PART TWO

Giles didn't know where he was going. It was past dawn now, and the streets were washed with a grey light; bright but wet; one that illuminated much, but still left much in darkness. There was a strange warmth in the air, but he felt cold nonetheless; as though tormented by a biting, icy wind. He shivered, digging his hands deeply into his pockets, hunching his shoulders to protect himself from the worst of the weather. A pair of dustbin men, dressed in T-shirts, glanced his way as he passed them, but he gave no notice to their smiles and shouted comments. So they were warm - lucky them. He didn't feel the sun. He was barely aware of its presence.

He walked all morning, sometimes in aimless circles, sometimes in purposeful directions that led nowhere. Shops opened up around him, curtains drew back, people began to fill the streets. Pointless chatter made the world a suddenly noisy place, and he scowled at all around him. How dare they come out here, into the streets that they barely understood, disturbing his thoughts with their inane conversations and feeble purposes? Nobody seemed aware of his anger, however, and nobody spared a second's thought for the irate young man that stormed amid the throngs of early morning shoppers. Certainly nobody imagined who and what he was, or what wild and conflicting thoughts were disturbing his darkened mind.

He walked for most of the morning, until the rising sun finally told him of the passing hours. He slowed to a halt, staring up at the brightened sky, thinking back to the words that he had shared with Ellery Gray. The peculiar man, with his odd approach, had probably not deserved such rudeness - but Giles had long ceased to have any control over his moods. He scowled at himself now, and wondered what he might have learned, to his own advantage if nothing else, had he stuck around a little longer. There was little point in speculating, however, for even if he returned to his flat now, Gray was almost certainly long gone.

"You're a fool, Giles." He leant against the nearest wall, cupping his hands around a cigarette for ease of lighting. Even so, the wind tried its hardest to put the tiny flame out before it could catch. He scowled at the gusts of cool air, and it seemed that they dampened and slowed immediately, almost as if they were afraid of his wrath. He smiled at the thought, and drew in a long breath of hot smoke. It made him cough, but he didn't care; any more than he cared about the strange quirk of fate that had caused him to be leaning against no ordinary piece of wall, but a piece that bore the weight of a large advert concerning the dangers of smoking. He stared up at it, impassive, seeing words and warnings that he cared nothing for. He didn't seem to care about anything anymore.

"So let's see where we are then." The aimless walking had led him somewhere, that much was sure. He looked about, walking to the end of the small road to see where he had found himself. A few cars went past him, their noisy slipstreams ruffling his hair. Nothing worth stealing, he mused to himself, even though he hadn't stolen a car in months. Cheerfully painted family vehicles for the most part; mothers taking children to school, by the look of things; under-paid mothers in floral aprons, with their hair in rollers; smartly dressed mothers heading to work after the school run; expensively-clad mothers in expensive cars, bought with exorbitant salaries. It was all the same, regardless. People living a whole different life, that he had never known. He kicked at the side of the nearest car as it passed him, catching a glimpse of a pair of neatly turned-out children dressed in the uniform of some local Secondary school. They stared back at him through a clean car window, sparkling from the recent application of a shammy leather. Bright, intelligent eyes, widened in surprise at the glare from a sulky young man dressed in black. He thought about himself at their age - at what? Eleven? Twelve? He would have been riding in the back of a big, expensive car to the local train station, heading back to the private boarding school, with its vast libraries and seemingly endless grounds. The huge stone buildings, too old to be Gothic, too miserable and forbidding to be anything else. The teachers in their black robes and tasselled, mortarboard hats. The neatly ranked beds in the cold dormitories, where all the other boys had been too scared of him to ask why he spent so many hours reading books on demonology under the bedclothes late at night. These kids in their mother's car, heading off for another day at their school, knew nothing - and probably never would. Their teachers would teach them how to work out quadratic equations, and how to tell the difference between a logarithm and a cosine, and it would do them no good at all. Not if they happened to be walking home alone one night, and the wrong kind of hand fell on their shoulder. He smiled back at the kids, watching them as they were driven out of his sight. Whoever they were, he didn't envy them. Maybe it was worse to be destined to a normal life than it was to bear the weight of a destiny that would always prevent any kind of normality at all.

He had been walking onwards again for some time before he realised that he recognised the area he was now in. He slowed to a halt, wondering if he had only just noticed it because he had been trying to avoid doing so, or if he honestly had not realised until now. He had ruled these streets once, although usually only by the hours of darkness; had destroyed all competition from the other local gangs; had walked these streets with his head held high and his flick-knife glittering in his pocket. He wondered who ran things now. Had somebody else come to take his place, or did the local youths still live in fear of the Ripper? He smirked at the thought, tossing his cigarette into the gutter. It fizzled out in the river of rainwater that lay there, then drifted away into the nearest drain. The huge house where he had lived for so long with Ethan and Deirdre and the others was nearby, and so were the houses of the neighbours that he and his little band of friends had terrorised for so long. He remembered the querulous next door neighbour, who had tried to be strong and resolute, and had wound up being killed by a passing demon. He thought about the hopeless souls who dwelt further along the street, who must all have been aware of the magic growing nearby, and yet had all chosen to ignore it, hiding their heads in the sand for fear of who knew what. He thought about the old people and the young people and everybody in between, all whispering whenever he and Ethan walked past; all muttering and scowling and shivering in their shoes. He smiled to himself. Fun came in all manner of different disguises.

It was instinct, perhaps, that led him back along that old road. He didn't know what else it might be. A few net curtain twitched, a few lone gardeners hurried indoors. He ignored them all. He even ignored the big old house, an empty shell now, with condemned signs hanging on the walls and the gates, detailing its approaching doom. He didn't need to look at it, and didn't want to. He had something else in mind today; another house, with different occupants. Two people who lived in a house not far from his old one; two people who had been almost as reviled by the neighbours as had he and Ethan and the others - albeit for very different reasons. He smiled at a most welcome thought, then vaulted over the high stone wall just beside him, and headed up the neat gravel path that lay beyond.

It was a big garden, clearly belonging to someone of wealth, but it had fallen into some disrepair of late. He looked in surprise at the overgrown hedges, and the flowerbeds that were in sore need of weeding. The front door required a new coat of paint, as well, and there was grass beginning to peek over the front step. He banged on the door, closing his fist and hitting the wood, ignoring the doorbell fixed to the stone pillars that flanked the entrance. It was some time before footsteps echoed on the floor beyond, and even longer before he heard the sound of the door handle rattling, and the old and sturdy hinges beginning to creak. He ran a hasty hand through his hair, failing completely to make it lie flat, and straightened the collar of his jacket. Only as the door was opened wide did he remember to smile, but the smile itself did not come easily, and he found himself uncertain as to how he should make his greeting. Did a simple 'hello' suffice after so many months without word?

"Rupert." The soft, well-spoken voice bore no trace of surprise, nor any of malice. He thought that he detected some undercurrent hidden there, but he wasn't sure what it was. He smiled.

"Hi." He was waiting for her to ask why he had come; dreading the question in fact, for he knew that he had no answer. He had no idea why he was here; save that he had had to go somewhere. He wanted a friendly face, and a gentle smile, and he wanted somebody who wouldn't turn him away. Right now Olivia was the only person he knew in all of the world who was unconnected with magic. As far as he knew, she didn't even believe in it.

"It's good to see you." She showed no sign of inviting him in, but he was content enough on the doorstep. It was still cold, but not as cold as it had been. "How are you?"

"I've been better." He thought back to his murky, musty flat, with all the stains and filth that filled it, and let his eyes travel across the beautifully worked stone in her front hall. "You seem pretty much the same."

"Not quite." Her eyes, perhaps, no longer saw the beauty of her house, for there was a critical frown on her smooth forehead. She nodded at the garden. "Things aren't what they used to be."

"Your grandmother not pulling her weight?"

"Not anymore, no. Mostly because she's dead." This, somewhat surprisingly, caused her to smile. She shook her head, exasperated, amused, and - or so Giles suspected - rather annoyed, all at the same time. "Oh, come on in Rupert. Don't stand out there like you've come to read the meter or something." She took his hand, leading him into the huge stone hall, with its mighty, elaborately decorated fireplace. "I've had the decorators in recently, and there's been nobody to show it all off to. Come and tell me what you think."

"I'm not much for interior decorating." He followed her obediently, grateful for her lack of questions. "I'm pretty much just a black-on-black kind of a guy. Rats under the floorboards, bats in the loft; that kind of thing."

"Yes, well those of us with a little more taste tend to go for something a bit more cheerful." She led the way into the kitchen, which he vaguely recalled as being a large place covered in whitewash, with a huge black oven and a mighty, elephantine table made from solid pine. It was bright and breezy now, painted in pale yellow and blue, the woodwork picked out in white. There were tiles covered with tiny flowers all over much of the walls, and striped curtains blew back from wide open windows freshly outlined in glossy, lemon yellow paint. He blinked, trying to look impressed, and she laughed at him.

"Maybe I was being a bit overly optimistic asking your opinion. It's not exactly your kind of colour scheme, is it."

"Oh, I don't know." He didn't bother wasting time on wondering why he was trying not to offend her. Goodness knew he had been doing his damnedest to offend everybody else of late. "Actually I like blue and yellow. It's just... maybe not exactly these shades. It's a little..." He searched for a nicer word, but in the end had to say the first one that he had thought of. "A little... insipid."

"Insipid." She sighed. "Yes, well. Coming from somebody who used to decorate his bedroom in shades of black and purple, with weird symbols painted everywhere, I think I'll take that as a kind of compliment. It's called being normal, actually. Wanting to think pleasant thoughts as one gazes at one's surroundings. The only things that spring to mind in any room that you've decorated are fear and depression." She smiled again, clearly not at all concerned by his awkwardly voiced opinion. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea? I've got some new herbal things I've been meaning to try out. I have no idea what they taste like, but they're supposedly made with eucalyptus and jasmine, or something. Or was that the scented oil for the burner in the living room?" She shook her head. "The tea has something in it, anyway. Something that isn't tea, I mean." She frowned. "What? You're looking at me as though I've suddenly sprouted a second head."

"Sorry." He moved forward, impulsively encircling her with his arms. "It's just that I'd forgotten how you can make me smile. It's been a while."

"Since we were together, or since you smiled? By the look of you I'd say the latter." She headed towards the oven; still a massive, metal affair, but no longer quite so forbidding as her grandmother's. There was a kettle standing on the hob, and she wrapped a cloth around the handle, checking to see how much water was inside before she turned up the heat and set the kettle back to boil. "I think we'll have that herbal tea, don't you?" She frowned, and gestured to the many chairs set around the table, all caught in the bright, clear light from the wide open windows. "And then you can tell me why you're here."

"Ah." He had known that it would come, eventually, but had hoped that she would avoid it until later. Clearly she would rather have it out in the open. He wandered over to the chairs and sat down, staring out of the window onto the familiar street. It looked beautiful from this different angle, where large trees filtered the view of the other buildings, with all their many inhabitants that he had grown to hate. So many people, so little tolerance. He thought that he remembered hearing Olivia's grandmother saying that, but then she had been pretty intolerant too, largely of Deirdre and Ethan. He found that he didn't blame her so much for that, now.

"Your two big trees have gone." It wasn't an intentional attempt to deflect the conversation, but she flashed him a mock scowl anyway. "The ones either side of the gate."

"They were cut down nearly six months ago." She dug a teapot out of a cupboard, and after a quick swill under a tap, she began to fill it with heaped teaspoons from an Oriental-looking tea caddy. "They were elm trees. They've all gone now, or soon will have. Dutch elm disease, or so the experts say. I don't know how it came to be here, but it's certainly made itself at home."

"Oh." He frowned, wondering what else he had missed in recent months - years even. He never listened to the news, never read any newspapers. He had no television or radio, and wasn't interested in either. Deirdre had read the Times to him occasionally, in the days before they had summoned Eyghon, before everything had changed. He remembered lying sprawled in the garden, watching the leaves move in a gentle breeze, listening to her sweet voice reading stories that neither of them was remotely interested in. It had been her idea of domestic bliss; friendly, familial comfort in the middle of a garden filled with herbs and poisonous berries.

"Penny for them?" Sitting down opposite him, Olivia placed a teapot and two mugs on the brightly coloured tablecloth. The crockery was a mass of Oriental art; swirling dragons and characters in an archaic version of what he thought was the Cantonese dialect. He recognised some of the characters, and stifled a smile. Even here there was no escaping dark magic, no matter how innocent Olivia might be in such matters. She saw his smile despite his attempts to hide it, and smiled back. "Your mind never stays in the same place for long, does it. I'd forgotten that."

"Has it really been that long?" He was surprised - and not just a little alarmed - to feel his heart warming to her answering smile. Olivia had been a game once - someone to play with when Deirdre had been too wrapped up in Eyghon to notice him any longer. Somebody to boast about with Ethan when they were alone in the sitting room as the others slept, crouching by the fireside with the heavy old curtains drawn to block out the daylight. Now he was beginning to suspect that he was attracted to her rather more strongly than that, and it disturbed him. He had only come here to get away. He had wanted a few hours respite, but what was he getting himself into instead? He didn't refuse the tea, though, as she poured it out and pushed it across to him. Instead he picked it up, letting the relaxing, herbal aroma calm his tumultuous mind. He hated herbal tea, and he was reminded of that as he took his first sip, but he didn't stop. Olivia was smiling at him, and he suddenly found that nothing else seemed to matter.

"So?" She took a sip of her own tea, then stared down at the clear brown liquid with its gushing steam. He had a sudden memory flash of Deirdre trying to read tea leaves, and predicting a dreadful end for Randall. They had all laughed about it at the time, although he couldn't laugh about it now that Randall really was dead - killed by his closest friends. Maybe the tea leaves had been right. He wondered what his own would say, when he had finished drinking this cup of tea right now. Would they predict his own horrific death? Or Olivia's? He put the cup down.

"So what?" He knew what it was that she was pressing for, but wanted to put it off a little longer. She sighed and reached out for his hand, gripping it tightly. He was surprised by how pale her black fingers made his white hand look. Was he really that pale, or was it just the contrast between their skin tones making it look that way? Certainly he didn't spend a whole lot of time out in the sun, and hadn't for quite some time.

"It's been months, Rupert. We're getting close to the end of the year, and it's been all this time since you last came to see me. I knew that you'd left the house. Ethan told me, although he didn't seem in much of a mood to talk. The others all left too. I saw them all go, one by one. All except Randall." She looked at the ground. "I suppose you heard that they found his body. It was so soon after you left, and I felt terrible that I couldn't be with you when you heard the news. I thought maybe you'd come back then, but you didn't. I waited for some kind of a message from you... I knew that you'd be upset, but I thought perhaps I could help you through it. But you never came."

"I know." He didn't meet her eyes, and instead stared intently at the table cloth. "I'm sorry. Things... happened. Lots of things. I've been in London all the time. It's just... I needed time to think, I guess. My life has been moving in different directions. There was... well there have been opportunities of late, to go back into the family business, and I had that to consider. Then there was my job, and I've been studying..."

"Studying? Are you planning to go back to Oxford?" She seemed interested by that, and part of him wondered why. He didn't ask, though, for her own question was one that he hadn't even considered himself. Rejoining the Watchers, yes - but going back to Oxford? He suddenly found that the idea had more appeal than he would ever have thought. He shrugged.

"Maybe. If they'll have me. I did leave under rather a cloud... what with the fight, and the fire. And walking out without a word to anybody and not going back... It was '76 when I left. Now it's damn near '78."

"It's never too late." She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Anyway, I only ask because I'm planning on going there myself. Next year maybe. I've never really thought about university, but now that my grandmother is dead there's no reason to stay here all the time, and I'd quite like to go. I was thinking of studying English literature. It's pretty heavy stuff from what I can see, and the list of authors is a nightmare, but I really want to give it a try. Chaucer is just about the most modern author on the course, and I'm going to have to brush up on my Latin... It all sounds so exciting though."

"It does, doesn't it." He sounded far away, lost in a vague memory of the excitement of starting university for the first time, and wandering into the huge libraries and awe-inspiring collections in open-mouthed delight. Strange how a memory just a few short years old could feel like a half-remembered tale from somebody else's life. University, for all the enjoyment it had given him at first, had become just another bastion of Watcher supremacy that he had wound up rebelling against so furiously. It seemed a shame now, really. He had enjoyed the learning process so much.

"If you miss it that much, Rupert, you can always go back there." Olivia's voice - so very soft and gentle - cut into his thoughts from some faraway place. He glanced towards her, frowning slightly.

"Maybe."

"So very decisive." She drank a little more tea and, gaining confidence and losing a few of his paranoid fears, he followed suit. "So tell me - are you going to let on why you're here, or are we going to skirt the issue all day?"

"Huh?" The change of subject, coupled with her startling directness caught him by surprise, and he froze momentarily. "Oh. That." The surface of the tea drew his eyes once again, and he saw some of the swirling, settling leaves through the clouds of hot steam. "I'm..."

"In trouble." He had left the sentence hanging for so long that she had felt obliged to finish it. He glanced up.

"Yeah. That about covers it. Quite a lot of trouble actually."

"More than usual?" He wondered at first whether she was joking, but he saw, when he glanced up once again to look at her, that she was not. It made sense, he supposed. Nobody living in this area could be unaware of the fights and the other kinds of violence that followed in the footsteps of both himself and his gang. Olivia, after all, knew how he preferred to be addressed; and even though she often called him Rupert, she just as often used the darker name bestowed upon him by Ethan and the others.

"More than usual." He took a long sip of his tea, trying not to let its relaxing influence affect him too much. "There's this guy. I think it's a guy. He's trying to kill me. At least I assume that that's his plan... And of course I've been walking headlong into it all, haven't I. Not looking what I was doing. I've probably dragged a friend of mine into it now too, or maybe he was going to be a part of it anyway... Either way, I haven't exactly helped him."

"And is there any particular reason why this guy wants to kill you?" She didn't sound derogatory, as he had at first assumed that she might. Instead she sounded just as though she believed him. He decided to assume that she did, and then worry about dealing with her scepticism later.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Usual stuff. Demons. Bad magic. Nasty spells. This time I'm not sure about the details, but you know the kind of stuff I deal in. I've told you about it before."

"You certainly have." She looked faintly amused, and he realised then that she didn't believe him. He thought back to all the times in the past, when he had detailed the summonings of Eyghon, and the possessions, and when he had solemnly told her of all the things in the world that there were for her to be afraid of. She had never believed it, just as she was not believing it now. For some reason it didn't seem to matter. In fact, if anything, he found that he was glad. He smiled.

"I won't stay long." His expression was one of gentle reassurance, but she frowned and shook her head.

"Stay as long as you like. I hate rattling around in this big old place on my own. I don't mind if you're in trouble, and I don't mind if that's the only reason that you came here. I can see that you've changed. You look... different now. If I can help you with that... with whatever it is that you're going through right now... well I'd be happy, that's all. I appreciate your trust, Ripper. I know you don't find it easy to confide in other people."

That's the understatement of the decade. He grinned at her, and with a sudden burst of good cheer, he drank down the rest of his tea. The leaves, left behind, swirled into new patterns against the bone china, but he ignored them. He didn't know how to read them anyway.

But the shadows did, and as the young couple left the table and headed off upstairs, the few faint wisps of darkness that hung around beneath the table and beside the oven came together, floating into a shape that was almost, but not quite, that of a man. It peered at the mug, and it tried to move the wet leaves with one absurdly long, insubstantial finger. Whatever it saw might have pleased it, or it might have made it angry. Perhaps, since it had no real eyes, it didn't see anything at all. Either way, as he walked along the corridor on the floor above, Giles thought that he heard a faint laugh coming from down in the kitchen. His step faltered at the birth of the sound, and Olivia frowned a gentle question. He smiled at her, and took her hand, pushing the fears aside. He was safe here. Nobody was going to come looking for him in this house. For the first time in months it was okay to really, truly relax.

And in his underground lair, Philip Valoran watched all through the pane of his dusty window, and waited for the night to fall.

**********

Olivia awoke in a tangle of sheets, mixed up with a collection of limbs that couldn't possibly all belong to her. She blinked, staring at a long white arm with a black tattoo, before smiling a very contented smile.

"Hey Ripper." He moved slowly beside her, and the tangle resolved itself to some degree. The white arms slid away, and she was left with only those limbs that were supposed to be attached to her. She stretched them, just to prove that they were really hers. "Are you awake?"

"No." He smiled, turning to face her without opening his eyes. "I don't think I've slept like that in months. Not since Randall died."

"Well I'm glad to have provided you with a little light relief." She stirred, leaning lazily against him, glad of so much physical contact after so long with nothing at all. They had been lying in companionable silence for some time before a thought occurred to her, and she frowned in sour contemplation of it. It seemed a shame to spoil the moment, but she knew that she ought to speak up. It might turn out to be important. "Listen Rupert... about Randall. You've been away for so long, I don't know how much you're aware of, but you do know that it wasn't an accident, don't you? There's been a murder inquiry going on for some time - detectives and uniformed police going all over the Close, talking about fingerprints and footprints, and all that sort of thing. They've been pretty suspicious, especially with you vanishing so soon after the crime. I was worried in case they came after you." She lifted her head slightly, looking down at him, and his eyes flickered open. "Has anybody spoken to you about it? Is that why you're here?"

He shook his head, leaning back with one hand stretched up as a pillow, his eyes glinting curiously in the dusky light coming through the open windows. "Have the others been arrested?"

"You really have been out of the swing of things, haven't you. Where have you been, Outer Mongolia? No, they haven't been arrested. Nobody has. Seems that everybody had an alibi for that night. Some bloke claimed that Ethan and all the rest of you were with him around about the time that Randall is supposed to have died, although I know that the police were still suspicious. I know about it because I made friends with one of the policewomen at the local station, when I had to fill in all the paperwork about my grandmother's death." She shivered. "I never really did like Randall. I know that I only met him a couple of times, and maybe I shouldn't judge him on the basis of that, but he gave me the creeps. I wasn't surprised when they found him murdered. Not really. People who live like that..."

"I live like that." He took her hand. "But you've never believed it, have you. Everything that I told you about me and Randall and the others. You've never believed a word of it."

"I... suppose I believe that you believe it. Or that you like to think you do. I know that you like to talk that way, about your... magic and whatever, and that's fine. You tell whatever stories you like. I'm afraid it really doesn't change my opinion of Randall." She gave his hand a squeeze. "And you're not like him, no matter what you say. I know that you were friends, and that you lived together, and led similar lifestyles; but that doesn't have to mean that much. He was unhinged, and you know it. It was only a matter of time before something happened to him." She sighed. "I'm sorry. This really isn't the time for this conversation, is it. We shouldn't be talking about your friends, and what happened to poor Randall. I'd much rather talk about you."

"There's nothing to say." He stared up at the ceiling, finding it a whole new experience to see nothing but clean white paint above him. There were no damp stains, no spreading sheets of mould. No great streaks of peeling paint and paper, exposing rotting plaster and crumbling brick. He decided that he rather liked this place. It was a home, rather than a strange kind of prison; not at all like the flat in which he lived.

"There's plenty to say." She rolled closer to him, throwing an arm across his chest, doing her best to see past the shadows in his eyes. She could see that something was wrong - that there was a very great deal on his mind - but he did not seem about to discuss it. She decided not to press the issue, for a while at least. Maybe he would speak to her properly, if she gave him enough time. "Like, where you've been these last few months. What happened between you and the others? I always thought that you and Ethan were a permanent item, and yet suddenly you're out on your own. And what do you think happened to Randall?"

"Somebody killed him." Giles avoided her gaze, turning his head to look at the far wall. He had a good view out of the window to the darkening world beyond, where the scent of the night flowers floated on a warm breeze edged with something refreshing, relaxing and cool. He felt almost as he had during his early days in the house across the street; back when his nights had not been filled with the ravings of whomever was possessed by Eyghon, and life had been a simple matter of gentle relaxation and amusement, hiding from the real world, and laughing at it from within a cloud of something faintly narcotic. Gentle days, before he had pushed things too far. He couldn't understand why he felt so relaxed now, when he really shouldn't have been relaxed at all - and yet he couldn't seem to stir himself to a greater sense of tension. Maybe it didn't matter, although he had an idea that it did.

"Do you know who?" She was stroking his hair, but he wasn't aware of it. He was watching Randall behind his eyes; watching him clowning in the garden with Thomas, or playing a tennis racquet as a mock-guitar, trying to recreate some of the more outlandish moves of Jimi Hendrix. He hadn't seemed unhinged at the time, no matter how he had turned out. Olivia's question only registered after a long while, and he turned his head slightly, glancing back towards her.

"Does it matter who did it?" He turned away again, looking back towards the inviting window. He thought that he could smell jasmine floating up to him on that enchanting breeze, and he felt a great sense of laziness wash over him. Inwardly he frowned, for surely this was no time for thoughts of rest? He had already spent a good half of the day sprawled in Olivia's bed under the bright white ceiling, and the realisation of that drew his thoughts to Steve. The poor sod was probably still sitting in that dreary flat, expecting him to come sauntering in at any moment. He felt faintly guilty, and rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to remove the shadow of sleep from over them. It didn't seem to work, but at least the thought of Steve had caused some sense of urgency to return. He sighed, sad that it was necessary to leave this wonderful place of relaxation.

"It's wonderful here." He brushed a lock of her hair aside, enjoying the smile in her gentle eyes, and enjoying the thought that she had asked him to be with her here. "But I'm afraid I should be going."

"Going?" Surprised, and not a little insulted, Olivia pulled away from him. The change of subject had startled her, and his apparent reversal of intentions left her almost speechless. Sitting up, she held the bedclothes against her, a sure sign that she was either angry or upset. He winced.

"Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out that way. It's just that..." He sighed, shaking his head, and then sat up himself. It was easier to talk to her when they were both on the same level, and it was also harder for either of them to avoid the other's eyes. "You asked me why I'm not with Ethan and the others anymore. The truth is that I got scared, and I ran out on them. I ran out on somebody else yesterday. Maybe it was this morning; to be honest I don't remember. I just know that I have to go back, before something happens. I know that something's going to."

"What kind of something?" She was looking at the loose sheets folded around her body, trying not to see him. He took her chin in his hand and lifted her head, using a move he had performed on so many others in the past, with rather a good deal more force. He had broken jaws lifting heads that way - and yet his fingertips barely dented her skin. He smiled at her.

"You don't want to know what kind of a something. You wouldn't believe me anyway, and I don't want you to think that I'm just making up excuses. There's no point in my trying to convince you that I'm telling the truth."

"You mean you're leaving me because something dark and dangerous is going to happen." Sarcasm tinged her voice with faint traces of anger, and he understood her feelings. It didn't say much for whatever kind of relationship they had, if he was prepared to make up lame excuses because he wanted to leave - but since she wouldn't believe the truth, that was exactly what she was going to think unless he worded his answers carefully. Strange though it was for him to accept it, he didn't want Olivia to think badly of him. It was a new sensation in his dealings with women, and left him more than a little confused.

"I'm leaving because a friend of mine is in danger." He saw her lips begin to move, and held up a hand for silence. "And no, I can't go to the police. They couldn't handle this, and they wouldn't listen to me anyway. You know how the local force feels about me - and I don't want you going to them on my behalf, either. The last thing that you need is for them to think you're on my side. You're pretty much unique in your opinion of me. There isn't anybody else likely to be as open-minded, or as sympathetic. I have to handle this on my own."

"Not on your own." She stood up, heading for the various items of clothing that she had dropped all over the floor on her way to the bed earlier in the afternoon. "I'm coming with you."

"You?" He was startled, and not a little panicked. "Olivia, I--"

"I won't take no for an answer." She was dressing hastily, pulling on the casual clothes that she had been wearing when he had arrived; nice clothes, expensive but understated. Not terribly fashionable, but certainly not outdated. "Hurry up and get dressed. We'd better leave before it gets too dark. The streets aren't safe."

"You're telling me." He knew that it was muggers and drug pushers that she was worried about, not those threats that, to him, were rather more obvious. With the flick-knife in his pocket he could be sure that no mugger would cause him any trouble, but the same could not be said for a demon or a vampire. He let his mind drift back to the warning implicit in the words of Ellery Gray, about not being able to deal with all of this alone. A shiver almost ran down his spine, but he shut his mind to it, and stumbled from the bed. Sheets and a star-speckled bedspread tried to hold him back, and he fought them off, almost falling into the jumbled pile of his clothes. Most of them were inside out, and they needed some disentangling before he could put them on.

"So where are we going?" As he settled the collar of his leather jacket, Olivia called out to him. She was sitting on the sill of the large window that looked out over the garden, and framed in the deepening darkness she looked breathtaking. He had to pause before he answered, and when he did speak it was through a huge and admiring smile.

"My place first I guess." He folded his arms, leaning against the wall near to the window, watching her with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. She frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing. I was just... enjoying the view. And thinking that I really don't deserve to have someone like you." He almost blushed, and looking faintly flustered he turned away slightly, glancing into the nearby mirror and trying instead to turn his attention to his hair. He ran his hands through his dark curls, making them even more awry than they had been before. It was one of his favoured tough guy moves; something that he did whilst standing on street corners, doing his best to intimidate the passers-by. Nonetheless it made Olivia smile.

"Who says you've got me? I'm a free agent." She turned her head to stare out of the window. "But you're right, anyway. You don't deserve me."

"Thanks." He wandered over to sit beside her, taking her hand for a moment. "You know, I'd feel a lot better if you'd stay here."

"Yes I know. But I am coming." She turned her head, looking out into the garden. "Somebody's got to keep you on the straight and narrow."

"It could be dangerous." He also turned, looking down at the mass of plants and sleeping flowers beneath them. "And since I don't know what I'm going up against..."

"What you're going up against, Rupert, is a bunch of young idiots just like yourself, who think that the best way to handle any situation is with their fists - and their flick-knives. I know you, and I know the sort of people you like to hang around with. I know all about the kind of trouble you get yourself into; and no matter what stories you tell me, nothing's going to change that. Am I right or am I right?" He smiled, unable to tell her the many ways in which she was wrong.

"Yeah, you're right." There was nothing else that he could say, and he had to agree with her. The truth was something that she simply would not understand. He pulled out his cigarettes, wanting something to do with his hands and his mouth in order to mask his concern. Flipping open the packet, he offered them first to her.

"Of course I'm right." She took one of the cigarettes, lighting it with a single flick of his proffered lighter. "I'm also right about these. They're bad for you."

"Lots of things are bad for me. You're probably bad for me, but I don't plan on giving you up just yet." She handed him the cigarette with a wry look upon her face, and he grinned in reply, "Thanks." They shared the smile for a while longer, enjoying the simple pleasure of their joint company, and the pleasant view over the moonlit garden. After a moment he put the cigarette into his mouth, and raised his eyebrows. "We should be going."

"You know, given the view and the moonlight, most young men would be quoting poetry to me right now. All I get from you is battle plans." She stood up. "Somewhere along the line, I think I made a bad choice concerning my gentlemen friends."

"Sorry." He gave a light shrug. "But the only poetry I know is stuff about screaming maidens and the end of the world. You can choose between that or Etruscan incantations intended to summon the powers of destruction. They're not terribly romantic, but they do rhyme well. Least, they do in Etruscan. The English translation is a little lame."

"Thanks. I think we'll give the poetry a miss." She flicked the cigarette from his lips. "And the nicotine can rest with it." He glared.

"I've done full scale dismemberment for less than that."

"Maybe so. But you're a reformed character now." She tossed the cigarette into a wastepaper bin, watching as it fizzled out amidst a collection of sweet wrappers and other rubbish. He frowned.

"Reformed, huh?"

"Well, maybe just a bit." She gave him a playful push as she headed for the door. "Come on. I thought we were supposed to be going somewhere? Although if I find that this is just an excuse for getting me to come back to your place, I won't be impressed."

"It's not." He seemed subdued, and joined her slowly. His hands were now deep in his pockets, and his shoulders were rather hunched. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for not lying to me, Rupert." It was her turn to frown. "Are you okay? I mean a minute ago you were--"

"I'm okay." He glanced up, and offered her a rueful little smile. "It - I just - It's what you said. About being a reformed character. You, er... would appear to be right, and I have to confess that I find it faintly disturbing." He frowned again, clearly as surprised by the change of accent that had come with the statement as was she. A wry smile crossed his face, and she found it surprisingly infectious.

"You know something? I always suspected that there was more to my favourite Oxford scholar than all that East End tough talk. You can be quite well spoken when you want to be. Maybe if you'd spoken to my grandmother like that, she'd have been a bit less..."

"Violently opposed to my very existence?" He laughed. "Actually as I recall she thought I was wonderful. But then I've always been a good actor." He rubbed at his forehead, almost as if he was trying to force himself back into the Cockney personality that he had worn for so long. When he glanced up again, though, she could see that it was something else that was bothering him.

"You don't look up to a trip across town. What's wrong? And don't tell me that it's because I deprived you of your nicotine fix."

"I don't know what it is." He turned away from her, clearly not wanting to share whatever was wrong. "I'm just tired, that's all. Of... of everything, maybe. Just then, with you, I slept better than I have since... since before Randall died, I guess. I just want to sleep like that for a little bit longer. "

"Then maybe you should." She went after him, holding his shoulders in what was part way a supporting gesture, and partly a hug. "Stay here. Get some sleep. Real sleep, without... well." She blushed slightly. "Without the... other activities of earlier. I'll go downstairs and cook us something. When was the last time that you ate?"

"I--" He frowned, shaking his head. "No. No I have to go. Steve could be in danger, and I know that something isn't right. There are prophecies... certain signs that any Watcher is trained to watch out for from very early on. I have a suspicion... Something I should have picked up on before... All the signs are saying that something's building. Like... like somebody has put all of the pieces in place, and it's maturing. A-a-a spell. Something I should recognise." A self-deprecating smile crossed his face, and he turned to look at her. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said all that. I know... what you think. I just... I know it's trouble. Whatever you think of my... beliefs... you must understand that I know trouble when I... when I feel that it's coming. A-and Steve... I just know that he's in danger. That I'm in danger." He rubbed his head again, and obeyed her gentle pressure to sit on the edge of the bed. "And maybe more than that. Maybe everything... the Watchers... I have to go."

"You have to rest." She tried to push him into a lying down position, but found his resistance much too powerful. Instead of lying, he stood.

"I'm going. I have to find Steve."

"You're not going to be much good to your friend when you're obviously too tired to spit out a comprehensive sentence." She tried to force him to look at her, but he seemed absorbed by the carpet. "Rupert..."

"I just have to get back to my place, alright?" He pushed her aside, using a force that surprised her. "Don't try to stop me."

"But you're not making any sense..." She caught hold of his arm. "Talk to me, Ripper. Was it something I said? Or is this something to do with Randall? I mean, when one of your closest friends is murdered, and then you disappear... and now all this talk about friends being in danger... It's scaring me. Now you're obviously tired, you've obviously been pushing yourself too hard. You should stay here and get some rest, and for goodness sakes please let the police handle this."

"I can't rest yet. Not until I've put some things straight." He frowned, cocking his head slightly as though trying to recollect something. "I'm missing something, and I know that it's important."

"This is getting beyond a joke, Rupert. Why won't you speak to me? What is it that you think you have to do?"

"Save Steve." He blinked, the clarity returning to his eyes as he looked back at her. "Sorry. I guess I kind of... freaked out for a minute there. It's just that there are some pieces falling into place now... things I couldn't think of before, but which I can see much more clearly now. Being here with you, getting some sleep... no cannabis to fade it all out... It all seems much sharper. I think I know what spell is underway, and if I'm right, maybe I'm the only one who can stop it. I'm sorry, Deirdre. I really have to be going."

"Deirdre?" Outrage was sinking into her voice now, replacing the previous calm concerns. "Deirdre? Damn it Ripper, I thought we were getting somewhere. I thought you cared about me. Me, not your old girlfriend, or whatever the hell she was. I--"

"Not now." His voice was cold, although still not without a certain gentleness. "There isn't time. Me being here could put you in danger too, and I won't risk that. The Watchers... they're going to want me out of the way. They'll kill you to get to me, believe me. It's just not worth the risk. I have to go."

"Rupert, you're not getting out of this that easily." She tried to plant herself in his way; tried to prevent his leaving the room; but he pushed her aside as easily as though she were a tiny child. There was an odd tenderness behind his force, and she was certain that he had in no way used all of the strength or the pressure that he was capable of exerting - but still his insistence was clear.

"Please Olivia." He smiled at her, and she wished that she could believe at least some of his tales. She didn't want to think ill of him, even though he had infuriated her so. "I know you don't understand. Maybe you will, one day, although I almost hope not." He touched her cheek, his fingers as soft and light as though he were insubstantial and ghostly. "If I can come back, I will. If I can't... don't look for me. Promise me that. I don't know what's going to happen tonight."

"You're scaring me, Rupert." She gave him a fond smile, trying to answer his gentleness with her own, but she knew that the smile was watery and weak. "Just go to find your friend. Help him if you can. I just wish that you'd let me in on the truth, instead of all this--"

"Forget it." He sounded gentle and friendly. "It doesn't matter. Just wait here for me, okay? Maybe when all this is over, I'll answer your questions, if you still want to hear it. Maybe there won't be any more questions to ask." He shivered. "Shame it's so cold out. It'd be a nice night otherwise..." With that he was gone, hurrying away out of the room. She stared after him, sad and confused, unable to shake the feeling that she might never see him again.

"It's not cold..." She looked towards the window, through which the jasmine-scented air was streaming. It was warm and refreshing, and she was quite happy to bask in it for as long as it remained so. Yet Giles had shivered as though touched by the icy winds of winter. She wondered why he had felt that way, but it was far too late to ask him. She stood where she was, in the middle of the room, listening to his footsteps as they echoed along the corridor and down the stairs. A second later she heard the loud bang of the front door. She wandered to the window, staring out into the night, watching his dark figure as it hurried away down the garden path. He paused at the gate, looking this way and that, sinking into his familiar, hunched pose as he dug his hands deep into his pockets. After a second he turned and rushed away, heading back along the road towards the centre of town. Although it was hard to be certain at such a distance, and in such bad light, she was sure that she saw somebody else moving out of the darkness; a vague, shadowy somebody, who immediately began to follow the anxiously hurrying young man. Olivia got the distinct impression that this new figure did not want to be seen, and a burst of irrational fear ran its chilly way along her spine. She swallowed hard. What on Earth had her foolish friend got himself mixed up in? She hesitated a moment, and then went over to the telephone standing on her bedside table. It took her only a few seconds to dial a familiar number.

"Hello? I want to speak to WPC Trudi White. Yes, it's urgent." She frowned into the darkness, picturing in her mind the face of the young PC behind his reception desk at the station. "I'm not sure, but... I think it might have something to do with the murder of Randall James. Yes, I'll hold." She lowered the receiver, staring out of the window. Something was wrong, and if Giles wasn't going to trust her, she was going to have to go with her instincts. Somebody was following him; somebody who did not want him to know that he was being followed - and it was clear that Giles was in a very great deal of trouble. She thought about his strange answers to her questions about Randall's death. She didn't suspect him of any involvement, but something had to be wrong. He had sounded almost insane. She knew that Giles wouldn't thank her for it, but she had to help him in the only way that she could. He might talk of spirits and magic and prophecy, but in her world, there were only bad people and good people, and the latter defeated the former with the aid of the police. She smiled out of the window, her eyes worried and sad.

"I'm sorry Ripper." She spoke the words in a hushed voice, barely audible even in the deathly stillness of her room. Already a long way down the street, Giles had no way of hearing her; and it wouldn't have made any difference if he had. All thought of Olivia had already passed from his mind. All that he could see were the pages of a book; an ancient book that his father had made him memorise almost in its entirety. Words were running feverishly through his mind, dancing before his eyes in tandem with restless thoughts of desperation and urgency. He had to get to Steve, and he had to find him before the Watchers did. Every thought was a burning clarity in his brain; a restless desperation that possessed him. Every sound that disturbed the silence was a hitman sent by the Watchers to kill him outright. He quickened his pace, and prayed that he would not be too late to save his friend. Perhaps it was destiny that was now calling him onward, but whatever it was he knew that he had to answer. He had run out of choices a long time ago, and now all that was left was blind hope.

**********

Almost exactly as Rupert Giles slipped out through Olivia's front door, his strange visitor from earlier in the day, the ageing and peculiar Ellery Gray, chose to enter the smoky depths of the Virgin And The Unicorn. Only a scattering of Helios demons were in the bar during the early part of the evening; tall, thin, ghost-like creatures, shimmering white in appearance, which could not easily be seen save through the corner of the eye. They sat together in groups of two and three, or hovered languorously all on their own, sipping herbal tea and listening to Mozart. There were about twenty of them in all, but Ellery Gray paid them no attention. He knew that they would not pose a threat no matter how great their numbers, for Helios demons did not deign to involve themselves with other species. They refused to communicate with them as well for the most part, and certainly would not presume to listen in to a conversation between two humans. Such behaviour would be far beneath them. Secure in this knowledge, Ellery headed for the bar. Emily, the owner, was on duty there, dressed in a mass of scarlet satin and home-made lace, sipping delicately from a large wine glass filled with something pitch black. She raised an eyebrow at Gray's approach, and gave him no greeting.

"Emily." He smiled at her like some gentleman from another age, bowing his head in gracious salutation. She frowned.

"What are you doing here? The Watchers might have forgotten about you, but I have a far more detailed memory than any of them seems to possess."

"I was wondering if you had seen Rupert Giles at all today. I lost him early this morning, and I'm rather worried about him."

"Rupert Giles?" She frowned. "Never heard of him. Is he a vampire, or one of your lot?"

"Neither actually. He's a Watcher in training, as you undoubtedly know very well. I'm aware that he's been working here, behind the bar. Young fellow, early twenties. Likes to dress in black and drink absinthe. Smokes a lot."

"Ah." She nodded, her eyes smirking at him. "Yes, I do know him, now that you come to mention it. Haven't seen him in a month or two though."

"That will be why he was here last night then. And why the pair of you were seen dancing together not ten feet from this bar two nights before that." He smiled back at her, his own eyes just as watchful; just as calculatingly insulting as were hers. "Now I need to know where he is, and I'm prepared to pay for the information. It's important."

"Prophecies closing in all around us are they?" She shrugged. "He hasn't been in. Haven't heard anything about him, actually. Why are you so interested?"

"Because somebody is planning to kill him, or at the very least to use him for some dark purpose." Ellery nodded at her glass. "Pour me one of those, and we'll talk about it."

"You're welcome to the drink." She took up a clean glass, and filled it with more of the black liquid. "Goodness knows there are few enough of us these days who can handle the stuff. But it won't change my story any. I haven't seen Ripper today. Do you really think that he's in danger?"

"Danger enough." Ellery sipped at the drink, feeling its ancient, enchanted properties mixing within him. "Philip Valoran is back in town, and he's preparing to invoke some rather unpleasant forces. Could be bad for all of us."

"Indeed." Emily drank the rest of the contents of her glass, then leant against the bar. "I really do like Rupert. He's a nice enough boy. Shows great promise."

"Indeed he does." Ellery fished out his pipe, already lit, and put it into his mouth. The intoxicating smoke began to drift forth from the bowl; a long series of perfect rings, that rose up into the air and gathered together just beneath the ceiling, refusing to disperse. "It would be a shame, were anything to happen to him."

"Mmm." Emily took out a cigarette, fitting it into the end of an exquisitely fashioned holder. "But you must have suffered worse losses over the years. I know I have."

"Philip is planning something, Emily. This spell could give him untold powers; have any number of side effects that we can't begin to wonder at. The Watcher Council is afraid, and you know that for that to happen they must genuinely consider themselves to be at risk."

"Good." She lit her cigarette, setting the holder between her lips. The familiar taste of exotic Eastern tobacco filled her mouth, and her own wandering smoke rings floated up to join the others. "I shan't shed any tears for the Watcher Council."

"They didn't give your sister her powers, Emily. They didn't make her the Slayer, and they didn't make her go to fight her last fight. That was entirely her own decision. They didn't kill her. I did that."

"I know." She turned razor-sharp eyes to face him. "And there was a time when I would happily have killed you. Flayed the skin from your body like some werewolf's pelt, and left it to flap in the sun. A flag for my sister, the Slayer."

"And now?" If he felt any trepidation at her words, he did not show it. She smiled, and turned back to her cigarette, blowing a long stream of heavy smoke into the air. "Now I'm prepared to let bygones be bygones. I fight back against the world my sister died for, not the creatures that she risked her life to destroy." She sighed. "So Philip is planning something is he?" Ellery didn't answer her, and her question hung in the air for a long time. "I didn't think that he'd ever return."

"But he did." Ellery reached out his hand, laying it down on top of hers. "Tell me where he is, Emily. Please."

"He tried to save Rachel's life. Did you know that? He crouched beside her when she was covered in her own blood, and he tried to save her. Her own Watcher ran away in fear for his life, if he was even there at the end." Her eyes flickered with painful humour. "Was he? You're the only one who would know, I suppose."

"I didn't see him." He shrugged. "He was never one to distinguish himself in any respect."

"Well Philip was. Perhaps if he'd been Rachel's Watcher, she would never have died - or wouldn't have died so soon at any rate. Then perhaps he would never have turned bad."

"He was always bad. He summoned so many demons... He lured several members of the Watcher Council to their deaths. We know that, even in his youth, he was involved in some terrible things. School friends of his went missing, and one or two of them were found horribly murdered. Ritually murdered, although the police never knew that. Sacrifices to Elizol, if I know my rituals."

"And you certainly know those." She sighed. "Philip was my friend, Ellery. He taught me so much."

"He taught you how to hate your own kind, and embrace darkness and demons in place of humanity. Lessons I learnt by necessity, and which you had no place knowing at all." Ellery drained the deep black contents of his wine glass. "He used to kidnap girls for his vampire friends, and perform who knows what rituals with the bodies afterwards. He can't even be considered human anymore." He reached out, taking her cigarette holder from her lips to ensure that she was concentrating on him alone. "I have to find him."

"I only have your word for that." She took his pipe in retaliation, putting it into her mouth to replace her hijacked cigarette. "You've always hated Philip."

"With good reason."

"Perhaps. But at the end of the day, Ellery, I have very little reason to trust you. You're not even human."

"Neither's he really."

"So you said." She puffed thoughtfully on the pipe, liking the unusual taste of a tobacco that few people had ever sampled. "And you think that he's going to do some dangerous magic, and maybe do untold damage to the Watcher Council?"

"Yes, I do." He dropped her cigarette into his empty glass, making the hot end sizzle and fizz against the moisture remaining in the bottom. "Do you know where he is?" She stared at him for a long time.

"I haven't seen him in three years. Last time he was in London he had a cellar beneath some lousy tip of a housing estate. A great big place full of worm-eaten wood and mouldy walls. Rats everywhere. He used to entertain me and a few others from the old gang in this ghastly room full of mildew and spiders. It was about half a mile from here." She shrugged, then rose to her feet. "Beyond that, I can't help you. Don't want to. You can fight your battles if you want, and you can do your best to save the Watchers, or the whole damned population. Truth is, I don't give a damn. Let them all die." She smiled a beautiful smile at him, rising to her feet with all the grace and splendour of a perfect lady. "The drink was on the house." She handed back his pipe, leaving perfect curves painted in glittering silver lipstick upon the stem. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye." He rose to his own feet, reacting automatically to the departure of a lady. Only when she had swept regally from the room did he sink back down onto his stool, staring morosely at his empty glass. Cigarette ash coated the bottom, rapidly turning to mush in the lingering moisture.

"All of which," he pronounced delicately, still staring at the glass, "leaves me with very little to go on." He rose to his feet once again, and returned his pipe to his pocket. "I had hoped..." But there was nothing else to say, and nothing else to do, so straightening his collar and the knot of his soft, silken tie, he hurried away out of the door. He had no idea where to go next, but he had to go somewhere - do something. He was probably the only one left who could avert the coming catastrophe. All that he had to do was find one man, in the midst of one huge city, before the night was over. And that was just the easy bit.

**********

Rupert Giles didn't know where he was going, any more than he had known when he had wandered the streets earlier in the day. It was dark now, and the streets were more or less empty; the crush of the day exchanged for a uneven mix of silence and noise. In some places there was a veritable din; a struggle to press onwards through the rush; as young men and women dressed in the latest fashions thronged backwards and forwards between clubs and pubs. The other streets were deserted in the darkness; devoid even of lamps; the only wayfarers being an occasional hurrying policeman, anxious to return to the more populous areas, and a similarly nervous drug peddler huddled on a street corner. Giles was oblivious to it all, as he so often was these days. He was walking with a strange sense of purposefulness, Steve's welfare a lingering concern; and yet he was not sure that he was thinking of his friend at all. The confusion that had been in the back of his head all day; the peculiar sensation he could not describe; all left him feeling somehow dazed and disorientated. Some inner corner of his mind; some sixth sense honed by years of exposure to all manner of dangerous things; was warning him that something was not right somewhere. He carried on walking, trying to bring some sense of order to his mind. There were answers somewhere. There had to be.

He realised only as he turned into the final road that it was his own home he was heading for. He didn't really know why, save for a strange idea that, since Steve had been at the flat when Giles had left it, he must therefore still be there now. It was foolishness of course, for he would not have waited all of this time. He went there anyway, his feet taking him onwards regardless of where his mind wanted to be. His mind didn't seem to know what it wanted anyway, and it was something of a relief to know that his feet at least were still capable of making a decision. He followed them through the front door of the building, past the reception desk with its ruined Formica top, where no receptionist had stood on duty for years. He carried on, past the mouldy carpet in the lobby; past the faux-marble statuettes, made from plaster of Paris, which stood in neat rows beside the entrance to the long defunct lift. There was a Julius Caesar, an Alexander the Great, a Richard the Lionheart, and - somewhat incongruously, at least in comparison - a King George VI. They all stared at the young Watcher as he walked past them; empty white eyes in empty white faces, greying with age and damp. He didn't notice them anymore, and hadn't in some time. He had wondered once just why they were there, when even at the best of times they must have looked quite appallingly tacky. Somebody had thought that they were a good idea of course; probably the same person who had chosen scarlet carpets for the stairs, and a curious gilt finish for the banisters. It made the entranceway look like a cheap version of an old fashioned cinema, ruined by neglect as much as by years of vandalism. Rows of faces spray-painted on the walls added to the grimy paintings of famous Englishmen that were hanging in the stairwell; an alarmingly accurate likeness of Harold Wilson, complete with pipe, painted in bright red aerosol paint beside a stylised engraving of Sir Robert Peel in a plain wooden frame. Some more recent resident, or visitor perhaps, had added Edward Heath to the Gallery of Infamy, drawn in black marker beside a very unflattering picture of his successor, Margaret Thatcher. The Leader of the Opposition was clearly not a favourite of the artist, who had chosen to depict her with a set of impressive fangs, and slashes of bright red to emphasise her eyes. As usual Giles did not see any of the drawings, and merely walked on by. He didn't alter his pace until he reached his flat, with its gaping door and collection of marauding rats. They glared at him with their beady little eyes as he walked in amongst them. One made a snap at his feet as he passed it, and only then did he come back to himself. He stared down at the creature as it worried at his shoe, snapping and biting at the laces and the leather with its tiny, sharp yellow teeth.

"And the vermin shall turn on the humans, who consider themselves to be the masters, and the tide shall turn as the Watchers become the Watched." He spoke the words aloud without hearing his own voice; instead hearing his father, on one of the many occasions when he had intoned the old prophecy. It had been one of the first things that the young Rupert had learnt, early in his long years of training; the prophecy that told of the end of the Watchers, when one of their own would turn on them, and signal the beginning of their destruction. He smiled as he shook the rat off, watching as it went bounding away into the skirting-board. Foolish prophecies, written by men who believed in such things themselves. He rubbed his head, wishing that he could come to some understanding with it, then headed for the drinks cupboard in the kitchen. Maybe whisky would wake him up; lose the confusion and the echoing voice of his father reciting pointless prophecy. He doubted it, but it was worth a try.

The kitchen was a wasteland, as it had always been. He wandered past dirty plates left in teetering piles on the table; past two dead rats stretched on the floor in grim repose; past a milk bottle purloined from one of the ground floor flats, filled with a bubbling purple concoction that was hopefully maturing into a powerful potion; into the small space in the middle of the room where previous residents had once prepared their food. He couldn't imagine doing anything of the kind now, for the dingy place was worse than the other room - a testament to all that could go wrong with a place of habitation. Food that had been in the fridge when he had first moved in had long ago begun to rot, hastened on that road by the lack of electricity to keep anything cool. When Giles had opened the fridge on his first day in the flat, he had been greeted by a swathe of thick black mould too tenacious to be removed even with his cigarette lighter. The oven, which no longer possessed a gas supply, was barely visible beneath what appeared to be several inches of iron-hard grease. Even the windows did not escape the layers of dirt and decay, for the cracked windows, already thick with dust and cobwebs, were coated with the same sticky, brown-yellow grease as the oven; a testament to years of frying to feed the unhealthy appetites of previous residents. Giles pulled open the door of the cupboard under the useless sink, and fished out a bottle of expensive whisky, stolen from the back room of the Virgin And The Unicorn several days previously. He unscrewed the lid, pouring the liquid into a glass that appeared to be mostly clean. He threw it all back in one swallow, feeling the familiar burning sensation; ignoring the taste to focus on the fire; breathing deeply as he felt it all go down. It did not make the slightest bit of difference to the confusion, but he told himself that it did, and knocked back another glassful to make sure. Somewhere in the back of his mind his father was still reciting the prophecy, but he sounded further away than before. He clicked his fingers to make his stereo burst into life, and let loud, pounding rock music drown out the last of the audio illusions. With the bottle in one hand, and the glass in the other, he wandered back into the other room. The curtain of glass beads rattled furiously at him, and its long strands caught in his jacket. He shook himself free, barely aware of the rising crescendo of angry squeaking as his music rose in volume. He freed himself from the bead curtain just as the music vanished into the pounding heaviness of a drum solo; a rattle and crash of a hundred drums being attacked in wild rhythm. It drowned out the opening of the door, and the footsteps of a sudden intruder. Giles was nodding his head to the beat, unable to hear the sloshing of whisky trying to escape from the bottle; of rats going wild at his feet; of crazed rodents making wild, snatching grabs for his trouser legs and shoes. He was aware only of the drumming; of his sixth sense trying to be heard, still speaking in the voice of his dead father; and his own voice, telling himself that he was supposed to be looking for Steve Madden. How the hell am I supposed to know where he is? his mutinous subconscious was answering him. He could be anywhere. Not my problem... At the juncture of trouser and shoe, one of the rats found bare flesh, and bit down hard. Blood ran. Giles didn't notice. He had suddenly found, to his surprise and vague relief, that his mind was totally empty.

"Rupert Giles?" He turned to look at his visitor with a sense of calm detachment. He didn't know this tall, thin man, with his ancient, dusty suit and his deathly pale face. Usually that would be reason enough either to run or to stand and fight. Paranoia had become as much a part of Giles's life as the belligerent attitude with which he usually greeted the world. Right now he experienced no paranoia; no worry or fear, or even anger at the intrusion and disturbance. He frowned at the man, trying to decide why it was that he knew him, and trying to work out exactly why he was feeling no worry or fear.

"Yes." For the first time he felt the pain where the rat had bitten him, and he looked down. The floor was seething with the creatures; a mad mass of writhing brown bodies, twisting and turning as they streamed from the holes in the skirting-board, and out from under the bed. The new arrival smiled.

"Don't worry about the vermin. They aren't our concern."

"They're turning against the masters." Giles lashed out with one foot, but the rats moved aside like a well-choreographed school of fishes, avoiding his foot wherever he aimed it. "It's an old prophecy. My father taught it to me, in--"

"In the library in your family house, where his mother taught him the same things. I know." The tall, thin man reached out with long, ring-encrusted fingers that looked long and brittle enough to snap off at the slightest pressure. "We have somewhere to be, Rupert. There's confusion in your mind. You want to calm it."

"You put it there." Giles frowned at him, finding pieces of a puzzle beginning to drift together in his mind. "You're Philip Valoran. You were a Watcher. You turned against the Council. You have plans for Steve." He shook his head. "I have to stop you."

"You can't." A gentle smile shone forth; beautiful almost in its warmth and delicacy. Gold flashed in Valoran's mouth. "But if you want to save your friend, you should come with me now."

"You have Steve?" Giles would have rubbed at his eyes, were his hands not full. He didn't seem able to get his mind around the concept of putting the glass or the bottle down. Instead he filled the glass again, and managed to co-ordinate the manoeuvre of raising glass to mouth. Valoran watched him all the while, his sharp, bright eyes shining with unlikely good cheer.

"Steve is waiting for us. Your friend Ellery Gray left him somewhere he thought was safe, whilst he went to talk to some of his friends. Gray has friends in places that it's not safe to take a human to." He smirked. "And so he left Steve in the Church not ten minutes walk from here, but he didn't know that the rats are there too." He spread his arms in an extravagant shrug. "And so things fall into my hands, just as they are supposed to. Care to accompany me downstairs?"

"You need another fallen Watcher if your prophecy is going to work out. I know the stories. I've studied them inside and out. You need to use Steve, but you need somebody else as well."

"And I have him. Willing or not, Rupert, you're my accomplice in this. You could revoke your self-imposed exile now, but you'd still be a fallen Watcher. You'll stay that way until they welcome you back, and I don't think they're going to do that before this night is over. Do you?"

"I could go to them. Ask them. Make them take me back. Where would your prophecy be then?"

"Fulfilled." Valoran took the whisky bottle and the glass from the younger man's hands, and laid them on the bed. The bottle had no lid, and the whisky flowed out, soaking the sheets and the mattress, and spilling down onto the floor. Giles watched it, hypnotised by the steady trickle, and by the joyous writhing of the rats as they reacted to the strong smell of the alcohol. "Whatever you do, you help me. If you run back to your masters, I can do what I want with your friend - and I'll still have been helped by a fallen Watcher, because that's what you'll remain if you turn your back on your friend right now. Besides, we both know that the Watchers will only kill you. We're working on borrowed time, you and I. We both have to do what we must before the Watchers find out where we are. Would you rather I killed Steve, or that the taskforce did? He'll still be just as dead. Your only chance is to come with me now, and try to play the hero. That's if you haven't forgotten how. You knew once, didn't you. Before the fall."

"No... no I--" Giles glared. "I don't believe that you have him." He began to reach for his flick-knife, anger rising, knowing that he could trust in his favourite weapon against this new enemy. He had trusted it so many times before, against different opponents, in different battles, and this one was just the same. Valoran smiled, and the knife faded into a distant part of the present.

"I was in your mind when you came here, Rupert. I brought you back to this place. If I could do that to a man like you, with your experience and awareness... If I could enter your mind through just a few hours of peaceful sleep... just think what I could do with a man like Steve Madden, who doesn't understand any of this. I could make him go where I want, do what I want, say what I want. I could have taken him earlier, but the time wasn't right. Now it is, and I would very much like to get things underway. Even if you choose not to come with me, I can probably bring you anyway." He bent down, reaching with his outstretched hand into the mass of thronging rats on the floor. One of the creatures snatched at him with its teeth, biting and clinging onto one bone-white, skeletal finger. Its tail lashed and writhed in the air, and its four little feet flailed desperately. Valoran smiled at it, his own teeth flashing in tandem with the yellow shine of the rat's bright eyes. "Wherever you go, Rupert, the rats will be there first." He tossed the creature at the younger man, breaking its hold upon him with a flick of his wrist. A blur of brown flew through the air, before the tiny sharp teeth lodged in Giles's jacket, as the animal came in to a rough landing. Its claws snagged in the leather, and its little teeth bit deep. It growled under its breath, or seemed to, its anger apparent as it stared up at the young Watcher, apparently blaming him for its unexpected flight. He felt the teeth sinking through his sleeve, and into the material of the shirt beneath.

"I'm not scared of rats." He pulled the animal free, and dropped it gently onto the bed. It landed in the midst of the wet sheets, soaking itself in spilled whisky. Valoran shrugged.

"So they don't scare you. So what. What does scare you, Rupert? Death? Your death? Steve's? He's alone at the moment, and he still doesn't understand. I think he needs you, even if he doesn't know why." Giles glanced up and his guest smiled at him, lips closed and thin, in a display of sinister amusement. "Come with me, and try to save your friend."

"If I go with you, I'll be fulfilling part of the prophecy."

"True. But then if you don't come with me, you'll be doing just the same. The important thing is that if you come, you might just have a chance of stopping me. If you really want to."

"I - I don't know." The rats were biting flesh more often than before, and Giles could feel their little teeth snapping against his skin, threatening to shred the legs of his jeans, already making short work of his socks. They were beginning to scare him, and movement of any sort definitely seemed like a good idea. He couldn't understand why it seemed so impossible to come up with answers; to fight Valoran as he knew that he should. He wished that he had never left Olivia's house, but since he didn't actually remember doing so, he was more than prepared to believe Valoran's claim that he had been inside Giles's own head. He remembered the confusion, and mixed-up feelings he had been unable to identify or explain. Tiredness caused by too long with too little sleep, or the presence in his mind of evil magic? When he looked again at Valoran, and saw the human-shaped shadows that were gathering in the gloom behind him, he found his answer in his own growing fear. He put his hands into his pockets, and wished that he still had his gun. It had been a part of his uniform throughout his time with Ethan and the others, but he hadn't seen it since the night of Randall's death. At the time it had seemed poetic, to lose a part of his old life just as he abandoned it all. Now it just seemed like yet another unfortunate loss. He lowered his head, wishing that there was something to look at other than rats.

"I'll come with you." He thought about Steve, and wondered if there was anything that he could do to save him. He wondered if the annoying cheerful Liverpudlian was really in Valoran's clutches, and what would happen if he wasn't - or even if he was. The older man nodded his head in evident satisfaction.

"Good. Come on then." He turned his back, heading for the door, and Giles experienced a burning desire to drive the blade of his flick-knife into the bony body now turned from him. The human-shaped shadows with their spiky hands hissed and cackled at him as soon as the thought formed in his mind. He flinched, and they poked at him with their insubstantial fingers. Even the rats seemed to laugh.

"This way." Valoran was striding out through the door, his feet leaving depressions in the soggy carpet. Giles hadn't noticed so much damp before, and he realised with a jolt that the walls were running with water. The ceiling was awash with spreading mould, that grew even as he watched it, and festered and rotted as though prematurely aged. There were rats feasting on the carpet, and maggots seething over the ceiling and the walls. They seemed to look up as Valoran and Giles passed them; their little mouths open wide, watching and gaping, and shying away as the strange shadows followed the parade.

"Where are we going?" The shadows were a cold, chilling presence on the back of Giles's neck, and the rats that moved about his feet were beginning to make his skin crawl. On the way down the stairs he saw the paintings and graffiti eaten up by the encroaching mould before his very eyes, and he shivered hard. Edward Heath and Margaret Thatcher were nothing more than a munching sea of maggots now, the rude messages scrawled beneath them by a succession of residents and passing vandals vanishing quickly with every passing second.

"We're going to my place." Valoran put his hand on Giles's arm, and his collection of rings flashed and sparkled. "My special place."

"And then what?"

"And then?" Valoran looked amused, as though the answer was obvious, and he was amazed that Giles had not caught on sooner. "Then we'll have to see, won't we. Personally I plan on sacrificing your friend Steve, and calling on all the powers of hell to grant me a new world devoid of Watchers and Slayers... but then we all have our little ambitions. After that I confess I don't know what will happen." His hand tightened its grip, pressing against the cut on Giles's arm caused by the biting rat he himself had thrown. "But I imagine that it'll be a whole lot of fun."

**********

Fear seized at Ellery Gray as he ran through the streets of London. He had not expected Emily Paignter to refuse him help, for even though she had sunk far and fast into the world of shadow, there had always seemed to be some spark of the girl she had once been. He remembered the old days, when her grief at the death of her sister had caused her to seek out the Watcher assigned to assist her doomed sibling, and murder him without remorse. Now she seemed to have lost any last shreds of humanity, and had truly sunk into the dark world that had grown up around her unearthly bar beneath the streets of London. He growled his frustrations under his breath as he ran, and his eyes sparked and burned with his own unearthly darkness. He was all but certain now that his young charge, Steve Madden, was no longer safe, but he had nowhere to go to discover how true his suspicions were, save to the Church where he had left him in the care of a tired old priest. He had no idea where to search for Philip Valoran; no idea where to search for Rupert Giles. The only option seemed to be to return to the Watcher Council, and demand their assistance. They had their contacts and their spells; their own doorways to the dark world they made their stand against; and it was possible that they could use those doorways to find something that might help him. He hated to go to them after they had first turned to him for help, but if it was the only option, he would do whatever he had to do. But first he had to find out if Steve was still safe in his refuge.

"You're an old man, Ellery." Breathless, Gray slowed to a halt, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees. It was too hard to run so fast; too hard to keep up the pace, and too hard to breath the chill air. Perhaps it was too many years smoking his pipe; perhaps it was the caustic air of London. He threw back his head, staring up at the perfect crescent moon above him, glimmering faintly through horizontal lines of white mist. He had feared the moon as a young man, when it had worked its magic on him, and he had been unable to withstand its call. There had been wild days when the touch of moonlight had made him lose himself in madness; days when he had run with the packs of fell beasts that dwelt in the sewers beneath London; when he had fought werewolves on Dartmoor, and had hunted human game across the length and breadth of Britain. Through the mystery of the New Forest; through the eerie emptiness of the East coast; throughout the thickly haunted twilights of the Midlands. Those had been the days when, lost to himself, he had done battle with Rachel Paignter, the Slayer, and had left her bleeding to death in a lonely Welsh valley. He had grown since those days; had learnt to control what dwelt within him; learnt to command it, and to use it for his own ends.

"I never thought to do this for the good of the Council." Staring up at the moon, he opened his mouth wide, drinking in the cold, lunar-soaked air, letting the mist-laden white light of his goddess and bane dance across his skin. It cooled him and it burnt him, and it changed him from the very depths of his soul. His muscles thickened, and his back arched over as he fell down on hands and knees. With distant detachment he watched claws erupting from his skin, and felt his clothes fall away from him as the fur burst forth, and his body changed its shape quite utterly. Gone was the human form he had chosen for himself; gone was the quiet looking, scholarly man; until only the bright, intense eyes remained. In his place was a creature not unlike a wolf in appearance; or perhaps some dreadful mix of wolf and bear. Larger than the biggest of dogs, he had silver fur that shone in the moonlight, and long fangs that held his mouth open in a permanent sneer. Broad, flat feet powered him forward as he broke into a run, and a long, snake-like tail of whip-cord strength lashed the air behind him as he raced through the city streets. One thought alone remained in his mind now; one notion that overrode the animal instincts and lingering traces of the old bloodlust. He had to find out what had happened to Steve Madden, and he had to discover where Philip Valoran was hiding. He knew that time was running out, for magic was a part of him, and he could sense its delicate imbalances with every fibre of his being. Valoran's beloved prophecy, if it was to come true, would do so tonight. Everything seemed to be coming together to ensure that it would be so. Even the whispering spirits of old London agreed.

**********

Steve Madden wasn't sure where he was. He had been safe in the Church, where an ancient priest named Father Roger had made him endless cups of watery black tea, topped with slices of withered old lemon. The cheerful and weary priest had regaled him with tales of missionary life in East Africa, exaggerating wildly about every aspect of his old life on distant shores. Even as he had talked, Steve had been aware of the rats - many rats, gathering in the corners of the room. He remembered the other rats in Giles's flat, and how he been able to ignore them, more or less, during the time he had spent there - yet somehow this time it was different. There was a malice possessed by these creatures that he had not noticed in any other animal; a fierceness that suggested intelligence, however ill-intentioned. Father Roger hadn't noticed them, and Steve had tried to lose himself in the old man's stories. It hadn't worked. Gradually, in the corners of his eyes, he had seen the rats advance. He had felt his fear growing within him; powerful fear, dark and strong. He had tried to back away, retreating even as Father Roger's stories had continued relentlessly. He had carried on backing away until there was nowhere left to retreat to; and then, in the depths of his fear, he had heard a voice speaking to him, inside his head, that seemed to make the fear back away. He had listened to it, despite his misgivings. He remembered the things that Gray had said to him, about the dark magics that were likely to be used against him, as part of some ancient prophecy now coming to fruition. He had suspected then that the rats, and the voice in his head, were all part of that darkness. He had tried to ignore the voice; had tied to fight his fear; but in the end it had consumed him, and he had let the voice soothe his troubled mind. After that he had known nothing at all, until he had opened his eyes to find himself in a dark and dreary underground room. Dusty windows hid the outside world from him. Black mould covered the walls with a thick coating, and a constant stream of water ran across the floor. It was the most ghastly, most godforsaken place that Steve had ever set eyes upon - and that included Giles's flat. He smiled at the thought, glad that he was still experiencing flashes of humour, and then let the smile fade upon his lips. He was terrified, and there seemed little point in denying it to himself. Alone in the diseased wreck of a room, he watched a lone black spider spin a web in a corner, and pitied the creature. If it caught anything at all in its silken trap, it would undoubtedly be something poisonous, or just plain evil.

Time passed slowly in his reeking prison. He tried to find an escape route, feeling his way around the soaking walls, overcoming his natural dislike of touching the thick mould. His fingers sunk into it, as though the walls themselves were trying to swallow him. Beneath the rot and the slime, however, the structure of the room appeared to be solid. He banged his fists on the door, but there was no joy there either, for the barrier would not be overcome. In the end he lowered himself into a corner, where the floor was not quite so wet, and watched the shadows move and slide about. They had the appearance of people, grossly deformed, with elongated fingers that waved like knives in the air. He knew that the shadows were watching him; that they were not mere patches of darkness, but were creatures of a sort; creatures such as those that until recently he had been unaware even existed. He remembered Giles's crash course in demons, and smiled his wry smile once again. Next time somebody told him that demons were gathering in London in anticipation of some magical event, he would believe them - and promptly make himself scarce. No more of this hanging around arguing the point. If he ever got the chance to learn to use the strange powers with which he had allegedly been bestowed, the first thing he was going to do was to magic himself away to some nice sunny holiday resort, where demons were definitely not invited. Rupert Giles and his attendant weirdness could go to hell. After all, that was probably where the madman wanted to be, anyway.

"Hello?" Escape attempts thwarted before they had even begun, he shouted as loud as he could, hoping to attract the attention of someone, whoever it turned out to be. The volume of his shout surprised even him, and the spiky, human-shaped shadows in the corners of the room started backwards at the sudden volume. One of them hissed; loud and furious like an enraged snake startled in undergrowth. For a moment its size increased, and its hovering head stretched up to reach across the ceiling; then it sank back down again, and the room drifted back into silence. Steve opened his mouth to shout again, and thought the better of it. Instead he crossed over to the window.

It was hard to see out through the glass. Thick grime covered the pane, save for one small space where a hand had wiped a place clear. Pairs of feet passed by in short bursts of activity, but when he banged on the glass and shout for help, nobody seemed to hear him. His shoulders slumped. Was he inaudible or something? Why could nobody hear him? He shook his head, and rested it against the glass. Dust and cobwebs stuck to his hair, but he ignored that minor irritation. He could smell rottenness and decay, which was hardly a surprise, and the stronger, harsher smell of something that had been dead for too long. The bodies of rats lay in the corners of the room, and he tried to shut their existence out of his mind. It was impossible to ignore the smell, but not looking helped. He pushed away from the window, and turned back once again to face the room. It was a shock to see that the door was open, and that a man was standing there. Steve had not heard him arrive.

"Who are you?" He had frozen in mid-step, having been on his way to the door himself. Philip Valoran smiled back at him, letting the mild light reflect on his gold teeth.

"My name is Philip Valoran. You don't know me." He spoke briskly and cheerfully; as though nothing mattered, and should not be allowed to. He made a gesture with his hand, as though to summon something, and faint footsteps scratched on the damp floor.

"What am I doing here? How did I get here?" Keeping one eye on the doorway, and the shadowy figure that hung about in the corridor outside it, Steve frowned at Valoran. He was afraid of him, but he was a good deal more afraid of what would happen if he failed to challenge the one person who knew what was going on.

"You are here because ancient prophets decided that your presence was necessary." Valoran turned his head, looking out towards the shadowy figure. "They predicted that he would be here too, but he's not so sure of that himself." He smiled again, and his eyes appeared almost warm. "Rupert? Don't hover, my boy. Come and say hello."

"Giles?" Startled, and more than a little encouraged, Steve began to move forward; but Valoran raised an arm into the air, and he came to an abrupt halt. Giles stepped into the doorway, frowning slightly at Steve, as though uncertain of the reason for his presence.

"Hi." He sounded a little confused. Steve stared back at him, feeling cold and uncertain.

"Giles... what are you doing here? Do you know what he's planning? Why we're here? He's planning to kill us."

"Yes, I know." Giles frowned hard, and rubbed his head. "I remembered, in the end. Recognised the signs. I should have known earlier. The Watchers will be on their way here too..." His voice trailed off as something seemed to occur to him. "Or they would do, if they knew where we are. Valoran has been hiding from them for years, and they haven't been able to find him yet. I think he's shielded himself from their detection."

"Rupert..."

"It'll be okay." Giles managed a weak grin, and despite its distinct lack of strength the smile did not abate as he slipped a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with a sickly flame from his usually powerful lighter. The brief second of light, however faint, made the weird shadows shrink back momentarily, and Steve heard them hiss once again. "He needs me to help him before his spells can work, and I'm not on his side." He shivered slightly, and took a long, not entirely steady pull on his cigarette. "I think I might have been once, but a lot's been changing recently. Some people even seem to think it's time to go back."

"I don't think your intent is what matters here, Rupert." His expression discouragingly amused, Valoran paced around behind his fellow Watcher, before placing a proprietary hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It's your presence that counts. You have powers, my boy, that I can tap into whether you're standing at my side helping me along, or whether you're unconscious on the floor and trussed up like a chicken. Whether or not you agree to help me, you're still who you are, and that's all that matters. You're still a Sleepwalker. Still more comfortable at night-time than you are in the day. You're still an excellent host to channel the energies through. So don't get any high and mighty ideas. Believe me, I can hurt you far more than you can hurt me."

"You can't do this. It's crazy." Steve had a powerful desire to go to Giles; to stand alongside him in a display of strength and solidarity - no matter how useless it proved to be. Somehow, however, he could not quite summon up the courage to walk past Valoran. The older man had a deathly chill about his person that seemed to seep into the surrounding air, and suck everything from the room but the darkness and the damp. Giles seemed equally lost, although clearly his mind was working hard behind those faintly frowning eyes. "You don't honestly believe that killing me, and saying a few fancy incantations, is going to get you what you want - is going to make demons come?" Even as he said the words, he knew that he believed it himself; believed it all in a way that he could not done even whilst sitting in that accursed bar looking around at all the many breeds of demon that frequented the place. He felt the strength beginning to ebb from his limbs in a terrible acceptance of the truth. So that was it then; he really was going to be sacrificed in order to fulfil some ancient prophecy. What a shame that he did not know how to use any of those supposedly burgeoning powers that had apparently made him the ideal victim. Maybe if he could do a little more than occasionally see the world through another's eyes, he might be able to get himself out of this. Instead he could do nothing but stand, and wonder whether it would do any good to start a fight. Even that was a ridiculous suggestion; magical or not, believer or not, he still couldn't fight for toffee.

"Did you see Gray while you were out?" It seemed like the last hope now, no matter how small a hope it was. Giles shook his head. "He said that a prophecy doesn't have to come to pass. He said that it can be changed."

"And so it can." Valoran was propelling a strangely unresisting Giles further into the room, watching Steve all the while. "But that's not going to happen here. I have one young man who looks as though he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag, and another whose mind is so addled by years of living in the dark side of the seventies, that he can hardly recall the years of his training. All he knows now are street fights and cheap magic. Like some hood with a flick-knife in one hand and a magic wand in the other. And the two of you think that you can stop me? Somehow I don't think that that's going to happen." He gave Giles a push, sending him stumbling into the far corner of the room, before glancing about at the many assembled shadows. "Now if you don't mind, I think we've done with the talking for now. I'd much rather just get down to business. I've waited twenty years already for this, and I've never been a particularly patient man." At the sound of his suddenly raised voice, the human-shaped shadows rose up from the walls, moving towards the three men with an odd air of servility. Steve felt a cold and insubstantial hand encircle his wrist, but when he tried to shake it off it proved stronger than it could possibly have been. Even though he could see his own arm through the grabbing hand, still it was too firm and too solid to be dislodged. A similar shadow creature had taken hold of Giles, holding him back against the wall whilst Steve's own spectral guard pulled the intended sacrificial victim into the centre of the room. Something knocked his feet out from beneath him, and he fell hard and fast onto the wet floor. His clothes were soaked in an instant, for the volume of water that ran across the stone flagging seemed to be growing with every minute; black streaks of grimy liquid that fed the mould and ate away at the wood and the stone.

"Giles?" He couldn't see his friend any longer, for his field of view was now limited. Something; a shadowy arm, or so he thought; was pressing against his throat, keeping his head down on the floor. Cold water ran down his neck and into his trouser legs. He felt his necklaces slide about around his throat, falling up around his ears. The snatching hands of the shadows caught at one of the strings of beads in its desire for a better grip, and he heard rather than saw the string snap. Beads bounded away into the void at the edges of his vision, and he heard them scatter.

"It's okay, Steve. It's going to be okay." Giles sounded as though he too was struggling. Splashes indicated a fall of some kind, or maybe just a further increase in the volume of water descending into the cellar. Steve had a sudden vision of the rest of the building - Giles's building; how could he not have realised that sooner? Black mould everywhere, growing damp, pieces of wood falling everywhere. Stairs giving way, carpets decaying, everything ageing decades in seconds; giving up to the rot that had been encroaching upon it for so long. It didn't take much to see that the whole place was going to collapse before very much longer; and how much longer after that before the same black rot began to spread further afield? Was that what London would look like once the spell was complete?

"Giles... If you can't save me, you have to stop this some other way. Get out of here. Don't be here when the spell begins. You have to go, or you know he'll kill you too."

"You're wasting your breath, my boy." Valoran was standing above him, his thin arms folded, and his golden teeth gleaming in his mouth. "He can't get out of here, any more than can you." He shrugged. "Try, by all means, but you won't get anywhere. All that will happen is that you'll hurt yourself even more... and there's plenty of pain coming for the pair of you. I wouldn't recommend causing more."

"What are you going to do to me?" His eyes flicking from Valoran to the suddenly spider-infested ceiling, Steve fought the urge to close his eyes. The spiders were falling now, unable to hold on in the face of the growing wetness. They were falling on him, and all around him, and he desperately wanted to shut them out of his mind. It didn't seem to work, although for the first time he was glad that he could see so little in his current position. Valoran sauntered closer, and the shadows moved with him.

"What I'm going to do is actually very simple. Nothing to be nervous about." He reached down, as though to touch his unwilling guest; but froze before he completed the moment, and smiled instead. "The demons I wish to summon; the process I wish to set in motion; requires human blood, gently trickled between the fingertips... soft human flesh torn apart by gentle hands. I'll make a small incision, just here..." Again he reached for Steve, and this time brushed the back of his hand against the side of the younger man's neck. "The blood will flow slowly from here, and you'll grow increasingly tired. As your strength ebbs, the strength of my incantations grows. The strength of the demons on the other side grows. Before you die, when you're still conscious, I'll make a second incision here..." He touched Steve's stomach, making the young man attempt to jerk away; only to bang painfully against the floor. A sharp burst of pain ran through his elbows as they struck the stone, but he ignored it. All that he was truly aware of was the brief, feather-like touch of Valoran's fingers upon his stomach. "Then I remove parts of you. Not many, just some. Those parts that the demons prefer; that they are happiest to take as gifts. And when that's done, and you're dying in stops and starts on the floor, and everything is red with your blood, that's when the presence of your young friend here begins to shape events. Nobody is a greater focus for dark energies than a fallen Watcher - except perhaps for a fallen Slayer, but sadly I've never been able to find one of those - and all of that will mingle with the inherent powers of you, my boy - a magician whose powers are just unfolding; just beginning to bloom like tiny flowers opening their petals in the sun... There'll be more power, more magic, more darkness here, in this small room, than there has been anywhere upon this Earth since the incantations of the Eastern Magicians in the 16th century. They summoned terrible demons for the amusement of kings. I plan to summon my own demons, for my own amusement." He cocked his head on one side. "Does that answer your question?"

"No. No you can't--" Steve shook his head. "Please, you can't do this to me. Why would you want to? Why do you want to do this to the world; to yourself? Can't you see how mad it is?"

"Not at all." Valoran turned his smiling eyes to his fellow Watcher. "How about explaining to the lad, Rupert? Tell him what I stand to gain from all of this."

"I-- I don't know." It was a question that burned deeply into Giles's mind. What did anybody want to gain from descending so far into the realms of dark magic? What had he himself hoped to gain? It all seemed rather stupid now; a crusade into his own dark side that had led to the loss of his friends, the death of one, and now seemed about to contribute to the end of everything that he knew. And had it been worth it? Had the rebellion against the Council really been worth all of that? The answer was obvious of course. He let his eyes linger upon Steve, and tried to remember why he had first wanted to be friends with the guy to start off with. Had it been for the sake of companionship, of any real sense of mutual trust and respect? Or had it simply been because he had recognised Steve's place in the world, and had wanted to use it for himself? He knew the answer to that question as well, also without needing to think too hard. One more step along the dark path; one more step further from where he was supposed to be. Now his chosen destiny had collided hard and fast with the one that had been chosen for him, and he was left not knowing where anything was supposed to stand anymore. Valoran was laughing at him.

"You have no imagination, Rupert. None at all. I summon the demons, they give me such powers... I destroy the Watchers, remove the succession of the Slayer... Imagine the gratitude that the dark things in this world will feel for me then. Imagine how each of them will want to repay me; will want to help me in every way. Everything truly will be open before me. Everything I could hope to desire will me mine in an instant. No one has ever sought so much, nor had more chance of attaining it." He smiled, a warm expression flooding his eyes despite the intense coldness of his voice. "You'll be sorry you didn't decide to help me, Rupert, although you won't live long enough to really see what you're missing." He brandished a long, silver-bladed knife. "If I didn't need you alive for now - and the details of that are vague, so don't press the issue - I'd slice you up before I get started on him." He seemed to be considering this for longer than was strictly necessary, looking from one to the other of the helpless pair. Finally he seemed to decide that it was better not to take any risks. "You're clever, boy." Waving his knife at Giles, he turned his attention back to Steve. "Trying to make me angry so I'll kill you first and stop my plans from working. Just don't try it again." Steve, who didn't believe that Giles had been trying any such thing in the first place, tried to catch a glimpse of his friend. Perhaps Giles did have something up his sleeve, no matter how futile it might turn out to be. Instead of Giles, though, all he proved able to see was the looming Valoran, knife upraised, expression one of growing bliss. He gasped, and began to shake. The shadows kept him pinioned firmly in place, but still he was able to tremble violently. He screwed his eyes up tight, and tried to find some refuge in the places deep within. Pictures came to him, showing him dancing demons and flashing fires - a world about to be born. Unable to face the thoughts, he forced them from his mind.

"Giles? If you're going to come up with something, now would be a good time." His eyes opened again of their own accord, and he stared up at the ceiling. Valoran's face faded in and out of his view, but he struggled to ignore it. The thin, pale, grinning face was the last thing that he wanted to see right now. He heard a faint voice beginning to chant, and felt his heart give a leap. New sweat broke out on his forehead, and he fought to swallow. He hadn't thought that it was possible to be more afraid than he had been up until now - and yet with every syllable of that hoarse, chanting voice, he could swear that his pulse was starting to race a little faster. His breath shook in his lungs.

"What's he saying?" Unable to follow the chanting, which was in a language he did not know, he stared wildly in what he hoped was the direction of Giles. The young Watcher was silent for a moment, then stammered himself into uncertain gear.

"Um... I-it's something about raising the dead. No - n-no, r-raising the powers of the dead. Raising demons, and summoning spirits... Certain spirits. Sp-spectral e-entities that, um, th-that will help to bring forth the final apparitions."

"The ones that plan on eating vital parts of my anatomy." Steve heard the words, but could hardly believe that he was saying them. Was he really calm enough to be making jokes, or was this the place beyond panic, where it was impossible for fear to grow any stronger, and where hysteria began to spread its ominous wings?

"Shut up." Valoran was above him now, crouching down and making passes with the knife. They looked formulaic and stilted - not at all the movements of a crazed killer. But then Valoran was not just a crazed killer. He was a determined sorcerer, ready to make the move he had been planning for years. Staring up at the knife, Steve saw his own frightened face reflected for a moment in the blade. He saw the terror in his own widened eyes, and for a moment saw the blood that would soon be obliterating everything. He saw his own weakened body, the skin pale from loss of blood, his head hanging on a limp and useless neck. He saw the gaping hole in his abdomen where the knife had done its work. He choked. Now so very close to him, Valoran's voice began again in greater earnest. Steve stared past him towards the falling spiders, and in the shaking voice of his inner self, he began to pray.

**********

Olivia had been running for what seemed like hours. She did not have the slightest idea where Giles lived, but she had set out in the approximate direction that he himself had taken, and had not stopped running since; save to ask a few bewildered partygoers if they had seen her black-clad friend. One or two people pointed in vague directions, but with nothing else to go on she treated these testimonies as sworn truth. The police had little else to guide them, and even though she knew they had taken her tip-off seriously, she was very well aware that they were also looking for a needle in a haystack. Perhaps they knew something else; perhaps there had been police awareness of Giles in his new life? After all, trouble did have a way of following him around. She clung to that hope, desperate that they should find him before whoever it was that he was hiding from also managed to get hold of him. With that thought in mind, she jumped violently every time she heard a siren, and raced in the direction it appeared to be coming from. It was no good, and she was never able to catch any of the speeding cars; or even to see where they were heading; but it was all that she had to work with. She wanted to find him, if only to apologise for trying to help him. She wanted a chance to explain to him before the police rolled up, even though she doubted that he would ever understand. At least if she was able to speak with him she could make herself feel better; for somehow she couldn't shake the feeling that she had failed her friend terribly. She had been worried about him; she had tried to help him; she had tried to speak to him - and in the end she had taken the only route possible in order to try to extricate him from whatever situation he had got himself into. So why did she feel so bad? She could only interpret the feeling as one of the deepest foreboding; and that didn't seem to make any sense to her at all.

She had been running for a long time before she caught sight of a long black car parked in the shadows of a building. It attracted her attention; almost screaming to be seen despite its effective night-time camouflage. There was something about it; its size, its colour, its evident cost and power. Something that set alarm bells ringing in her mind. She slowed to a halt, turning into an alley, staring at the car with wide, dark eyes. Perhaps she had been watching too much television. The bad guys didn't always drive black cars, and even if the owners of this particular vehicle were up to no good, that still didn't mean that they were the ones after Giles. She stayed motionless, though, watching the car, watching the three men that were standing close by it.

They were tall men, well built in an athletic sense. They were all white, all in their late thirties at a guess, and all dressed in black. There was something expensive about their clothing, despite its casual nature. They were all wearing jeans and leather jackets, but she recognised them as the top end of the range; the sort of gear that cost a lot even though you could buy it anywhere. It was only after this fact had sunk in that she saw one of the men speak into a radio; a walkie-talkie, like in the movies; just as a second drew a gleaming black gun. He checked it over briefly, and nodded to his two companions. The one with the radio said something, short and sharp, and then put the handset away.

"All set," he said coldly. Olivia caught the faint trace of a Scottish accent. Edinburgh, she thought, with the unmistakable fingerprint of long years spent down in London. She pressed herself more deeply into the shadows, and wondered what on Earth she was supposed to do next. As if in answer, a low groan rose up from out of the shadows. She jumped violently and backed away, hoping that the men by the black car had not heard her sudden surprise. If they had, they gave no sign of it.

"Who's there?" Keeping her voice as low as it was possible to make it, she stared around. Her vision was good, and even in the darkness she was soon able to see two figures lying pressed against the wall. There was something thrown over them, making them all but invisible in the dim alley; but whatever it was had began to slip off. She tugged it away still further, and almost gasped aloud. Lying before her, squashed up together in a very confined space, lay two policemen. Their uniforms were streaked with dirt, and the face of one of them was speckled in uneven splashes of blood. A pair of bloodshot blue eyes blinked up at her, but she could see from the expression on the man's face that he was not able to see her at all well.

"Hello?" She tried to get the pair to sit up, until she realised that the hands of one had been cuffed to the feet of the other. "Key. Do you have a key?"

"Threw... threw it." The man made a faint gesture with his head. "Three of them... I think. Jumped us."

"Why? Who were they?" She was worried about his silent friend, but heartened that one of them at least seemed to be relatively lucid. He frowned up at her, blinking a little too often.

"We got this... call. A guy we've had some trouble with in the past. Something about him being involved in an... open murder investigation. We had a lead on where he lives, so we came out here... and somebody jumped us. You have to call the station."

"Yes. Of course." She pulled away from him, suddenly desperate to get away. She didn't need him to tell her who it was that he had come here to find, or which was the murder investigation that he had referred to. These policemen were after Giles; and somebody, it appeared, had followed them to this dark place, devoid of streetlights, and even of people at this late hour, before violently removing them from the scene. Were those three men dressed in black, with their guns and their personal radios, the ones who were after her friend? And if so, what could he possibly be mixed up in that would have attracted the attention of people like these?

"Miss?" The policeman was struggling to sit up, taking care not to risk hurting his friend. "Miss? Where are you going?"

"Sh." Hissing at him in the darkness, she crept further away. She could feel his eyes burning into her back, but she couldn't go back to him now. She couldn't waste the time in looking for handcuff keys, or trying to help the poor man with his evidently injured colleague. Instead she crept back out of the alleyway, and keeping close to the wall, she slipped silently past the long black car. The three men were moving away from it now, heading towards a decidedly ramshackle looking tower block. It was a grim place, like the outdated housing estates that so many people were forced to live in these days. This place did not look like anybody would choose to live in it, and none of the windows had any lights in them. Olivia held her breath as the men walked inexorably onwards. All three of them were carrying guns now, their weapons drawn and on easy display, as though it didn't matter who saw them.

"Just hold on for a few more minutes..." She didn't dare speak the words aloud, and instead whispered them inside her head, quickening he pace as she hurried past the car. Up ahead, visible now that she was closer to it, was a police car. The engine and the lights had been turned off, the doors shut and locked. Somehow she didn't think that the policemen themselves had had the time to be so neat, and it chilled her that their three attackers had been so cold and clinical. She gave the driver's door a good shake, but it refused to open. Giles, she knew, could get into a locked car in no time, but she did not have his dubious talents. At a loss, she searched the ground, catching up a chunk of stone. There was a risk that the three men would hear her, she knew, but it was a chance that she had to take. Gritting her teeth and turning her head away, she brought the piece of stone down hard on the car window. It burst apart in a loud crash of shattering glass, and the tiny crystals pattered over the tarmac like raindrops. Brushing away some lingering fragments, she reached into the car, grabbed the radio, and stammered into the mouthpiece. Her own voice startled her with its uncertainties and hesitations, but she closed her eyes and concentrated.

"Er... hello? This is... this is one of your cars. I don't know which one. I'm, um... I'm in a street... It's called... er, it's called Edward... Edward Street. A place called Jubilee Housing... an estate I think... You had two policemen here, not terribly young, but they were attacked and I found them, and there are people here with guns." She stopped suddenly, then after a moment's hesitation she remembered to release the talk button. A burst of static assaulted her eardrums, and she waited for a comforting voice to tell her what to do. Instead a sharp-voiced woman with a faintly Northern twang told her to stay where she was and not to touch anything. Olivia shook her head, despite the pointlessness of the gesture.

"No, you don't understand. They have guns."

"Yes madam, I heard you. That's precisely why you have to remain out of the way. We'll have an armed unit in the area in a few minutes, but you must keep back."

"But--"

"Just keep away from the buildings, madam. Wait with the injured officers, and flag down the ambulance when it comes, but only if the armed unit has not arrived by then. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She lowered the microphone, feeling unutterably useless. Three armed men were about to kill Rupert - of that she was now convinced - and the police might be miles away. She had to do something herself. Breaking into an uncertain run, she chased after the three men. She hadn't been able to see where they were heading, but she didn't think that she needed to. The block of flats with the overpowering smell of decay seemed the likely place to start looking. If nothing else it was dark, and she knew that if there was one thing that Giles liked, it was darkness. Somehow it made sense that this was where he would be.

**********

Down in the cellar, Giles was struggling furiously. It seemed impossible that the wraith-like creatures could hold him so securely when their presence was so vague that he could easily see through them. However impossible it was, however, there was no denying that their hold was unbreakable. He fought like a wildcat, but to absolutely no avail. Before him Valoran had finished his first round of chanting, and had begun the interminable verses all over again. Part of Giles's mind translated everything coolly and calmly, despite his frantic outward appearance. He had stopped translating aloud, for Steve no longer seemed interested. If he was still aware of his surroundings, he was giving no sign of it. Perhaps that was just as well. A faint light washed the room now; red and gold like flames, and just as uncomfortably hot. Sweat covered Giles's face in a sheen, and he could feel his leather jacket sticking to his skin. He hunted through his mind for any possible counter-incantations, but nothing seemed likely to fit.

"Stop this, damn it!" It was an entirely pointless thing to say, but there really was nothing else for him to try. Valoran's chanting did not lose its rhythm. Giles redoubled his efforts to break free, but succeeded only in tearing his beloved jacket. Beneath it the shirt tore as well, and he felt his head connect painfully with the increasingly damp wall. A faint stickiness ran down the back of his head, but whether it was blood or just the ever present moisture, he didn't know. Nor did he really care.

"Valoran, please. Listen to me. You have to stop this!" Still the chanting did not cease. The knife was at Steve's throat, dimpling the skin. Steve's eyes opened, as he became aware suddenly of the imminence of everything. He sucked in a long, desperate breath through fiercely clenched teeth, just as the pools of water on the floor around him began to hiss and steam as the heat rose still further. He gasped, for the floor beneath him was no longer cold and wet.

"Soon..." Ceasing the droning of his incantations, Valoran grinned like a madman. "I can feel it. It's coming."

"No." Giles saw the knife pressing harder. "Damn it, no!"

"And so it begins." Eyes hot and mad, Valoran pressed deeper with the knife. Blood bubbled up. Steve let out a sharp cry of pain, feeling the hot rush of blood as it began its steady trickle down his neck. The beginning of his death. Somehow it didn't feel nearly as dramatic as he felt that it should.

"Damn it Valoran. I'm going to kill you!" With a sudden burst of strength that came from somewhere deep within him, Giles hurled himself forward and away from the wall. He felt the shadowy hands stretch around his wrists; felt the long, ghostly fingers press into his skin - then suddenly break away completely as he tore himself free. He stumbled, losing his balance as the grip fell away. Valoran saw him coming.

"You're too late, Giles!" He screamed something loud; a last line of the Latin verse. A huge chunk of masonry fell away from the ceiling, and with it came a madly gushing fountain of hot, black water. It raged down on the room, covering everything; soaking everything. The shadowy hands on Steve's wrists and ankles vanished in the tumult, but he did not attempt to get up. He lay there, making vague, weak movements, mumbling about falling spiders. Giles struggled to get to him, but with a scream of incandescent rage, Valoran launched himself forward. The pair went down together, tumbling onto the floor amidst a jumble of rats, brick and painfully hot water. Spray blinded Giles, and behind the rushing sounds of the water and the squealing of enraged rats, he thought that he heard Steve's voice.

"Rupert? Rupert, what happening?" On top for a moment, certain that he had the upper hand, Giles risked a glance towards his friend. Steve was sitting up, completely dry despite the deluge, blood pouring from his neck. Mad clashing lights of red and orange were shining up from the floor beneath him, and large cracks were beginning to tear apart the stone flags. Giles gasped, and Valoran, seizing his chance, lashed out with the silver knife. It caught Giles on the side of the head, mercifully not slashing too deep, but stunning him enough with the sudden pain to make him fall aside. Valoran kicked him away, stumbling back towards the stricken Steve. Already he was shouting again, chanting more savage verses in his increasingly hoarse voice. The floor began to shake. Giles, lying on the floor, raised his aching head to look towards his friend, and saw the lights beneath him beginning to brighten. He tried to stumble to his feet, but the shaking of the floor, not to mention his own severe disorientation, made decisive action impossible.

"Help me?" Steve's voice was weak as the loss of blood began to take its toll. Valoran's chanting almost drowned him out. Giles struggled towards them, stumbling and falling over the broken chunks of stone. Behind him he heard new noises, and he tried to push himself harder. New noises suggested that Valoran's spell was reaching a new level.

"Stop this!" He launched himself at the other Watcher before he was close enough to make proper contact, and Valoran easily shook him off. He dropped the knife in the brief struggle, however, and Giles made a grab for it. His fingers grazed the hilt at the same time as Valoran's, and for a second they were caught in a frantic tug of war. Just as it seemed that Giles was getting the upper hand, behind him there was a mighty crash as the door burst open. He turned, startled, seeing a dark-clad figure standing in the doorway, just before Valoran dragged the knife away from him, and stabbed at him before he could turn away. He felt the blade slashing through the sleeve of his jacket, and rolled away from the force of the blow, just as he vaguely remembered being taught to do, several years before in his Watcher combat lessons. Nevertheless he felt sharp metal tearing his skin. At the same moment, he heard the loud, familiar sound of a gunshot. He glanced up. Beside him Valoran did the same, both of them staring back towards the door. There were three men standing there now, all armed, all pointing their guns towards the three men in the middle of the floor. Another gunshot rang out, and this time Giles heard Steve cry out in pain.

"No!" He spun around, up and running even as a third gunshot cracked through the air. This time Steve's body gave a violent, convulsive jerk, before falling still. Skidding on the wet ground, cutting his knees as they skidded on the rough, jagged stone, Giles reached him a second too late. Empty, dead eyes stared up at him. Around him the hot floor was already beginning to cool down.

"You bastards." Moving even as the failure of the spell was beginning to register in Valoran's mind, Giles ran at the three black-clad members of the Watcher taskforce. Behind him Valoran began to scream, his voice rising to a fierce crescendo. He fumbled with the knife, turning to the three armed men, staring both at them and at Giles.

"Nobody does this to me. I'll have my sacrifice. It's begun, and all I have to do is finish it." He balanced the knife in his hand, ready to hurl it straight at Giles's back. He let fly with the weapon just as the young Watcher launched himself at the threesome, and the knife clattered harmlessly against the stairs. One of the members of the taskforce. his face cold and emotionless, fired three shots in quick succession. Valoran's body jerked and danced, before crumpling slowly to the ground.

"You didn't have to do that." Oblivious to Valoran's fate, and to his own brush with death, Giles was struggling in the grip of the two other Watchers. They were too strong for him, their special training making it impossible for him to successfully fight against them. One of them caught his arms, slamming him violently against the wall.

"Stop it you idiot. We could kill you too. Nobody would be any the wiser." His voice had no effect on the enraged young man, and the Watcher, exasperated, raised his gun. His colleague shook his head.

"Orders were clear, Clay. We kill this one only if we have to. The other two were the primary targets."

"If you ask me, this jerk deserves it as well." Clay hesitated, then sighed, spat, and slammed his gun back into its holster. Clenching his favoured fist, he drove it, with all the force he could muster, into Giles's stomach. The younger man went limp and collapsed to the floor. Somewhere up above ground, very close by, there came the sound of a police siren.

"We have to get out of here." The third man rubbed his gun on his sleeve to clean it, then tossed it to the ground. He was fairly sure that it had been his bullet which had killed Steve, and certainly it had been his shots that had done for Philip Valoran. There was no sense in running away with the murder weapon still on him.

"Right behind you." His two colleagues, in contrast to their words, preceded him up the steps. In the darkness of the lobby they saw a vague silhouette watching them, but they ignored the figure, running on by. Olivia stared after them, shocked and afraid. She had thought that they were going to shoot her too, but instead they treated her as though she was not even there. She tried to call out after them, but her voice refused to work. Giving it up, she headed for the cellar steps that she had just seen the three men heading away from.

"Hello?" At the top of the stairs she hesitated, unwilling to go any further. She had no idea why she had heard such strange sounds coming from the cellar, and neither did she have any idea of what might have caused them. All that she knew for certain was that she had heard gunshots. If Giles was dead, she was not sure that she wanted to find out about it in some grim, cold room under the ground; especially since she had no idea what else she might find down there.

"Miss?" Urgent voices were calling her, then harsher voices drowned them out.

"Armed police!" Feet rang out on the floor around her, and hands hustled her out of the way. She expected to be searched or arrested, but instead she was pulled back to the dilapidated reception area.

"Are you the lady who made the call, madam?" A firm, determined voice addressed her without ceremony. She nodded.

"My friend..."

"Do you know what happened here?" The man was ignoring her, interested only in his own questions. She stared past him, watching the streams of armed and uniformed men running down into the cellar.

"Yes... I-I mean no. I saw three men dressed in black. I think I heard gunshots. I-I definitely saw guns."

"Clear the area!" Harsh voices were yelling now, rising above the confusion in her mind. The man with her nodded sharply, then expertly caught Olivia by the elbow, and led her back outside. Flashing blue lights lit up the whole area, illuminating many faces, several vehicles, and a lot of blue uniforms. Several gun barrels glinted in the light, aimed in her approximate direction, but they turned away when the policeman with her held up his hand. Olivia was hurried past it all, towards the matching pair of ambulances that waited nearby. The two policemen she had found in the alley were seated in one, looking tired and sheepish. One of them, the one that she had spoken to, raised a salutary hand to Olivia, but she couldn't return the gesture. She couldn't even smile.

"Please. I have to know. My friend--"

"Just wait here, madam. Keep out of the way." Her policeman pressed her into the care of a neatly uniformed ambulance driver, then melted away back into the glare of flashing blue lights. Olivia stared after him, but was not able to pull away from the ambulance driver in order to go in pursuit. She could no longer see the entrance to the flats, and had no idea what was going on there. She heard voices though; vague shouts about a gun and a ceremonial knife; about two fatal injuries; two dead bodies and one semi-conscious suspect. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Miss, you'd really better wait here." The ambulance driver was trying to pull her back out of the way, talking all the while of flasks of tea, and maybe a little sip of something stronger. Olivia ignored him, finally breaking free of his firm hold, running back out into the circle of light. She saw two men, both wearing uniforms, supporting a third man between them. He seemed weak and tired, unable to walk properly on his own, but despite his evident shaken state, his hands were cuffed behind him. There was blood on his head, and it looked as though one of his arms was causing him a great deal of pain. Delight that Giles was alive flooded her mind, long before concern for his predicament registered.

"Rupert!" She shouted his name and saw him look up; saw his confused eyes searching the ranks of spectators for the source of the familiar voice. He did not seem to see her however, and instead he looked away. Nobody else seemed to have heard her either, and the thronging crowd of policemen soon came together, shutting her out of their circle. None of the crowd of gathering civilians was able to see as the police officers began to close off the area. None of them was able to see the token struggle going on as the handcuffed young man was dragged towards a waiting car. Only one pair of eyes that did not belong to a policeman was in any position to look upon the scene; and those belonged to a large, bear-like dog that hung about in the mouth of a nearby alley. Ellery Gray did not dare to turn back into his human form as he looked out upon the discouraging vista. Instead he merely stayed where he was, watching in mute sorrow as Rupert Giles was manhandled into the back of a police car. Somebody climbed in after him, the engine burst into life, and the car screeched away through the darkened streets. Gray watched after it, shaking his massive, shaggy head. If only he had been a little quicker. He turned around and headed back along the alleyway. There was no sense in wishing hopeless wishes. He hadn't been quick enough, and that was all that counted. Right now he had a report to make. Beyond that there didn't seem to be anything that anyone could do. It was in other hands now.

THE END