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  "Um, ooh...penicillin." Willow sees the baffled looks she is getting and ploughs on. "During World War Two Peoria was the site of the first mass production of penicillin. The scientists hit on the idea of using the local corn steep liquor, which was plentiful, cheap, and excellent for growing mould fast. It led to a revolution in the treatment of infections."

"Not quite what I had in mind, Red."

"They have an annual pumpkin festival." Willow offers.

"Interesting," Xander mumbles through a mouthful of burger, "but I think we may be searching for something a little more demony."

"They could be evil pumpkins, bent on world domination through pie."

Xander reaches over to squeeze his best friend's shoulder. "Let it go Will."

"Okay, then I have nothing."

There is a loud explosion just outside in the parking lot. Willow drops her Dr. Pepper, fizzy liquid foaming all over the table. Buffy leaps to her feet and almost falls over Faith, who is moving with equal speed in an attempt to see what is happening. Xander starts choking on his fries. Giles reaches for the hold-all full of weapons he has left sitting next to his chair, and jumps perceptibly when another ear-splitting blast rings through the diner. This time the source of the noise is all too apparent. He stands momentarily immobile, staring, the school bus is burning, a shell of blackened metal wreathed in flames and smoke. A piece of shrapnel has embedded itself in the wall a foot away from his head. "Oh bugger." Giles murmurs to no one in particular. Vi and Rona already have their stakes out, commendable, though he doubts they will be much use in the present circumstances. Andrew is clearly trying to decide whether to hide or stand his ground; and Dawn is using language he would never have believed she knew; Kennedy looks impressed.

The sleepy Sunday afternoon diner is descending into chaos. Some sections of the room have been sprayed with broken glass and shrapnel. At least two patrons are down and bleeding. The air is beginning to fill with acrid smoke. People are milling about like passengers on the Titanic, yelling in panic and confusion as they rush for the door. A plump middle-aged woman is screaming and clinging to her large, fluffy purse as if it were a lifejacket; she makes for the exit and narrowly escapes being run down as a leather clad demon on a motorcycle comes crashing through the door and skids to a halt in the centre of the room. He is followed by four equally ugly companions, also dressed head to foot in scuffed black leathers; their tattooed and multiply pierced faces looking like pink wax that has been left out too long in the sun. Hellions -- well that's simply marvellous. Giles makes to put on his glasses, and realizes he's already wearing them. The few patrons who have not made it to safety stare in horror and disbelief. One of the demons, the one wearing crocodile skin boots, grabs the, now cowering, woman, easily holding her with one hand around her neck. His message is clear -- make a move and this bitch loses her head.

"Told you I had a bad feeling about this," Buffy mutters accusingly, pulling an engraved Byzantine hand-axe out of the weapons bag and taking a step towards the intruders. Her own bag, the one with the Scythe in it, the one she always has with her, except now of course, is in the former bus. Buffy is pretty sure the Scythe can take care of itself, but she would feel a whole lot better about this situation if she was holding it. She is aware of the rest of the gang ranged behind her, ready to charge as soon as she says the word.

Croc gives his captive's neck a warning squeeze, rubs his free hand down his pants leg and leers at Buffy. "Crevecour said you'd be here. That dude is never wrong."

"In case you haven't noticed -- hello! You're in a room full of majorly pissed Slayers, and an extremely powerful witch. You just blew up our bus and rudely interrupted our lunch. Looks like you're about to go violently, painfully and permanently into 'that good night.'"

It's taking all Faith's hard won self-control to keep from hurling herself bodily at the row of demons to see if they'll go down like bowling pins. What the hell is Buffy waiting for? Okay, there's a hostage, but standing around making small talk isn't going to help. She hears Willow begin whispering what she assumes is an incantation in Latin, or some other language that's useless unless you want to suck the world into Hell or turn your ex into a mongoose. Maybe that's the plan, a gang of mongooses shouldn't be too hard to defeat.

The demon laughs, a strange gurgling laugh. "We do not fear you. Crevecour has shown us the Truth. Crevecour has shown us the Way."

Faith snorts and adjusts her grip on her knife. "Great, that's all we need, Born Again Demons; wonder if they take time out from their busy schedule of rape and pillage to go door-stepping." She lowers her voice. "There are only five; we can take them, easy." This seems to amuse Croc; he shrugs, flings his hostage aside and pulls two semi-automatic shotguns out of his jacket. His friends follow suit, they are all heavily armed. As they open fire Faith flings herself to the ground behind an over turned metal table, Buffy hits the floor beside her, and a second later Xander slides along the ground hanging onto Willow like he's scoring a touchdown. It's a second too late. Will is lying on her back, with Xander half covering her but Faith can see a pool of blood already forming under her shoulder. "Willow -- you still with us?"

Willow draws in her breath through clenched teeth. "I think my wiggins just had wigglets; and also...ow!" She closes her eyes. Tara. So this is what a bullet, a real bullet, feels like, Tara...

Xander gazes appealingly at his friend. "Just hang in there Will, I'm going to get you out of here; somehow -- Will?"

"Xander," Buffy says trying to keep the edge of panic out of her voice, "give me your shirt."

Your shirt...Tara...please don't leave me...

"We need to try and stop the bleeding -- Now!"

Xander begins struggling out of his loud Hawaiian shirt, repeating. "Gonna get you out of here."

Willow opens her eyes, trying not to scream with pain, trying to focus. "No, you're not. I'm not going anywhere, I have to stay, and anyway I, er, I think we're trapped. Much as I...much as I love you I don't fancy doing a Butch and Sundance into a hail of bullets just yet." She puts on her resolve face. "Fight now, pass out later."

Giles, Dawn and Kennedy are crouching behind a bench, bullets whizzing through the air just above their heads. "This is precisely why I always said there should be stricter gun laws in this godforsaken country," Giles hisses, "but oh no, we must not infringe the rights of the citizen to bear arms; bloody Americans."

A bullet bursts through the back of the bench narrowly missing Dawn's arm. She grasps Giles' sleeve for comfort. "I totally agree but I think this would count as a flawed example. I mean demons -- not strictly citizens; and anyway..."

"I hate to interrupt this potentially fascinating debate," Kennedy breaks in sharply, "but do you think we can save it for after we don't die." She scans the room. "Do you guys know where Sanna is? And why is Xander doing the full Monty? Oh God...Will." She flattens herself to the ground and wriggles towards the place where Xander is hunched over Willow's terribly still body; past Andrew, Rona and Vi, who are behind another bench, bunched protectively around a terrified young couple and their little boy; past a less lucky customer lying twisted over a chair with what's left of her face covered in blood. She is nearly at Will's feet when the shooting stops abruptly.

Kennedy can hear the demons laughing as they admire the results of catching up with modern technology. One of them is shouting for the Slayers to come out and die, when Sanna comes hurtling out of the restroom behind them, she must have been in there the whole time, waiting for her chance. She grabs a fork from the counter and, without slowing down at all, sweeps the nearest demon's legs out from under him with a low spinning kick and, as he lands on his back, rams the improvised weapon into his eye. He howls with rage and pain, trying unsuccessfully to pull the fork out. Faith and Buffy are rushing forward, with Vi following, and Sanna is rolling away when the gunfire starts up again. Kennedy sees Croc take aim and the spray of blood as Sanna's thin body is riddled with bullets. The momentum carries her forward, a whirl of dirty blond hair and flailing limbs, until she crashes into a table. She jerks as another bullet hits her in the stomach; then lies still.

Dio mio. Merda! Merda, merda, this isn't how we were meant to end this trip. Kennedy finds she is rising to her feet, fully expecting the next bullet will be monogrammed especially for her, when suddenly the demon's weapons glow white-hot. There is a smell of singeing flesh and they drop their guns, stunned and cursing. A spell; must have been Will, must have been -- she's still alive.

Giles peers cautiously round the bench in time to see Kennedy wrestle one of the Hellions to the ground, and disappear from view.

Croc is clutching his scorched hands under his arm pits as Faith lunges at him, growling low in her throat. She knees him in the crotch and, as he recoils, follows through with a head-butt. He swings a punch at her but she ducks and, before he can regain his balance, stabs him in the gut, twists her knife, and yanks it upwards through his chest with such force it breaks through his ribs and back out again.

Vi has One-eye in a headlock and is attempting to snap his neck, while Buffy tackles his two remaining companions. She is moving so fast that the punches they are throwing look like an absurd display of air-swimming. As the demons take another furious swing at her she ducks at the very last moment, and slips out from between them so that they smash into each other. Turning in one easy movement she decapitates one with her axe as he groggily tries to get to his feet, and dodges as the other Hellion lurches at her with a long bladed knife. She smacks it out of his hand with a high kick and, as it clatters to the floor, backhands him into the counter and buries her axe in his forehead. A high pitched yell, and Kennedy wriggles out from underneath her deceased opponent and kneels beside him, looking blood stained and grimly triumphant. Vi lets go of One-eye's now limp body and stands up to survey the wreckage of the diner. Her voice is shaking as she says "Do you think they'll make us pay for all this?"

There is a satisfying crunch of breaking glass as Faith puts her fist through the window of an old blue Chevy parked at the side of the Double Meat Palace. She is still so buzzed on adrenaline she doesn't even feel a scalpel-sharp fragment slice across her knuckles. She quickly unlocks the door, pulls it open, sweeps the driver's seat clear and slides behind the wheel.

Things are so crazy inside the diner she's sure no one saw her leave. She's not entirely sure she's here herself, after all isn't she a good little Slayer now? Shouldn't she be back inside helping her almost friends, and B, deal with the mess instead of running away, again? Skipping town before the medics and the cops show up to body bag the victims, punish evildoers and keep the righteous safe...from people like her. 'Gee, you look mighty familiar girl, aren't you that escaped murderer we've been a huntin' for?'

You ain't going back to jail, no way, not now, not ever; and anyway, the Scoobies are probably better off without you. Always were.

Faith's hands are sweating as she rips out the plastic covering under the steering wheel and gropes for the cool metal of the ignition barrel. She feels her way along it and tugs out the four wires at the end. Okay, get a grip. It's been a while but some things you never forget, right? Like the first night you spend in a Salvation Army hostel, when your mom has the DTs so bad she's seeing things and won't stop screaming. Or the first time you wake up naked on a motel room floor with some stinking prick snoring in the bed, and you're so wasted you can't remember how the fuck you got there, who he is, or why you're bleeding. Or the first time a kiss really means something, and you're so stupidly happy and so scared you think you're gonna die right there. Or how it feels the first time you kill someone. Shit -- this is all wrong. Faith tears apart the tangle of wires she has been trying to connect and starts again. The look on B's face the night she tries to gut you with your own knife. Thunder rumbles directly overhead, there is a brilliant flash of lightening and, as if on cue, the first drops of rain begin spattering on the dusty windshield. Kneeling in a filthy alley begging Angel to just kill you. Faith bites her lip and touches the one free wire she's holding to the three she has joined together. This time the car engine sputters and then starts turning over steadily. This is it, your chance to get out. Away; from her; from all of it. Leave it in a trail of dust. But go where? Anywhere. Just go. Jesus Christ, just go! You can keep on driving until you disappear off the edge of the world. But then what, genius? It's only trading one kind of prison for another.

I could have been in France right now, Buffy thinks as she moves around the diner, trying to gauge the damage -- two dead, four seriously injured, much random destruction of property -- if I had taken Giles' advice and gone on that well earned vacation I could have been sitting in a sophisticated little cafe in Paris, with Dawn, eating calorific pastries, talking about things of no importance and watching the people go by. But I can't leave. My ghosts, those silent, accusing ghosts that even Will has no sure explanation for, won't let me. Buffy looks over to the bench where Willow is sitting; the shirt bound around her left shoulder is a sodden, red mess and her face is ashen but, as she meets her friend's gaze, there is a fierce light in her eyes. Xander and Kennedy are with her, her bodyguards, they look almost as white as she does.

"The ambulance should be here, what the hell is taking them so long?" Buffy turns furiously to Giles as if it's somehow his responsibility. She knows it's ridiculous, unfair, childish, but she desperately wants him to make all this go away. They closed the Hellmouth; shouldn't that mean life starts getting at least a little easier, a little less, well, deathly, rather than going all Tarantino on them? He shrugs helplessly and continues trying to prevent Sanna from bleeding to death all over the linoleum. Dawn is kneeling beside them, mute, despondent; Buffy wants to comfort her, but any words of comfort would feel like a lie right now.

"Heads up B!" Buffy whirls round to see Faith marching through the door. "I found us some wheels, time to blow." She stops beside Sanna, staring at her, her boots touching the edge of the bloody puddle that has formed around the unconscious girl. "Sonofabitch!"

"Faith, what the hell are you talking about?"

Faith looks briefly angry, then perplexed. "Okay, the way I see it we have work to do; a Slayer to find, an evil, bloodsucking son of a bitch to turn into kitty-litter, and we can't do that if we stay here, so I found us some transport. Now let's move; I've got room for three."

Buffy folds her arms and asks wearily. "Stolen?"

"Borrowed, stolen, yeah, whatever. Jeez, should I have tried to get us a rental? Or maybe hailed one of those real convenient non-existent cabs out there?"

"I...no, I don't know, but this isn't the way."

"Why?"

Buffy shrugs, frustrated, disappointed. "Because it's wrong."

"Hmm. Plus, I had to off a couple of guys to get the car, probably shouldn'ta done that either."

"Faith," Buffy says, quietly warning.

"Kidding." Faith begins to raise her hands in a, 'I'll come quietly officer' pose, then changes her mind and reaches for Buffy. "Look, I'm sorry." She feels like if she can just touch her it will make things alright. It will cancel out petty stuff like grand theft auto, and nearly running away again; she can be one of the good guys and -- Buffy bats her hand away like it's a roach.

"Don't."

Stupid. She will only ever see you as a killer. Faith clenches the hurt into her fists until her nails slice into her palms, and resists the urge to punch the self-righteous little bitch. "Shit, we can wrassle this out later. Now come on, this place is gonna be swarming with cops any second, and I'm not really in the mood for playing twenty questions. If you had any sense you would be out of here by now -- I thought speed was of the fucking essence!"

"You stole a car!"

"Er, yeah, again, I guess so. What are they gonna do B -- arrest me?" Faith's lips curl back in a feral grin.

Willow rises shakily to her feet, and still flanked by Xander and Kennedy, joins the rest of the group, who are now circled around Buffy and Faith's little tete-a-tete. "She's right. We need to get to Peoria, speedy is good, and somehow I don't think the bus is going anywhere anytime soon."

"We? Will, have you gone completely insane? You can barely stand up, there is no way I'm putting you in anymore danger...today at least." Buffy's voice is steady but she has to blink back tears.

Xander raises his hand. "I second that motion."

"Me too," Kennedy says, putting her arm carefully around Willow's waist and scowling at Faith.

"Hey, since when have any of you been the boss of me?" Willow winces sharply as burning pain shoots down the length of her arm, and waits a moment for the room to stop spinning. "I'm good to go, really. And if this Crevecour is as powerful as the book says, I'm guessing you might need a witch on your side to help kick his un-dead ass." Admittedly a witch who feels like she has about enough mojo to float a toothpick at present. "No arguments. I'm going with you. Okay?"

Buffy shakes her head; she knows there is no reasoning with Willow when she's in this mood. "Fine. Then we have room for one more."

"Will goes -- I go," Kennedy states; looking subdued.

For a beat no one speaks, no one moves; the room is filled with the clamour of all those thoughts and feelings there is no time left to express. Then the sound of distant sirens cuts through the stillness. Buffy pulls Dawn into a quick embrace, then grabs the weapons bag from under an over turned table. "Xander, I'll call your cell phone when we're done, and we can figure out where to regroup." She surveys the motley band of Scoobies and Slayers standing uncertainly in the destruction that seems to follow them wherever they go; and all she can manage to say is, "Be safe."



June 1st 2003. Peoria. Illinois.

Zoe Jane...Zoe Jane...I know that name is familiar...something...Zoe Jane, something, something...follow the yellow brick road...I need to find her...there's no place like home...no place like...I'm floating somewhere inside my head...my head, oh God...and there's no sight just snow...jingle bells, Santa smells...snow like a TV screen that's not tuned in to anything...she...I...we read once that that's the energy from the Big Bang still playing on a TV near you...roll up, roll up for the beginning of everything...end of everything...same dif...Zoe Jane...that's me.

One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing.

The sun sets, and Mom sighs and turns away from the last red glow in the sky; from me still standing out in the shadows of our backyard. It's drizzling again but I don't want to go inside, don't want to stop watching until all the light is gone.

You're gonna spread your wings and take to the sky.

Knock, knock. Who's there? Paulie. Paulie who? Just Paulie. Do you wanna come in? How about you come out? Mom nodding, 'Go' and turning back to the TV. Where...where have you been? Needed time to think. Lot of big stuff. Plus feeling kinda dead y'know. His skin looks faded. His lips are so cold on my mouth.

Until that morning nothing's gonna harm you child.

His bootlace is trailing he trips and squats down to re-tie it. I smile -- what a klutz. A van with blacked out windows glides by. Someone just walked over my grave. The monsters, the things from the dark are here -- so many, we're surrounded. They close in. I know I have to fight. Oh God -- Paulie run! Yeah, but why would I want to do that? Paulie, what's wrong with your face?

My nightlight is burning. I'm burrowed under my bedcovers holding tight to Mr. Oinkle. Daddy is mad at me for waking them up again; but Mom is sitting here singing to me 'cause I had a bad dream, and it helps sometimes if she sings. It's nearly morning and then I'll be safe. Not long, and I'll be safe. I'll be safe.

So hush now baby, don't you cry.



It's like being in a movie, Willow thinks hazily as she watches the multi-coloured reflections of Peoria's lights sliding across the car windows. Street lights, headlights, an illuminated restaurant sign, blurring together in the rain. Everything outside her seems to be happening in slow motion, abstractly beautiful, strangely distant. Only a few things seem real; the acute pain in her shoulder, wrapped in the packing and fresh bandages they grabbed in a 'middle of nowhere' drugstore; her tenuous connection with the Earth moving beneath her as she tries to draw healing energy into her body; and the feeling of foreboding, which intensifies with every mile they travel towards this new Slayer, until it is practically drowning out everything else.

The high-pitched ringing of Buffy's cell phone seems obscenely loud. "Giles...what? Giles, are you okay? Oh...oh God." She hunches down lower in her seat, wishing she could be some place private. "Huh...yeah, of course...thanks, for...for letting me know." She hangs up and carefully slides the phone back into her jeans' pocket.

Faith looks worried, she slips a gear abruptly and the car jerks in protest. "Hey, don't keep us in suspense -- what's the sitch?"

"Sanna." Buffy pauses, and starts again. "Sanna never woke up." She feels like the words are choking her. "She died an hour ago. Giles thought we would want to know." Just one more casualty in this endless war -- right? Just one more anonymous blip vanishing off the radar screen as if she had never even been there - right. Right?

Kennedy starts swearing profusely in Italian, under her breath, then notices Willow, still staring out of the window, has begun crying quietly, and takes hold of her hand.

Faith makes a dangerously sharp left turn down a side street, and narrowly avoids a truck coming in the opposite direction. Buffy is hanging onto her seat. "Y'know, I think we're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm going the direction Red told me," Faith says flooring the gas pedal.

Buffy tries again. "Shit, I mean I think this is a one way street!"

Kennedy is swearing earnestly, in English this time.

Faith lets out a harsh laugh and swerves hard, missing a head-on collision with an old, black Mini, by inches. "Yeah, and I'm going one way."

This is so not good, Buffy thinks. "Faith -- please!"

Suddenly Faith pulls over to the side of the road and slams on the breaks. She is breathing hard and gripping the steering wheel like she hates it and wants it dead. Buffy is preparing to launch into a tirade about how she's still a stupid, irresponsible, self-centred, murderous, worthless, psychotic bitch; when she notices the other Slayer is shaking, and instead simply says, "Faith?" There is no response, only the low rumble of the car engine idling. She reaches out tentatively and lays her hand on the back of Faith's neck, feels her jump slightly at the unexpected touch; then her breathing becoming more even as Buffy strokes her long, tangled hair. Finally, she lets go of the wheel, and shakes her head as if she's just waking up. Buffy finds she's almost reluctant to stop touching Faith; but her mind does not want to accept that particular confusing piece of information at present. She unbuckles her seatbelt. "We have to get moving -- I'll drive."



Well, what strange girls. Sarah Marquette plumps up the sofa cushions and settles back down in front of the TV. She stares at the screen, just snow, snow, snow on every channel, it must be broken. She clicks the off switch and stands up, paces to the window and pulls back the curtain. Whoever they were they are definitely gone now.

Sarah had answered the door expecting to find Zoe Jane there -- she always forgets her key -- but instead she was confronted with four dishevelled young women standing in the warm Summer rain; dirty and bloodstained, looking as if they had just escaped from some institution. They seemed so entirely out of place in her good, safe, suburban neighbourhood, that she was more than a little alarmed; after all, you hear such awful stories. She was preparing to shut the door on them when the thin blond girl, the one who could have been a cheerleader once, in another lifetime, smiled at her, and that innocent, sad smile was so oddly reassuring that she relented and asked. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry to bother you so late, we were looking for Zoe Jane Marquette. We...um...we really need to talk to her if possible. This is the right house isn't it?" The blond girl turned slightly to glance at one of her friends, a rather dazed and angry looking redhead with her arm in a sling. She nodded solemnly in reply.

Oh God what has she done? I mean look at these people. She is in a gang isn't she! "She isn't home. Maybe I could take a message, ask her to call you? Are you friends of hers?"

Sarah noticed the injured girl had closed her eyes and begun mumbling to herself, swaying gently. Probably a few cookies short of a bake sale that one; poor kid.

The dark woman standing just at the edge of the light from the porch flicked away her cigarette butt, then put her hand on the doorframe and leaned in. "Maybe you could tell us where she went." She looked so young, well, a lot of folks do once you pass the big four o, but she had the most intense eyes Sarah had ever seen; she found having them fixed on her was decidedly unnerving and took an involuntary step backwards. "Or maybe..."

"Faith, I'll handle this. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself, I'm Buffy the -- I'm Buffy. These are my friends, and no, we don't know your daughter directly but we do have some news for her, and we've come a long way to deliver it. It's kinda important, and it's kinda urgent, so if you could tell us where we can find her it would really help us...and her. Please."

Sarah hesitated, unsure what to do. The anxiety and frustration emanating from the band of girls in front of her felt so thick in the air she could have touched it. It made her nervous, made her wish they would just go away and leave her to her quiet Sunday evening. Finally she drew in a deep breath, smoothed her hands down the skirt of her blue cotton dress and said, in a voice she hoped was authoritative. "It is getting rather late, why don't you all come back tomorrow evening, about six, and we can discuss whatever is going on properly then."

Buffy sagged slightly, and began again. "I understand this must all seem pretty weird. I mean we don't usually look like...the thing is we...it's been a rough day, but I promise you that we only want to help."

Sarah thought the last word came out sounding almost strangled. This girl standing, dripping wet on her doorstep; suddenly seemed so hurt, so lost, in some unfathomable way so like her Zoe Jane; that she was on the verge of inviting Buffy in, against her better judgement. Then her red haired friend cried out, and would have fallen if the diminutive young woman beside her hadn't caught hold of her with surprising speed and strength. For a second Sarah felt a surge of panic; when it passed she could just make out the last few words the red haired girl whispered to Buffy. "We have to. No time left to lose."

They left hurriedly. Piled into their battered old car and sped down the empty, tree-lined street, and out of sight, but not out of mind.

Yes, what strange girls. Sarah Marquette shakes her head as if trying to clear it of the memory and picks up the phone to call Paulie's house. It is time Zoe Jane was home.



Mildew, candle wax, incense, fresh blood and fear, the scents one will find in any church that Crevecour chooses to attend. Even after three centuries as a vampire he still finds the aroma of terrified human intoxicating; it evokes so many fond memories, promises so many pleasures. He allows himself a brief, nostalgic smile, as he finishes draining the pretty young pastor and flings his lifeless body aside. But he has no time for wallowing in past glories tonight, instead he must focus on the triumph to come, the fulfilment of his most cherished dreams.

Crevecour finds it hard to believe that Zoe Jane, this gangly girl, his followers left lying bound and drugged unconscious on the altar beside the ravaged head of his Lady, is the one he has sought for so long; the vessel who will free Isabelle. He has failed bitterly twice before. But this time he knows with absolute certainty that everything is right, the time, the place, the subject, and he will not fail again. The girl is no beauty, plain even, yet with her red-gold hair fanned out around her head she resembles nothing so much as a painting of Ophelia he saw once in London. The artist had captured her at the moment just before she sank beneath the surface of the stream. Skirts bloated with water, floating wild flowers surrounding her; the perfect tragic heroine. Only the look of pained acceptance on her face was all wrong, wrong for someone about to drown. He had laughed so loudly they had asked him to leave the gallery; the next day he was still picking the gristly owner out of his teeth.

As he begins casting the circle for his working, Isabelle lets out a high, keening cry; and when he turns to her there are bloody tears welling from her whitened eyes. He strokes her cheek. "Soon my love you will have a body again. Look, I found her for you just as I promised; and when you are made whole we will reign together forever." And what a body, he thinks, a Slayer, to make a Slayer one of his own, it is too perfect an irony. She was not easy to catch. Sebastian is still limping. Pivo has lost two fingers and a good deal of hair; and the new boy, Paulie, has deep scratches running down both sides of his face, yet he looks exultant. He has potential, that one. Buffy and her followers are coming to the rescue, his Lady warned him of as much. But even if his demon lackeys haven't reduced them to ugly red stains on the ground, he is confident they will be too late to stop him. After all, as it has been spoken so shall it be; and anyway, he has raised a barrier spell around the church. In the unlikely event that it fails, two dozen, or more, of his cult are attending him tonight, ready to live or die at his command, the numbers are to his advantage. He finishes his casting then stops to gather his thoughts, singing all the while to soothe Isabelle. "There's a place for us, a time and a place for us..." It helps sometimes when he sings.

It is time. The planets are in alignment, and the power of this place is rising, he can feel it stinging the soles of his feet through his white leather boots. Crevecour picks up the little wax poppets he spent the afternoon crafting with such care, one of his Lady and one of Zoe Jane, and begins binding them together with a silken thread, dyed dirty red with the blood of a moon old cuckoo. As he binds he chants in a cracked monotone.



"The Powerhouse Church of God in Christ," Faith announces loudly, reading the sign in a mock 'TV evangelist' voice. "Hallelujah. I'm saved."

Buffy stops the car and stares across the deserted street. In spite of the cheesy name, the large square, sandstone building seems friendly, almost inviting. The kind of joint Riley would have rolled up to dressed in his Sunday best, back in the day. Maybe he still attends; maybe he finds comfort waiting for him there among the flock. Buffy hopes so. Heaven is lost to her, and though the tearing pain of separation has faded, it never quite goes away; misery, she has discovered, has infinite variations. Sometimes she wonders if it would have been better to forget. As it is, this too sharp, too bright, too violent world will always be a place of exile. She imagines the church pews packed with families, brim full of belief and righteousness; a gospel choir warming up inside; normal, safe, maybe even happy. That can't be good. She can hear the low, chugging growl of a ship's engine passing somewhere nearby, and the slap of the wake against the quayside. The Illinois River must be very close. She briefly presses the heel of her hand to the place between her eyes, where a slow ache is starting to throb; then twists round to look at Willow, slumped against Kennedy on the back seat. "Is this it?"

"Yu-huh." Willow closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again and nods decisively. "This is it; and judging by the party Crevecour threw for us this afternoon, I'd guess there's quite a reception committee waiting for us in there."

"So, we should go mingle; enjoy the canapes," Kennedy says humourlessly, pulling a crossbow out of the weapons bag.

"We go in hard and fast," Buffy says, grabbing an axe and climbing out of the car; rapidly followed by the rest of the gang. "Our priority is to reach Zoe Jane. Faith and I can take the lead and try to deal with whatever nasties are in there, while Will distracts Mr. Magic until we can dust him. Kennedy, you watch her back; and --"

Faith slides across the hood of the car and hops down beside Buffy. "We rescue the girl, stake the bad guys, and go for pizza -- sounds like a plan." She points at the double doors on the side of the church nearest to them. "Count of three?"

"One," Buffy begins. She wonders if Faith will actually wait for the count; her barely contained violence feels like static in the air around her. It's making the fine hairs on Buffy's arms rise. "Two."

Willow is trying to focus, there is something, an odd shimmer that starts at the sidewalk a few feet away from them. She blinks rapidly. It is getting hard to keep her brain functioning on any level above basic survival. She knows her blood pressure must have dropped through the floor, and she's incredibly thirsty, soon she'll be hallucinating giant size Slushies. Come on noggin, do your thing. That shimmer is familiar, but why? Oh hell. "Wait! There's a --"

"Three."

Faith takes off like a greyhound out of the traps, with Buffy just behind her. At Willow's cry, Buffy stops dead, but Faith is moving too fast. A second later there is a noise like a moth hitting an ultraviolet insect zapper, amplified a hundred times; a bluish flash, and Faith goes flying. She lands on her back on the opposite side of the road.

"-- barrier spell," Willow finishes lamely.

"You don't say," Faith mutters, picking herself up of the asphalt, with difficulty, and limping over to lean on the car. Her clothes are steaming slightly.

Willow gives Faith a worried, apologetic look. "Are, are you okay. I mean, how bad..."

"Don't sweat it Red -- stings like a bitch, but I'll live."

Buffy lets out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and turns away. She stands at the edge of the sidewalk, and pokes the invisible barrier with her finger. There is another, smaller, crackle, and she draws back sharply. "Can you break through it Will?"

"I'll do my best, but it could take a while. Disabling a spell like this is, um, well it's not unlike trying to pick a lock with a wet noodle. Not that I've ever...never mind."



In the beginning, the void. Then the Word. Then the world. Then Isabelle -- always.

Crevecour continues to chant his spell, so simple, innocent, like a children's rhyme.

Great Hecate, hear my plea. Pluck the kernels from their shells.

But in his experience, sometimes the vilest poison can be found in the guise of innocence; an apple, a garden, a beautiful woman; or a girl, standing radiant in the light of an autumn evening, so long ago. It's a delightful conceit; one that cost him his soul years before he became a vampire.

Make it now their destiny, each in the other's place to dwell.

He can sense a shift beginning. The little wax poppets he is clutching are beginning to heat and meld, and as they do he can feel the essences of Isabelle and Zoe Jane are loosening in their skins. Soon they will wrench free, briefly pass each other travelling through the ether, and through him, changing partners in a ghostly dance, and when the music stops they will find themselves remade in another's image. An egg hatched in another bird's nest.

So close now, Crevecour's heart would leap, if it still could. Instead he freezes, there is a disturbance outside, someone is tampering with his barrier; it is weakening, disintegrating. No, this is unacceptable, it will not break. He is confident that there are few adept enough in magic to even dent it. He returns his full concentration to the spell.

Great Hecate, hear my plea.

There is a resounding crash from the right of the church, probably the oak of the doors splitting, followed by a clamour of shouts and curses from the group of vampires stationed there.

Pluck the kernels...

Crevecour feels the first flush of rage rising in him. It appears the Slayers have arrived, and brought a powerful witch with them. Their timing is impeccably bad, but he will not allow himself to be distracted. He is the master here, and it is his prerogative to ignore such minor annoyances. His followers are well seasoned and loyal; they can be trusted to deal with the intruders. He must think only of his beloved, trembling at the brink of freedom; his body touching hers once more. How he will sire her, teach her. How they will hunt and feed and glory in destruction across time and continents; their skins painted red with the blood of the kill; feared and worshipped by all.

...their destiny

He sees Pivo racing down the centre isle, leading a small group of vampires to join the melee at the side door. He is grinning like a gargoyle as a crossbow bolt hits him in the chest and he explodes into dust. A second bolt wings by Crevecour at the level where his heart should be. It misses him completely and clatters ineffectually against the wall. He snorts; these children have no idea who they are dealing with if they think he will be that easy to kill; he has survived this long by becoming a creature of many tricks and deceptions.

Each in the other's place to dwell.

The Slayers have broken through the line, and the fighting has erupted into the church around him. Crevecour had hoped it would take them longer. He lowers his head, as he used to when he prayed, and stands his ground. For a moment he is half afraid this disruption will thwart his plans, that he will fail Isabelle yet again; it's like the bitter taste of bile in his throat. He will not fail. He cannot fail. And with that thought the spell peaks, and Crevecour, acting as the conduit, feels the prickling surge of torn spirits passing through him. A sudden blur of noise and unfamiliar emotions filling him until he thinks he will split at the seams; followed by an equally sudden and painful emptiness as they leave him. He looks down at the wax poppets gripped in his hands and realizes, with a start, they have passed right through each other and changed places.

He has not failed.

He stares at the body of the girl on the altar, darkly joyful -- he truly can do anything. His will is all, and God is nothing; a pathetic blister on the consciousness of humankind; one more thing that can no longer hurt him. His love is returning to him and all will be well, all manner of things will be well.

Faith has been itching for a fight like this. She got separated from B and the others as soon as they broke into the main body of the church, but that's okay, they all know what they have to do. There are five vamps circling her, weaving, swiping, trying to reach her, rip her to shreds, and she feels more alive than she has done in days. She has fallen into a familiar rhythm of punch, block, kick, block, jab, duck; that is almost too fast for thoughts. All she needs is a driving Industrial beat in her ears and she could be dancing. She catches a glimpse of a girl lying on the altar, Zoe Jane, and a tall figure, Mr. Crevecour she presumes, bending over her -- the target. But before she can get a better view, a vamp, who bares an uncanny resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger, smashes his fist into the side of her skull, then seems to hesitate for a second waiting for a reaction, for her to crumple up whimpering. 'Cause, hey, he's such a big, macho piece of undead beef and you're just a little girl. Chump. Faith smiles sweetly as she stakes him; then lets out a battle roar and dives through the drifting cloud of dust before his friends have time to close the gap.

Three strides and she's on the altar steps, her blood is rising, singing in her veins. Crevecour turns to meet her; he's still wearing his human face, looking smug; his fingers steepled, the tips pressed to his lips. Faith experiences a millisecond of doubt -- human? No, she's made that mistake before, learned from it, and all her senses are screaming pure vampire; if for his dress sense alone. This sonofabitch is toast. She lunges at him, but for some reason she finds it hard to gauge his distance accurately, he isn't where he should be and her fists meet thin air. She follows up with a snap kick, and misjudges again -- nothing there. Shit. This isn't funny. Either you're wrecked out of your gourd, or this is magic. Fucking magic. Where the hell is Red when you need her?

"Come now," Crevcour says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, "once the Slayer was a creature to be feared. I met her in Rumania, a formidable opponent, quite delicious. Surely you must be able to do better than that. I am disappointed in you."

Faith glances at the girl, Zoe Jane, and wonders if she could get to her. She sees B out of the corner of her eye, ploughing her way through a solid wall of vamps, fighting like she's possessed by a pack of wildcats. She's clearly trying to reach them, but she gets dragged back and disappears into the crush of bodies.

Faith's mouth has gone dry. She swallows, and gestures casually with her stake. "Don't fret lover, I'm just gettin' warmed up." With that she closes the distance between Crevecour and herself in one easy leap and rams the stake into his chest with all her might; except his chest isn't there of course. Faith feels him grab her right arm, the one she's leading with, and twist it out to the side as he steps behind her and palm strikes her in the back of the shoulder with huge force. A sudden keen pain as her shoulder dislocates, and she loses her balance and falls forward, landing unceremoniously on her face. Her arm will not move. She scrabbles franticly to regain her stake with her good hand.

Crevecour's boots appear abruptly in Faith's line of vision, she rolls away but he kicks her in the jaw so hard it flips her onto her back and makes her teeth rattle. Faith dazedly thinks it's like she rolled towards his foot instead of away from it. His voice is drenched with sarcasm. "Good show, but I think we should probably call it a day, frankly it is starting to become -- how shall I put this? -- embarrassing." He stamps on her exposed stomach and she doubles up, winded. She is going to kill this motherfucker so dead, just as soon as she can breathe. She struggles onto her hand and knees and considers trying to head-butt the bastard in the nuts.

"No need to get up, really, I can send you to Hell just as easily where you are," Crevecour says pleasantly, slamming his fist into Faith's throat, leaving her choking and retching on the floor.

Faith glares unsteadily at Crevecour's long, pale fingers, and manages to rasp out, "That may be where I'm going, but not tonight."

Poor girl; how she deceives herself. Her eyes are full of death, though whether it is her own or someone else's, Crevecour cannot tell. Rather a moot point now. He licks his lips remembering the unique flavour of Slayer blood, sweet and heady; back in Rumania he had got a trifle drunk on it. Maybe he should save some for Isabelle, her first meal. He thrusts his hand into the dark girl's hair and morphs into gameface, jerking her head to one side, the better to reach her jugular. She flails at him, uttering a stream of curses, and something that sounds like a brief snatch of a child's prayer. Crevecour laughs; this could well turn out to be the best night of his very long life.

Screaming. Somewhere at the edges of Willow's mind a tiny, terrified voice, nearly inaudible, like a radio turned down low. Someone has been working seriously dark mojo; she can feel the magic in the air around her, thick as molasses, clogging her nose and throat when she breathes. It's hard to ignore the illicit thrill that it gives her; and the sickening pangs of guilt and fear which immediately follow. She leans heavily against the cool plaster of the wall behind her and stares around. Kennedy is a blur of motion in front of her, keeping four vampires at bay. Beyond her she can see the Slayer they have been seeking lying on the altar, apparently unharmed, yet something is very wrong, her senses seem to be deceiving her; and that screaming in her mind is getting louder. Willow doesn't have time to ponder. As she shifts to get a better view she sees a vampire, who can only be Crevecour, stooping over and half covering a thrashing body; Faith -- oh God.

Willow shouts the first spell that comes into her head. "Abiungo." A ball of electric blue light flies from her outstretched fingers and hits Faith, knocking her out of Crevecour's grasp. Strange, she had been aiming for the vampire. It's lucky for Faith it was a relatively innocuous spell, or she could have ended up a quivering pile of jello. Willow's thoughts are racing. Crevecour could well have cast a glamour of deception around himself, which might make things kinda tricky, but she thinks she can compensate. He snaps upright and spins round to glare directly at her, his yellow eyes narrowing to murderous slits. He already seems to have lost interest in Faith, who is taking her chance to crawl rapidly away.

Another spell is forming on Willow's lips as she watches Crevecour straighten his long, leather coat, then incline his head ingratiatingly as he says, "Enchante my dear." He is a pretty weird and unnerving sight. Tall, whip thin, and dressed entirely in white. With his pale hair and skin there is hardly any colour in him. He looks as if he has been bleached. But the thing which most draws Willow's attention is the small silver cross hanging over the bare skin of his chest; the skin beneath it is blistered, peeling and smouldering slightly, yet he seems quite unconcerned.

Crevecour waves his hand in a lazy spiral and Willow feels invisible bonds closing around her, cutting into her flesh. The pain sent blazing through her arm and shoulder is excruciating. She braces herself and whispers a freeing charm she learned from the coven in Wiltshire. The pressure vanishes almost instantly, and Willow sags in relief. She is exceedingly glad she was paying attention that day.

Crevecour is applauding; he is actually lolling by the altar and giving Willow a slow clap. "Well done. This could prove to be quite interesting."

You want interesting, huh? "Evincio." Willow watches the delicate green tendrils of a binding field encircle Crevecour and begin to lift him off his feet. She knows she's holding back, trying to keep her anger in check, but it's safer for everyone this way, and anyhow a spot of paralysis should do the trick. Let's see if you still find all this amusing when we introduce you to Mr. Pointy, you arrogant sonofabitch. The great cosmic Dustbuster awaits. Her triumph is short lived. Crevecour wriggles, makes a little scissor motion with his fingers and the binding field dissolves. Willow barely has time to register her increasing rage and disappointment before Crevecour attacks her with a ball of fire. She manages to extinguish it just as the heat begins searing her skin; but she's weakening fast, the room is swimming, and she's not sure how much longer she can remain conscious, let alone do battle.

Four-Mississippi-five-Mississippi-six... Six vampires are trying to kill Willow, and it is Kennedy's job to stop them, no matter what. Her desire to protect Will adds a previously unimaginable level of desperation to the way she wheels and circles. Left, right, up, down, forward and back and round and round. She can hear Buffy yelling, somewhere nearby, sounding mad as hell; but she's lost track of Faith and suspects she might be dead; she wasn't looking too hot at last sighting. Kennedy channels her growing sadness into a vicious double punch, spinning kick, stake through the heart combo. She shakes the ashes out of her hair as she drops back into a fighting stance, ready for the next assault. Every time she dusts one vamp he is instantly replaced by another; in this case a short, dumpy specimen in a hideous floral print dress, who comes barrelling into her at surprising speed. She -- it -- would look like somebody's mom, the kind of woman who loves to make lemonade, and never misses a P.T.A. meeting, if it weren't for the fangs and the insane gleam in her eyes. Okay, she does kind of remind Kennedy of somebody's mom, though she doubts the lady in question had such a mean right hook. It's clear that the odds are against them. If Kennedy had been in a sharing mood she might have mentioned that this mission felt like a suicidally stupid thing to do from the get go. But there was no way she was letting Will leave without her. And they've done so many impossible things during the last few weeks that she is sure somehow they will win, because the alternative is beyond bad.

Willow flinches as a charging vamp drags Kennedy back by her collar and sinks his teeth into her neck before she has a chance to turn round. She cries out and twists away, kicking him into the wall before she stakes him, and flings herself back into the fray. That was too close. Willow sees puncture holes, blood welling, trickling onto Kennedy's shirt. Her vision is narrowing to a pinpoint of pure hate with Crevecour at its centre. She wants to eviscerate him, she wants to make him howl and beg; she wants to destroy him before she kills him. She is starting to scare herself. That tiny screaming voice in her head has begun shrieking, trapped and panicking. Willow can't shut it out, the empty horror of it, and it is scraping her mind raw. The temptation to resort to black magic is suddenly becoming overwhelming, the throb of dark wings beating inside her. The power is still there. Willow knows that in these situations she finds it easier to use, more potent than the frustrating earth magic she struggles so dutifully to master. Balance, Gaia, menstrual life force, bla, bla, bla. Her opponent is using black magic, thrashing her with it. So why not fight fire with fire. It's so simple, I just have to say yes, just say yes and draw that power into me again. Let it burn. I could incinerate every evil, undead motherfucker within a ten mile radius...I could... I can...and I'm all with the ends justifying the means -- right? Just this once let it be easy. Just this once say yes and you can feel it again; lose yourself; let go. Say yes. Tara never understood that I...oh Goddess, what am I doing? I-I didn't mean it. I didn't. But Willow knows that she did, and she feels like she's going to hurl. Shame and exhaustion are crushing her. Will she always be this weak? She thinks if she had a mirror she would be checking her roots round about now. Dark magic is a definite no-no. She can't afford to lose control, or risk Crevecour somehow using it against her. As a matter of fact he is baring his fangs at her in a knowing grin, which is both frightening her and really pissing her off.

The witch will not last much longer. Her energy is dimming, seeping away. Crevecour experiences a twinge of regret; he can't help liking the girl, he recognizes her potential. She is so terribly close to being kindred, yet she holds back and wastes her power. It's a shame, but such is life. Isabelle is beginning to stir; soon she will wake; and Crevecour is tiring of this game, it is time to finish it. He rapidly sketches sigils in the air and observes Willow collapse, writhing briefly on the ground before going rigid. A shame -- indeed. But wonder of wonders, as he turns he finds Isabelle is watching him intently through Zoe Jane's wide blue eyes. The features are different of course, but the expression is unmistakably Isabelle, and it renders her new face beautiful, transcendent, and oddly disquieting.

"My darling, my love; you have come back to me." Crevecour is in awe, he wants to worship her, prostrate himself before her. No, on second thoughts he wants to strip her naked and take her, here and now. Drink deep from her, make her his chalice, and let his own blood be her sacrament. Through him, and only him she will be born to eternal life. He throws back his head and roars with joy. Only when he reaches out to touch her does he realize she is still bound. Perhaps he should leave her so until he sires her, but no, he can trust her, she is his -- forever.

"Liberatio." The ropes binding Isabelle uncoil and fall away. She lies unmoving, staring at Crevecour. He sighs and bends to kiss her, as he has been longing to for centuries, 'a consummation devoutly to be wished.' Her fist lashes out wildly, fast as a snake striking, and hits him full in the mouth, sending him tumbling backwards. This is an unexpected turn, Crevecour thinks, groggily rising from the ground. He is utterly bewildered, he doesn't understand her behaviour; why would his Lady hurt him when he has shown her such perfect devotion? Well, he will teach her better manners; and her first lesson will be...not to run from him. There she is, making for the side door to the left. He is about to bound after her when a blast of crackling energy sends him flying into the pews. It appears that the witch is going to prove harder to kill than he had supposed.

Firecracker -- so cute, always running around; getting into everything; getting underfoot. Go fetch your momma a drink baby. Five vamps have driven Faith into the upper level of the church, and now she's cornered and fighting for her life. You didn't mean to look at her wrong. You didn't mean to make her mad. You didn't mean to be a reject-mistake-worthless piece of shit. Faith has lost her stake. Her right arm is hanging numb and useless at her side, and she was never as good with her left. Too many punches are getting through her guard; she can't block them anymore, so she's just taking them, letting them rain down. You didn't mean to look at him wrong. You didn't mean to make him hurt you. You didn't mean to be a prick-tease-slut-sweet-tight-filthy little whore. It's only pain, and Faith is defiant, she's been beat down too often to ever give in, even though she's sure she's going to die soon. Shhh. Don't cry, someone'll hear you. Shhh. Be a good girl and I'll let you up. Shhh. Shut your fucking hole you stupid little bitch. And Faith knows that if she works it right this punch, and this kick, and the next, and the next can feel almost like a caress, almost like love.

She hears familiar voices shouting through the chaos below. B sounding hoarse and near to cracking, and then Red closer, clearer, yelling 'Go.' A balding vampire wearing a Judas Priest T-shirt charges at Faith, knocking her backwards. They hit the balcony panelling with so much force they break through it and fall, locked together as if they're part of some doomed skydiving display. They crash land in front of the altar, but the floor is not solid; the thick wooden planks covering a large baptismal pool shatter with the impact, and they keep going, down into the blessed water. Blackness. Faith is pinned underneath the vamp, trapped and disorientated. She forgets not to breathe, and convulses, water burning in her nose, and throat, and lungs. The creature is beginning to sizzle. He is trying to climb out and escape, screaming and thrashing, but Faith wraps her arm around him and refuses to let go. If she's going to die she's taking this bastard with her. As the water begins frothing, and boiling like a Jacuzzi, Faith manages to surface, wheezing; the air welcome but agonizing. She holds the vamp under, riding his squirming body, her fingers splayed across his face, his hands still scrabbling at the sides of the jagged hole they made in the floor. Faith watches him disintegrating, sees the horrified look in his eyes before they bubble and melt; sees his skin scalding away, leaving him seeping lobster red. His screams turn to gurgles as he swallows another mouthful of holy water, and dusts, sending grey, sludgy waves over the sides of the pool. Faith is attempting to catch her breath, and blink the ashes out of her streaming eyes when another vamp drags her out of the water from behind. On reflex she grabs a piece of splintered wood; a perfect fit for her hand; a weapon.

Life kills. No fucking surrender.


Isabelle's palms strike the door with a loud thwack, and it swings wide into a burst of air and openness.

Deliverance.

She has known this for years.

Deliver us.

And she knows how it always ends.

Deliver us from evil.

This is her vision.

She walks. No she runs. This thing, this half remembered, headlong tilt of limbs and blood moving through space, is running. Runs through the coal black solitude of the night time street, and will not, cannot listen to the urgent calls of the woman behind her. Isabelle's fingertips are blazing with cold fire; each cell is a newly awakened universe. The delicate skin flexing at the backs of her knees is both wonderful and terrifying; skin that could hold a whole world in love, in joyful agony. She knows this night, she has seen this night so often in the ancient whorls of oak grain, in the seething depths and hollows of her mind. Each second brings a new explosion of awareness she can barely contain. Holy Mary mother of... She is the sound of the asphalt ringing out under her pounding feet; the creep of hair still growing on the scalps of the buried dead; worms crawling and tunnelling in the quiet earth; the girl with her head in a box, is a head in a box, is a head she wishes she could have saved. Oh God, and there's no sight, just snow. She is birth and annihilation. The Slayer does not walk in this...world without end...we are alone...pray for us sinners...Fine rain is falling like a benediction on her upturned face. She opens her mouth to let it run in, tastes it, cool and sweet mingling with the dried up salt of someone else's sweat and tears. Agnus Dei. The chasing woman is gaining on her, crying to her from deep within the shreds of her need. The shades she carries bound around her almost trip her as they billow out to encircle them both. So much loss. For the first time the woman has a name; not merely Slayer, but Buffy. A girl of once upon a time summer days. The street ends, giving way to sidings, and beyond them the railroad, and beyond that the river. Now and at the hour of our death.

Isabelle stops on the railroad tracks; waiting; it is all part of a story old before she was even born. She watches Buffy's stride falter as she comes to a panting halt a few feet away, and how she approaches slowly, turned slightly sideways, defensive yet trying to seem unthreatening.



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