the leader snatched the bottle from the counter and dashed the contents in Spike's face. The bartender cringed. That sort of treatment tended to rouse even the heaviest sleepers, and he had the feeling that the reaction wouldn't be good.

But there was still no reaction. How much alcohol had the guy inhaled? It occurred to the bartender then that he'd been so preoccupied with the meeting that he'd lost count. He reached over, feeling for a pulse. "Damn it. I can't find a pulse." He grabbed Spike's wrist. Nothing. "Damn it!"

The leader took his wrist as well, and his findings were apparently the same. "How much did he have to drink?"

"I lost count," the older man muttered. "He was fine a little while ago. Shit, how am I gonna explain this to the cops?"

One of the shorter men leaned over and whispered something to the leader, who shook his head. "Nah. Too tame." He studied the limp form thoughtfully. "Hell, we'll just stash him behind the bar for now. We can get rid of the body later."

"Now wait a minute--" the bartender began, but he was silenced with a look from the leader. The dark eyes were like black ice. Sighing, he nodded and came around to help. The men grabbed Spike by the arms and legs and gently heaved him over the bar, taking care not to damage any of the glasses back there as they did so.

The leader straightened up, dusting his hands off. "All right, then," he said coolly, "let's begin."

The battered blue car pulled up to the alley just in time to see three figures in raincoats ducking into the building. As Jake parked the car, Sara hastily unbuckled her seatbelt, scrambling to get out, but Jake grabbed her arm. "Wait a minute. You're not just gonna go charging in there, are you? We don't even have probable cause."

"I'm just going to snoop around back." She smiled. "Trust me."

Jake hastened to unfasten his seatbelt as well. "I'm gonna regret this."

Drifting towards semi-consciousness, Spike wondered why it felt as though he was floating on air. That question was answered when he landed fairly heavily on the floor behind the bar and abruptly jumped a step closer to conscious thought.

"Easy there, boys. Don't want to break anything."

"How many pints did you give him?"

"Not enough to kill the poor sap. I don't believe this."

"Quit your whining and lock up. We'll deal with the body after the meeting."

As the meaning of the words penetrated his consciousness, Spike fought the urge to laugh. That was the problem with not having a pulse to begin with; all one had to do was nod off for a few and wake up in the morgue. Obviously, they thought he'd drunk himself to death. Idiots. He briefly considered shouting and scaring the life out of them, but thought better of it. A more fitting revenge would require time to think, and his head hurt too much anyway. He kept his eyes closed and relaxed as he waited for the headache to subside.

"You sure there's nobody else here? I don't want to have to tell the Boss he's gonna have to clean up after you again."

"No, no, um, I swear. Really." Spike could smell the old man's fear.

"Go wash something. Stay where I can see you." Two sets of footsteps, moving away and into the kitchen. The speaker lowered his voice, but not so much that Spike's vampiric hearing couldn't catch what he was saying. "All right. We've got two nights left before the ritual. That's got to happen on Thursday."

"Man, does it have to be? I met this chick--"

"It's the damn summer solstice. Shut up." The speaker cleared his throat. Spike took that opportunity to crawl to the end of the bar and peer around at the trio huddled in the corner. All of them were wearing hooded raincoats with the hoods covering their faces, including the tall one who was obviously the leader. Spike couldn't quite get a good look at him, but as he raised his hands, the symbols tattooed on his arms were clearly visible, even against the dark skin. This was getting interesting. "The Boss isn't pleased, boys. You nearly blew our cover."

"Hey, we got him prime meals!"

"Yeah, well, if he'd been able to just go after the winos, the cops wouldn't notice that." Tattooed Arms paused, his back still to the bar, lighting up a cigarette. "As it is, the cops found 'em both. And you know what else? One of the cops millin' around the alley was a damned seer. Had to clean up the area quick."

"Aw, shit, don't tell me you used the Orb of Daphnis!"

"I wouldn't have if you hadn't ruined everything. So you two will have to procure another one." He stubbed the cigarette out. "We still need the Codex. Travers didn't have it on him, and it wasn't in the back room."

"So what are we supposed to do, huh? Look it up on Amazon.com?" the shortest one demanded, chuckling. His laughter was cut short as Tattooed Arms punched him, sending him sprawling.

"No." He turned to the third, who had stood there in silence and who was now opening up a black satchel. "We send someone to sniff it out."

As he spoke, the silent one was retrieving objects from the satchel; some jars, a few bags of evil-smelling herbs. Spike raised an eyebrow as a small, squat statue was set on the table as well. He wasn't sure which one, but it looked like there was going to be a demon summoning.

Yes, this was definitely getting interesting.

Spike's vision finally stopped blurring by the time the three had set up their ritual and Tattooed Arms was starting to chant, letting loose a string of guttural syllables that sounded like he was choking on a live gerbil. (Spike had seen a Polgara demon try to swallow one whole on a dare, and it hadn't been pretty.) But if the pinkish smoke rising from the candles was any indication, the spell seemed to be working.

Now under better circumstances, Spike would have pounced from his hiding place and beat the stuffing out of the Three Amigos at this point. Unfortunately, all three were human, which meant that the chip would kick in if he tried anything, and he still had yet to sober up. The last time he got this smashed he'd had a spot of violence to clear his head, but unfortunately that wasn't an option here. Spike shook his head to clear it, wincing at the headache that would not go away. Whatever they summoned, maybe he'd be able to kick its ass.

"The hell?"

The bartender had emerged from the kitchen and was staring at the idol with horrified recognition. He obviously knew what they were up to, and he didn't like it. The other three paid him no attention, chanting madly away.

"You're not raising one of those things here! Not in my bar!" They continued to ignore him, and in one swift movement - the old geezer was faster than he looked - he snatched up a broom and swung it down onto the card table, striking the idol head-on and sending the candles, statue, and herbs to the floor. The idol hit the stone floor and cracked. With an unearthly howl, the smoke seemed to glow, and all four men were sent flying in all directions. The light and smoke dissipated.

Shorty was the first to get to his feet, a second before the bartender pulled himself up. "What the hell was that?"

"I said you could meet here," the old man snarled, holding the broom with both hands like a lightsaber. "I didn't say you could call up any of those little bastards in my bar! I'll take a manslaughter charge over that any day!"

"So, what? You're going to tattle on us?" Tattooed Arms was getting to his feet, glaring at the bartender. The quiet one was already standing; Spike hadn't heard him get up.

He did hear the click of a safety as Shorty pulled a gun from his coat. "No he's not."

"So what are we looking for?" Jake muttered as he followed Sara into the alley. "Another victim in the trash?"

"Just following a hunch." She reached the back entrance and turned the doorknob. Unsurprisingly enough, it was locked. "Unless you want to go back to writing reports."

"Point taken. Any idea how we're going to get a warrant? Probable cause?"

Before Sara could reply, an unmistakable bang could be heard, followed by muffled shouting. Sara unholstered her gun. "Sounds like probable cause to me."

As the bartender fell lifelessly to the floor, Tattooed Arms literally pounced on Shorty, lifting him up by the collar. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What? I cleaned up. He'd have gone to the cops if I didn't!"

Seeing that their attention was elsewhere, Spike edged towards the unmoving body to get a better look. The bullet had struck him in the forehead. He was dead before he hit the floor. Despite himself, Spike growled. He'd actually kind of liked the old guy; he was the type who actually listened, and he knew his whiskey.

But that wasn't the real reason behind his rage. He was totally helpless to do something. All three were human, and if he even tried to lay a hand on one of them he'd get a blinding headache for his trouble. So much for striking terror into anyone; he was cowering behind a bar hiding from a trio of two-bit punks.

He pushed himself up on his hands and knees. The hell with this. He was tired of hiding, tired of failing at even being a white hat. It wasn't what he'd come here for, but it was something.

"Freeze! Police!"

All heads turned towards the lady cop standing in the storeroom doorway, training a gun on the three conspirators. The man beside her was also armed and covering the three. Seeing no other option, Tattooed Arms and the quiet one lifted their hands in a gesture of surrender, and Shorty dropped his gun -

- and suddenly Shorty and Tattooed Arms were both holding guns. The cops dived to one side for cover, and the next thing Spike knew, he was crouching in the middle of an all-out shootout. Bullets wouldn't stop him, but they'd hurt like hell, and both the Three Stooges and the cops were between him and the exits.

Spike cursed under his breath and started crawling.

She couldn't see their faces beneath the hoods - not in the dim light of the bar - but Sara didn't need to see a face to know what the gun in the short one's hand meant. But she should have known it was too easy.

The second the short one dropped the gun, the air seemed to ripple, the change occurring in only a fraction of a second as the illusion dissipated. Instead of reaching for empty air, two of suspects were suddenly training guns on the two cops. The flow of time thickened and slowed, and before the bullets left the guns, Sara was already moving. She dived to one side, slamming into Jake as she returned fire, her momentum knocking both of them to the floor. The bullets ripped through the wall over their heads as the two cops hit the floor.

For once, Jake didn't hesitate or ask questions; he managed to knock over one of the tables, using it as cover. Their three assailants split up as Sara returned fire and ducked down again, reassessing the situation. The Witchblade was seething on her wrist, its heat a silent plea to be unleashed. Of course, Jake's presence made that tough.

Well, they weren't getting anywhere, and one of the two bodies lying by the bar was moving slightly. "Hey, rookie, I think we've got a live one. Cover me?"

He glanced over to where she was pointing, and nodded. Sara waited for the right moment, and when it seemed like she had a clear shot, she dived out from behind the table. Just as she started to move, one of the men pulled a tiny bottle from his pocket and threw it to the floor. As soon as it shattered, a white mist rose from the fragments and began to spread, seemingly filling the whole room. Sara cursed as the world around her was suddenly engulfed in fog and shadow.

She instinctively dropped to the floor, trying to make out the outlines of tables and chairs to navigate a path to the bar. But this was no ordinary fog - the faint outlines themselves were shifting and changing, as if the room was rearranging itself around her. Sara closed her eyes as the gauntlet formed over her hand, the Witchblade flaring to life.

When she opened them again, her perceptions were sharper. The fog was still there, but the room had ceased shifting. She instinctively rolled to the side behind a table to avoid the shots fired in her direction.

The short one was targeting her, and Sara lifted a gauntleted arm, deflecting the bullets harmlessly into the walls. The room was becoming clearer by the minute, and she began to realize where she was in relation to the three suspects and her partner. She was clear on the other side of the room from her objective; it was Jake who had somehow ended up by the bar. The unarmed one was cowering in a corner, and the tattooed one was coming up behind Jake. Sara shouted a warning, but it was drowned out by a gunshot. She dodged just in time, and Jake instinctively ducked for cover. But the tattooed one was almost upon him - the only reason Jake wasn't dead was because he hadn't been noticed yet.

The fog seemed to grow denser, as though it was trying to combat the Witchblade. Sara deflected another shot, her attention forced away from Jake. It seemed as though she was being fired on from several different directions, but she knew there was only one man shooting. Time slowed as she strove to anticipate each shot and pinpoint the shooter in the midst of the confusion.

There was a roar, and Sara spun, taking her attention off the two in the corner. She turned in time to see someone else literally leap up from behind the bar, clearing the counter easily and pouncing on top of the leader. The minute they hit the floor, Jake's would-be savior clutched his head in pain, rearing back and kicking the gun out of reach as he did so. "Bloody chip!"

"Hey!" came the short one's profound comment. "He's supposed to be dead!" Sara turned back and paused; the fog was starting to dissipate, but the unarmed man was no longer cowering in a corner. In fact, he was nowhere in sight.

The short one showed no such hesitation, taking the opportunity to find cover and fire off another round. Jake turned his attention away from the two men on the floor, and his savior made a break for the front door. The leader shouted something unintelligible, and their surroundings seemed to spin like a top, with Sara and Jake as the fulcrum. The next thing Sara knew, the two suspects were heading out the front door. Jake tore off after them, not waiting for her approval. Sara was about to follow him, but she stopped and turned back.

She was just in time to see the fourth man - the supposedly dead one who'd saved Jake - slipping out the back. "Hey!" Sara shouted, reversing course and charging after him.

She bolted into the back alley and stopped, looking around. There was no sign on him. Sara glanced down at the Witchblade. The gauntlet was still formed, and the red stone was flaring brightly, just the way it did before it gave her a vision.

Sara smiled.

June was a shitty month, Spike noted as he tore through a maze of alleyways, lunging from shadow to shadow. It wasn't the heat that bothered him - he didn't have a body temperature to worry about - but the fact that the sun was still out at eight p.m. The fortunate thing about the city was that there was plenty of shadow to conceal himself in, and enough to get away from a human cop. He doubled back to shake her off his trail, heading for the nearest manhole. Perhaps the Pit was still open.

He rounded the corner and was immediately slammed back against the wall by a metal glove. Caught off guard - by her timing and the gauntlet at his throat - Spike could only stare in shock into the green eyes of the lady cop who'd been chasing him. "Going somewhere?"

Jake burst out onto the street just as the two suspects were turning a corner. He charged after them, ignoring the looks he was getting from the few passersby as he darted into the alley, following the shadows through the streets. One of the men stopped to thoughtfully knock a trashcan into his path, but Jake was ready for it and jumped the obstacle just in time.

He ran a few blocks before he spotted them darting into a blind alley. Jake rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks. The alley was indeed a dead end - there was no possible exit - but there was no sign of the suspects.

Times like these called for a profound response, and Jake's said it all.

"Shit."

Sara couldn't help but smirk at the surprise in the blond man's eyes as she pinned him against the wall. She really couldn't blame him - he'd had one hell of a head start, and the only reason she'd caught him was because the Witchblade had showed her where he was going to be before he got there. "Going somewhere?"

He regained his cool fairly well. "Tryin' to find a gutter to pass out in. Piss off."

British accent. Interesting. She pulled out her gun, the metal fingers of the Witchblade tightening over his larynx. "Looks to me like you were running away from a murder scene."

He stared at her for a second more, and then started chuckling. "Oh, this is rich." Sara raised an eyebrow as he continued to laugh. "All I wanted was to get dead drunk. Not pass out and wake up with a bunch of pissants shooting up the place." He stopped laughing abruptly. "You know, I can't talk if you choke me like that."

"Well, the gun pointed at your head isn't working." Where the hell was Jake?

"Listen, lady--" He stopped, his gaze moving to one side. Sara glanced in that direction, but saw nothing but the last rays of sunshine bending into the alley, coming closer to the pool of shadow they were standing in. Her attention flickered back to the suspect, but he was still staring in that direction, positively unnerved. "I'd really love to stay and chat, but would you mind moving this elsewhere? A foot to the left, maybe?"

She tightened her grip again, not taking her eyes off of him. "We're not going anywhere until you start telling me the truth."

He opened his mouth - and let out a sudden howl of pain. His right hand had suddenly caught on fire. Shocked, Sara loosened her grip as the man jerked away from the sunlight, shaking his burning hand madly. His face shifted, changing to reveal yellow eyes and fangs as he grabbed her by the shoulders. Sara slashed at him with the Witchblade, but the blade seemed to falter, only grazing his side as he dodged her thrust. Reflexively, he shoved her away from him, sending her flying into a set of trashcans. As Sara hit the asphalt, the man clutched his head in pain again before turning and running away.

Dazed, Sara got to her feet, looking around, but he was already gone. She stared at the Witchblade. The small blade was still protruding from the gauntlet, the dark blood still glistening on the metal. The stone flared again as the vision overwhelmed her senses, a cascade of scenes flooding forth.

Snatches of several years flew by in seconds. Sara watched as a petite blonde, no older than sixteen or seventeen, handily fought off a vampire in an alley, plunging a stake through his heart.

As the vamp exploded into dust, Sara saw the blond man, watching from the shadows. She saw him fighting the girl, then fighting alongside her, betraying his own for love.

The Brit's voice. "Love isn't brains, children, it's blood... blood screaming inside you to work its will."

She saw his first love, trashing the poetry he wrote for her. "You're beneath me." She looked on as he fell into the embrace of a dark-haired beauty in an alley, spiriting her out of chaos only to have her turn away from him. The vision shifted as he turned to a young, naive girl with no substance to her at all, only to be rejected again.

"I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."

The scene changed to an underground lab, housing creatures of all kinds in small white cells, with men in white coats walking up and down the halls. Sara watched as the blond vampire lunged at a redheaded girl - and reared back in agony before his fangs can reach her neck.

She saw him huddled on a front stoop, gaunt and tired, a blanket shielding him from the sun.

"I'm saying that Spike had a little trip to the vet and now he doesn't chase the other puppies anymore. I can't bite anything. I can't even hit people."

She saw the blonde girl standing in her bedroom, preparing for bed. In the yard below, Spike watched her bedroom window, letting each cigarette burn. Sara saw him sit beside her on the back porch, comforting the blonde when he could have killed her.

A girl's voice. "Spike is completely in love with you."

The vision cut to a wooden chest, and Spike threw it open, revealing a cache of weapons: swords, axes, crossbows, stakes. The blonde came down the stairs, and he handed some to her. Preparing for battle.

"I'm counting on you ... to protect her."

"Till the end of the world. Even if that happens to be tonight."

Sara blinked as the alley reappeared. The vision had gone by in a blur, and it took her a few minutes to recall some of the images, much less make sense of them.

She made her way to the alley where the car was fortunately still waiting, unmolested. Jake was standing there, equally empty-handed. "No luck, rookie?"

Jake scowled, looking fairly frustrated. "They just - disappeared." He realized what he was saying and flinched, but then he noticed the absolute lack of skepticism in her eyes. "Maybe I was seeing things. I don't know."

"After the smoke-bomb trick they pulled back there, I don't think you were seeing things, Jake. Probably had more where that came from. We can figure out how later."

He relaxed, feeling somewhat heartened by her support. "Looks like you didn't do too well either."

"Yeah, and I've got the bruises to prove it." She massaged a sore shoulder, wincing as she felt the spot where his fingers had gripped just a little too hard. "You know we're going to have to explain this one to Dante." Jake groaned, echoing her feelings on that subject. "You mind calling this one in?"

He noticed her discomfort and nodded. "No problem, Pez."

After he'd called it in, they stood there for several minutes in silence before Sara spoke. "Hey, Jake? It's possible for someone's skin to burn when sunlight hits it, right?"

"Yeah, if they've got severe sun allergies," Jake replied. "Friend of mine back home had a really bad case; he'd get blisters all over the minute he got into the sun." He stopped himself before he could continue reminiscing. "Why?"

"So what do you call it when the guy's hand bursts into flame?"

Jake stared at her for a second, then shook his head. "Man, Dante's just going to love this."

Ian Nottingham was many things, most of which were thanks to Irons' desires. At the moment, he was Sara's protector more than anything else - and that was not entirely due to his master's wishes. Kenneth Irons or no Kenneth Irons, he would follow Sara Pezzini to the ends of the earth.

So when the blond man threw her away from him, Ian acted purely on instinct. As she hit the wall, he began to pounce - and checked himself immediately as the blond clutched his head in pain and howled. It wasn't an act; Ian knew enough about pain to recognize the real thing. As the blond turned and darted down the alley, Ian paused to make sure that Sara was all right. When she stood up and looked around, he turned and leapt to the next rooftop, heading in the direction the other man had gone. Sara didn't notice him; she was staring at the Witchblade, seeing something that fascinated her more.

He'd gone a block or so when he realized that he was not following an ordinary human. The blond was obviously drunk - Ian could smell the alcohol from the roof - but even so, he was keeping his lead.

The adrenaline was ebbing away, and in its wake Ian succumbed to curiosity. As part of his training - and part of his genetic engineering - he had learned to replay and analyze an opponent's behavior in the middle of battle. As he crossed the rooftops, he replayed the scene in his mind. The man was strong enough to throw Sara into a wall and to match his own speed even under the influence of alcohol. Yet all he'd done was to essentially shove Lady Sara away and run. The mere act of shoving her away seemed to cause him pain - literally.

And Sara had chosen not to pursue him. The Witchblade had not permitted it.

The revelation came out of nowhere, and nearly caused Ian to stumble. Sara had not merely been distracted. The Witchblade had seen fit to show her something to allow the blond man to run. The Witchblade had allowed her to strike at him and miss.

Part of Ian still wanted to swoop down on the man and make up for the Witchblade's change of heart, but he suspected that wouldn't do much good. Besides, if the Witchblade had spared him, the man was definitely worth watching.