Author: Sandra Pascoe

Pairing: None

Rating: R – some violent situations and swearing. (Sorry – Ethan’s a potty mouth)

Archive: Sure – anyone who has previously been given permission then go for it – anyone else please ask first

Disclaimer: Giles doesn’t belong to me – I’m only borrowing him. Can I keep him, please?

Spoilers: I don’t think there are any

Setting: Giles is still in England during S6-though its going a bit more than a tad AU…hehe

Notes: Part three in the Vulcan’s Bane Series…follows The Summoning and Who Needs to Dream?

Thanks: Thanks to Dr Evil for advice on Giles’ injuries.

Military Advisor: Thanks to Shep – (Jules’ other half)!

Dedication: This series of fics is dedicated to the memory of Tony A – eternal friend and eternal gentleman. Still love you. Still miss you. You once said that I had the "soul of a writer". I’m finally beginning to see what you meant. This is for you, my friend.

We are unknown. We are the faceless ones. We stand against the darkness in silence. We creep through the night and none may hear our tread. We stand at the edge of the abyss and hold back the terror and evil that threatens to engulf all humanity. We Watch. We teach. We train. We fight. We die. We are mourned but our sacrifices are never acknowledged. They CANNOT be acknowledged. Why do we do this? What do we gain? Our reward…our reward is ignorance. The ignorance that most of humanity revels in and enjoys. They live their lives unencumbered by the knowledge we possess, unknowing of the darkness that threatens, unaware of the sacrifices we make to ensure their continued blissful innocence. We have protected them for Centuries, allowing them to live their lives in peace and contentment…but is it enough? Is it worth our continued sacrifices? Who protects the protectors? Quis custodiet ipsos Custodes?

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

Martin Claiborne rolled to one side as the axe whistled past his ear and embedded itself into the hard earth beside him. Guttural sounds came from the throat of the Crut’akh Demon and its eyes gleamed as it pulled the axe free, raising it above its head. Martin scrambled backwards, not taking his eyes from the advancing demon. I’m going to die…I’m going to die…I’m going to die. The constant litany running through his mind was abruptly cut off as he suddenly backed into a wall. Martin froze, staring up in shock. I’m dead…I’m dead…I’m dead. The axe blade glinted in the moonlight; the demon took a deep breath…and then paused. Gazing down at the terror-stricken human on the ground, he slowly lowered the axe, nodded once and then took off in a loping run across the cemetery. Martin sagged back, relief flowing through him, his heart pounding and his limbs feeling like jelly. Oh God…Oh God…Oh God...I’m not supposed to do this! I’m an observer…not bloody James Bond. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, catching sight of a short, squat man in baggy, ill-fitting clothes running towards him.

“Dobry Bóg, są wy w porządku?”

Martin managed a small smile.

"I’m fine, Tomek…I think."

Tomek knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"What was it?" He frowned with the effort of speaking in English and Martin felt a twinge of guilt, which he quickly shrugged off. Tomek’s English is far better than my Polish.

"A Crut’akh Demon…notoriously territorial…I must have wandered into its hunting grounds by accident."

There was silence as Tomek digested this and then mentally translated it.

"Why did it not kill you?" He asked finally.

"I don’t know," replied Martin quietly. "I really don’t know."

They crept through the sewers, their footfalls making little noise and hardly disturbing the filthy, ankle-deep water. Four figures, each a regulation ten metres apart, dressed in black and carrying assault rifles. The leader suddenly stopped and held up his hand. Instantly the three others froze in place, hands tightening on rifles. A couple of hand signals and two of the group peeled off into an adjacent tunnel, moving swiftly and quietly. Minutes ticked by until, at a pre-arranged time, the two groups burst into a small chamber and opened fire.

"Cease firing!" The leader lowered his rifle and stared around the empty room. "Where the hell did they go?"

"Their kind don’t just leave," responded the second in command. "Once they’ve found a home, they’ll fight to the death to protect it."

"Not our problem. Report in."

"Yes, sir," he replied and pulled a small radio from his pocket. "Greyhound to Trap One. Nest is empty…repeat, nest is empty."

"This is the third house we’ve looked at today," Alessandro tried to keep the whine out of his voice. "Why should this one be any different?"

"Because the vamps here ARE different," replied Claudio; efficiently picking the lock and pushing open the door. "I don’t know why you’re so scared, it’s the middle of the day."

Alessandro followed Claudio into the house, squinting at the gloomy interior. It was clean and tidy; whoever lived here was obviously no stranger to a duster. He sniffed. Even smells nice.

"Why are the vamps here different? Surely they’re the same the world over?" Alessandro carefully followed Claudio deeper into the house.

"Because," replied Claudio, walking down into the cellar, "we have an understanding with these particular vamps. We tell them who their victims will be."

"I’m sorry?" Alessandro frowned at Claudio’s back.

"Haven’t you wondered why the crime levels have drastically reduced recently?"

"You FEED criminals to them?"

"Only to these ones…they seem weaker willed and easier to control. You have to admit though, it’s a great deterrent." Claudio stopped in front of a row of three coffins. Slowly raising the lid of the first, he peered inside and frowned.

"Well?" Alessandro stepped past and gazed into the silk-lined interior. "Same as the others."

"Not quite," replied Claudio, reaching into the coffin and grabbing a handful of dust. He held it up, watching as it seeped through his fingers. "It appears someone was unhappy with their collaboration."

"That doesn’t explain why every vampire in the region has disappeared."

"No, it doesn’t."

"What do we do?" Asked Alessandro as Claudio checked the other coffins.

"We report it…and hope the Council are understanding."

"Brrr…it’s a bit on the nippy side out there," said Jo as she slammed the back door and leant against it with a sigh. She frowned as she noticed the other women in the farmhouse kitchen staring at her with expressions ranging from amusement to outright disbelief. "What?"

"Nippy?! It’s ‘nippy’ outside?" Susan shook her head. "It’s freezing and blowing a gale out there but look at you! You’re wandering around in a T-shirt saying it’s ‘nippy’?"

Jo grinned and wandered over to the sink to fill the kettle. "What can I say? I’m a hardy soul…I don’t feel the cold."

"No sense no feeling, you mean," continued Susan. "And put enough water in there for the rest of us."

"Yes, your Royal Highness." Jo plugged in the kettle and switched it on. "So what are you all doing in the kitchen? Have you been banished or something?"

"Lisa flipped out again," shrugged Susan. "Barbara’s trying to calm her down."

"Oh blimey," groaned Jo, "what did she see this time?"

"No idea. Babs whisked her away pretty damn quickly."

"I’m not surprised." Jo placed a row of mugs on the worktop. "If it’s anything like her talking peanuts ‘vision’ last month then we could be out here for hours."

"She tries…poor thing."

"She’d be a hell of lot more successful if she would just lighten up a bit," replied Jo. "She’s too serious. This is a coven not a convent…we ARE allowed to have fun."

"Please tell me that’s tea you’re making," said Barbara as she entered the kitchen, yawning.

"Yup. So come on, spill it," grinned Jo, "what did loopy Lisa see this time? Talking peanuts again? Or another visit from the Grand Pooh-Bah of Venus?"

Barbara pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "This time I think she’s actually onto something."

"About bloody time," muttered Jo, fetching another mug.

"Seriously…she saw some kind of coming together, a convergence. She also said that the Watchers were involved."

"Are you going to tell them?" Asked Susan quietly.

"Yes…I’ll drive out to Clunewic later. I don’t particularly want to phone this one in."

"Oh good," grinned Jo. "If we’re going to the Big House then maybe Nikki could smuggle her pendulum in and we could try a little spirit dowsing."

"She’d never get it past security," smiled Barbara. "Unless she hid it in her knickers."

"IF she remembers to wear any."

Rupert Giles lay sprawled full-length on the couch, his head hanging slightly over the edge, eyes closed and mouth open. His light snores competed in volume with the ticking clock on the wall. Giles had fought against what he called "Afternoon Nap Syndrome" for days until, after a bit of persuasion from Vulcan’s Bane, he had finally admitted to the doctor that he felt incredibly tired in the afternoons. Dr Howard had looked up from his prodding of the slowly healing wounds on Giles’ chest, fixed him with a baleful eye and ordered him to "take a short nap". Giles had protested, remembering times as a boy when his father would settle down and sleep the afternoon away which resulted in the youthful Rupert having to tiptoe silently around the house for fear of waking the irascible man. Dr Howard, who proceeded to favour Giles with a long lecture about sleep being Nature’s restorative, regarded his comment of "an afternoon nap is for old people" as somewhat akin to heresy. He had ended his lecture by wagging his finger at Giles and commenting that "an afternoon nap MIGHT be for old people…but it is also remarkably beneficial for recuperating patients." With a deep sense of foreboding and a mental vow not to make it a habit, Giles had grudgingly agreed to try it out. Of course, he would never admit to Dr Howard that, less than a week later, he was already feeling the benefits of napping for a couple of hours each afternoon. He was stronger, more alert, his medication had been reduced and, to Giles’ relief, the dull throbbing pain from his wounds had eased considerably. He was moving more easily around the house – the tight bandages around his chest no longer seeming quite so restrictive.

Giles shifted around on the couch, suddenly waking with a start and wincing at the pain that stabbed through him.

"That wasn’t a very clever thing to do." He muttered as he sat up, looking around at the sheets of paper and open books that covered the table and had started to encroach upon the floor.

"No doubt," replied Giles as he stood and moved slowly to the kitchen where he set about making a pot of tea. "You think it’s all a waste of time, don’t you?"

"And isn’t that what I’m doing?" Replied Giles evenly, taking the milk out of the fridge.

"I THINK I know…but we need to be sure."

Nicholas Goldsmith leaned back in his chair, watching the lady opposite him as she fastidiously read through her Employment Contract. Mrs Dawson had been ‘recommended’ by Quentin Travers and, Nicholas had to admit, her qualifications were first class. There were other aspects of Mrs Dawson, however, that gave Nicholas pause for thought. She was a short, thin lady in her late fifties; smartly dressed in a skirt and blouse and with a pair of large glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. The glasses, combined with her thin face and framed by a rather unflattering hairstyle, gave the impression of an emaciated owl peering haughtily out of an ivy bush. Nicholas tried to contain a sigh. She looks the kind of person who uses copious amounts of those horrendous bright yellow Post-It Notes…not to mention multiple exclamation marks to emphasis her point. Look at the way she’s reading that: she’s running her finger across each line and her whole head is moving from side to side…it’s like she’s watching a tennis match not reading.

"That all seems satisfactory, Mr Goldsmith," said Mrs Dawson finally as she put the contract on the desk.

"Excellent," replied Nicholas. "In that case, could you sign both copies please?"

Mrs Dawson signed and dated both copies and once Nicholas had duly witnessed her signature, she folded one copy and placed it carefully in her bag.

"I understand I will be sharing an office with Mr Giles?"

"Yes," confirmed Nicholas. "I’m afraid space is at a premium around here but I’m sure the two of you will get along just fine."

"I rather thought he would be in attendance today," Mrs Dawson clasped her hands together and looked at Nicholas over the top of her glasses. "After all, he is the gentleman to whom I will be directly responsible."

"Ah yes," Nicholas leaned back slightly as though to escape Mrs Dawson’s piercing gaze. For a moment, he felt like a rabbit hypnotised by oncoming headlights. "I’m afraid Mr Giles is currently on extended sick leave."

"I see." Mrs Dawson’s eyes narrowed with disapproval and Nicholas felt a sudden urge to defend Giles from the "malingerer" thoughts that were doubtless going through the lady’s mind.

"Mr Giles sustained rather serious injuries in a recent accident," he said evenly. "However, I’m pleased to say that he seems to be on the mend."

Mrs Dawson seemed singularly unimpressed by this explanation and Nicholas felt slightly annoyed with himself. I should have just kept my mouth shut.

"Do you have any more questions, Mrs Dawson?"

"No, thank you," she replied, standing up and holding out her hand. Nicholas stood and grasped her hand, stifling a squeak at the surprising firmness of her grip. "I will see you on Monday morning at 8.30 sharp, Mr Goldsmith. Good day."

"Uhh…goodbye." Nicholas watched her leave and sank thankfully back into his chair. Well, she’s going to please some staff, irritate others and downright frighten some, he thought. I think Rupert might fall into the middle category. Upon reflection, I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him he has a new assistant…and he finally meets this formidable woman. It’ll be like an unstoppable force coming face to face with an immovable object…fascinating.

He was sitting on the kitchen floor, his back against a wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Shaking and sweating, his eyes bright with fever, Ethan Rayne had spent the last few hours talking to himself...literally. In his delirious state he could see his "other self" as he thought of him, glaring down with utter contempt.

"You should simply give up and die," came the taunt and Ethan tensed, looking down and gripping his knees tighter. "What do you think will happen when Ripper finds you? And find you he will…make no mistake about it. You think he’ll open his arms and forgive you?"

"Rupert will help me." Ethan spoke softly, unconvinced, keeping his head down and not daring to look up.

"Help you?" The mocking laugh caused Ethan to cringe. "He didn’t help you before, did he? He turned you over to THEM! He’ll do the same again."

"He didn’t know!"

"Are you sure about that?" The voice was low and dangerous. "Ignorance is no excuse. He left you there, he abandoned you. He never even bothered to check up on you."

"No…"

"YES!" The shout contained such anger, such fury that Ethan stared up in surprise at the twisted, malevolent face above him. "He’ll turn you over to them again. Let them torture you. Let them destroy you like they did before.

"No," Ethan swallowed and looked down once more. "He won’t."

"No, he’ll turn you over to the Council this time," his other self sneered, "and their tender mercies. You pathetic little worm…what use can you be now? Look at yourself! You know what’s coming; you can feel it calling you. It’s in your blood; it’s a part of you. You are its servant…and you sit here, powerless…useless…worthless. Why don’t you just fucking give up and die?"

"No…mustn’t…can’t…"

"Die, you little shit! Die…die…die…die…die…"

"This is the last batch," remarked Henry, sipping his tea and watching Giles flick through the large, bulky folder he’d given him. "So if you find nothing then there’s nothing to find."

"I’m sure there will be something useful here."

"Have you made any progress?"

"Well," Giles put the folder aside and sat back carefully, "I do have one theory…but it’s just that: a theory."

"And what does HE think of your theory?" Henry asked, tapping his head for emphasis.

"He thinks we should investigate it," smiled Giles, "but it’s just instinct on my part…not what you would call a fully-formed theory yet."

"Try putting it into words," suggested Henry. "That usually works for me. It enables you to see things more clearly."

"I’ll try," replied Giles, "but don’t expect a water-tight Conan Doyle explanation. This is a possibility, not a probability."

"Expound away, Holmes," Henry grinned and settled back in his chair.

"Thank you, Watson…and for the sake of your boredom threshold I’ll be succinct." Giles took a sip of tea and then put the cup aside, clasping his hands in front of him. "I used to count Ethan Rayne as a friend…a very good friend. We went through a lot together, we were always there for one another." Giles paused and frowned. "Then something went wrong. Because of us, because of what we did, a mutual friend died. We caused it…we dabbled with things we had no right to. In a way that ended our friendship. I backed off…I ran back to the Council. Ethan however, seemed to embrace this dark side. He lived off it…gave himself to it completely. We lost touch…but in the last few years our paths crossed a few times."

"Not in a good way if your tone of voice is anything to go by."

"No…definitely not. I realise you probably won’t understand a lot of this, Henry, but one thing should be clear. Ethan Rayne is a very powerful sorcerer who serves Chaos."

"So you think William’s final words about a sorcerer concern this Ethan Rayne?"

"It fits," shrugged Giles, "but Ethan’s never really been this brutal. He’s a coward at heart and he loves mischief…this sort of thing doesn’t seem his style…and that’s the problem."

"Problem?"

"Doubts, Henry. Too many variables…too many ‘what ifs’. I mean, the idea of using one of my own ancestors against me is pure Ethan…it’s certainly something he would do. On the other hand, brutally murdering a friend…no, that’s not the Ethan I know." Giles rubbed his chest, which had started to itch somewhat. "If this were a book we’d be able to follow the clues and come to the inevitable ‘Reverend Green, in the study, with the candlestick’ conclusion. Real life is different."

"Of course it’s different, old chap," replied Henry. "We are living, breathing, thinking people not two dimensional, fictional creations. People can be unpredictable no matter how well you think you know them. In real life, facts and truth often have to be mixed with gut instinct and hunches."

"Yes," sighed Giles, "and there’s enough doubt to make it necessary for us to explore the possibility."

"Ah," Henry raised an eyebrow. "I take it his nibs has interjected another pearl of wisdom?"

"Doesn’t he always?" Giles chuckled softly, relieved to find that he could now laugh without the accompanying pain that he’d recently experienced. "Maybe I should start addressing him as Confucius?"

Henry laughed and Giles felt a flash of amusement in his mind.

"I’ve felt comfortable with you for some time. You are a part of me now…and I am a part of you."

"And in the meantime," replied Giles, "first things first. Ethan."

"Are you going to inform the Council of your theory?" Asked Henry. "I’m sure with their resources they could find him for you."

"No." Giles stared at Henry. "There’s no need for the Council to be involved yet…especially as I’m merely chasing up an improbable theory. There are places I can look…people I can contact."

"And I take it that were I to keep quiet about this theory of yours and not mention it to Quentin, you wouldn’t be unduly upset?"

"I need to be sure, Henry, before I involve them. I’m not going to deliver him up to them if he’s innocent in this."

"Fair enough. I’m new to all this so I’ll trust your judgement," he replied, watching Giles carefully. "Be honest with me, Rupert…how are you REALLY feeling?"

"I’m feeling a lot better," Giles grinned. "It’s certainly nowhere near as painful as it was."

"That’s good to hear. When do you hope to return to work?"

"Nicholas getting twitchy?"

"Just a tad," smiled Henry. "So is Quentin."

"I’m seeing the doctor this afternoon," replied Giles. "I’m hoping he’ll give me the all-clear."

She moved quickly and easily through the deserted streets, a tall, slender figure darting between doorways and alleys, alert and focussed, her eyes never still as they scanned her surroundings. Dressed in black, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, she hefted the slim-bladed sword that glinted in the moonlight. I am SO good…they can’t touch me, can’t hurt me…they can’t get close enough. Who needs Slayers? Who needs Slayers when you have Watchers? A figure leapt out of a concealed doorway and, with a sweep of her sword; a headless corpse slumped to the ground, the head rolling off into the shadows. Bring them on, boys…

"THOMPSON!"

Jasmine Thompson jumped slightly and dropped the piece of paper she was holding. She looked up wide-eyed, groaning inwardly at the sight of the craggy-faced man framed in the doorway.

"Daydreaming again, Thompson?" He folded his arms, daring her to disagree with him.

"Um…no, sir…not at all," stuttered Jasmine, desperately trying to gather her thoughts.

"Well then Miss Thompson," Robin Miller stepped towards her, "perhaps you would like to tell me what on earth is so fascinating about that piece of paper that would cause you to be staring at it for the last five minutes?"

Jasmine scrabbled around on her desk, retrieving the paper and quickly scanning it.

"Um…something odd, sir," she ventured. "We were told to report anything out of the ordinary."

"Feel free to stagger me with your amazing discovery, Miss Thompson."

"Some of our overseas offices are reporting a very noticeable reduction in…activity, sir," Jasmine handed Robin the paper. "Nothing specific as yet, sir."

"I see," Robin read through the report, making a mental note to discipline the Copenhagen office for their rather flippant "do vampires migrate south for the winter?" addendum. "What about Sunnydale?"

"Recent reports suggest nothing out of the ordinary, sir," replied Jasmine, a touch of relief evident in her voice.

"Right. Well done, Thompson," he handed the report back to her. "Make me six copies of that and contact the offices not mentioned in the report…find out if the situation is the same there."

He moved through the night, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, glimpsed by some, unseen by others. Those unlucky enough to catch sight of the dark figure who kept to the shadows often found themselves muttering soft prayers or desperately clutching the crosses that hung around their necks. As the figure moved on, some would proceed on their way, instantly forgetting, whilst others would rush home to be with loved ones, completely unable to explain the sense of terror and foreboding that gripped them. Still he continued, moving through cities, towns and countryside, always keeping pace with the night, listening and observing. I do so like humanity. Such small creatures but with a great capacity for evil. They have not fully explored this yet, they do not know what they are capable of…but they soon will. They will come to know true evil…true suffering…and they have brought it upon themselves. Their wars, their famines, their selfishness, their violence…all it does is make us stronger. They have fed us. They have nurtured us. They DESERVE us. The chessboard is prepared. The pieces are moving into position. Soon…soon the game will begin.

Quentin put the Doctor’s report to one side and glanced up as a loud knock sounded on his door.

"Come in," he said, sitting back comfortably.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Charles Grant peered around the door, contriving to look both excited and worried at the same time.

"Yes, come in and sit down Charles."

Quentin watched with a touch of amusement as Charles swallowed nervously and sat down, clasping his hands in front of him.

"Now, first of all, I want you to rearrange the trainees’ schedules. From now on, their training will include two days a week with Rupert Giles."

"Which days, sir?"

"That will be flexible…and entirely up to Rupert. Just be ready for a few last minute changes, Charles. Inform the other tutors that their co-operation IS expected."

"When is this due to start?" Charles took a small notepad and a pen out of his pocket. He started to chew the top of the pen and frowned at Quentin.

"Right now, Charles," replied Quentin with a smile. "Rupert should arrive at the London office in about an hour."

"Oh…um…right," Charles scribbled a brief note on his pad and then looked up nervously. "You…um…said ‘first of all’, sir?"

"Yes. What is Henry Rochester researching at the moment?"

"Still the same, sir. He seems to be working his way through all the…um…end of the world prophecies and predictions."

"Keep an eye on him…let me know if his research changes at all."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all?" Charles said hopefully.

"Just a couple more things." Quentin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Make sure you give Rupert a copy of that statement from the Cornish Coven. The Watcher described in the vision sounds remarkably like him and I’d value his input on this."

"Yes, sir. I’ll fax it to London."

"Good. One last thing…you are now on a three-month trial as my assistant. Don’t disappoint me."

Giles closed his eyes and sat back, rather thankful that he’d seemed inadvertently to have stumbled across the only taxi driver in London who didn’t keep up a steady stream of inane chatter. After a perfunctory introduction, the only times Rick had opened his mouth had been to yell and curse at other motorists.

Interesting. You are feeling a mixture of emotions about this. You seem excited AND nervous.

"Trainees are known to be somewhat scathing and rough on new tutors." Giles smiled, "However, I can handle them."

"I am concerned about how they view Slayers, yes. The whole relationship between a Slayer and a Watcher is an extremely complex one and, from what you’ve said, Gerald twisted it for his own ends. I admit I’m a bit worried that I won’t be able to convince them of the truth."

"It is?"

Indeed. Out of all the trainees, there is only a handful likely to go on and partner Slayers. Most of them will spend their lives supporting the Council in a variety of other ways. Do not place too much importance on the Slayer…they will need a sense of their own worth first.

Giles smiled slightly. "Which is something I didn’t have."

He tried to move, tried to crawl, but his fingers skidded and slipped over the tiled floor. He sank back down, muttering and glaring at the fridge. To Ethan’s feverish brain, it appeared to be mocking him…its gleaming whiteness teasing and tormenting him with promises of a multitude of delights contained within.

"I don’t know why you bother," came a bored sounding voice and Ethan looked up at his other self who was sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs.

"Go away."

"Now, now," his other self tutted. "Although I might stand over by the door…you stink."

"I don’t," replied Ethan weakly, laying his head down on the floor.

"Look at yourself! Covered in shit and vomit. Pathetic," he sneered, sliding off the table and walking over to Ethan. "You can’t take care of yourself…can’t even feed yourself. Look…there’s food right in front of you and you haven’t even seen it!"

Ethan’s gaze followed the pointing finger and he trembled, reaching out a shaking hand towards the plate of sandwiches on the floor nearby.

"Don’t say I never do anything for you," grinned his other self, sitting casually on the table once more.

Ethan raised a sandwich to his lips, feeling his stomach rumbling as he gently bit into the soft, white bread. He chewed slowly, savouring the taste of the ham and mustard. Maybe I won’t die, he thought, maybe this will keep me alive until Rupert finds me. A sudden, unpleasant chuckle broke into his thoughts and he looked up at his other self, who was rocking back and forth with undisguised merriment. Ethan opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. He could feel movement…something crawling…in his mouth…on his hands. He stared down with horror at the horde of maggots crawling over his hands and then, desperately spitting out the ones in his mouth, he vomited, emptying his stomach of what little remained. Crying and retching, Ethan curled up into a ball, aware for the first time of the smell lingering around him and the flies buzzing through the air. I can’t take this...I can’t take any more…

Henry scribbled a brief note on the pad of paper on the table and then turned his attention back to the large, dusty tome before him. He gently turned a page, muttering and peering at the faded text. Elephants? What on Earth have elephants got to do with anything? He glanced at his notes and frowned. I know prophecies are traditionally obscure but whoever heard of an ‘elephant spewing fire’? Henry sighed, scribbled another note and then dropped his pen on the table. He picked up his mug and sipped his now cold tea thoughtfully. Most of these prophecies concern earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, the sea level rising…natural disasters really. Interestingly, they seem to link this to the coming of the third ‘antichrist’.

"Mr Rochester?"

Henry glanced up, smiling at the newcomer. "Ahhh…good morning, Mr Grant."

"Uhh…good morning." Charles stepped into the room, nervously glancing around. "Um…I wanted to let you know that your…um…request has been approved. Your username and password have been initiated…and you can now log on and access…’certain’ records."

"Excellent!" Henry rubbed his hands with delight. "I need to look at the newspapers for the last few months…is that relatively easy?"

"Yes," replied Charles, pointing at the computer terminal, "would you like me to…um…?"

"Oh please, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you have quicker fingers than these slightly arthritic stumps of mine."

"Would it be too much of an imposition to…um…ask why you need this information?" Asked Charles, his fingers practically flying over the keyboard.

"I’m just noticing a few correlations between some of these prophecies and current events," replied Henry. "You know the type of thing: the increase in natural ‘disasters’ and so on."

"Right, you’re all set up here. Would you like to start with today’s newspapers and scroll backward?"

"That sounds fine," smiled Henry. "Thank you for your help."

"You’re welcome," replied Charles, moving away from the computer. "Good luck in your search."

"Thank you."

Henry stood and closed the door behind Charles. He took a deep breath and strode over to the computer, seating himself in front of it and peering myopically at the screen. After a few false starts, Henry soon discovered how to change newspapers and scroll back and forth. The Telegraph, he thought, that’s much better. Good quality news in the Telegraph. He scrolled through the pages, briefly scanning the headlines, until, tucked away on page twelve, a short news item caught his attention.

"Mammoth Trembles," he read. "Mammoth Mountain in California is experiencing a series of earth tremors. Experts are warning that this is likely the precursor to a large scale eruption of the mountain."

Henry sighed and sat back. The elephant is about to spew fire…just as predicted.

Rachel Edwards stood outside the lecture theatre, her hand hovering over the door handle as she bit her lip indecisively. She was a short, mousy haired young woman who, upon first glance, appeared somewhat older than her twenty years. Her deliberately nondescript appearance and habit of scuttling quietly from place to place with her head down meant that she rarely drew a second glance, which was precisely the effect she wanted. Previous tutors had noted her "painful shyness" and, as their attempts to draw her out inevitably failed, they left her alone…all except Gerald Montague.

For Rachel, Gerald Montague’s classes were complete torture. Flinching and blushing every time she made eye contact with anyone had made her a perfect victim and Gerald had not hesitated to make use of this. Rachel was continuously picked out and laughed at by the other students and her dread of Gerald’s classes had come to a head when he had branded her a failure in front of the whole group. Reading aloud from her personal file, Gerald had taken great delight in detailing Rachel’s childhood years in one of the Council’s many training establishments. "A potential Slayer, for whom the word ‘potential’ was seriously misused," was how he had described her, together with the usual "failure" and "waste of skin" comments.

After that, Rachel had withdrawn into herself even more, bearing the increased insults and vilification with the kind of resigned fortitude peculiar to those long-suffering individuals whose expulsion from the crowd is merely another example of the many potholes life has in store for them.

Mind you, she thought, her hand gently grasping the door handle, Mad Montague’s disappearance had helped things a bit. Wrapped up in speculation, the other students were simply too busy to bother about her…which suited Rachel perfectly. Her new-found and much-loved isolation combined with the absence of Gerald Montague meant that Rachel was happier than she had been for years, but she couldn’t help thinking that this was about to come to an abrupt end.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and slipped unobtrusively into the lecture theatre. A glance at the crowd gathered around Alan Jackson, the class gossip, reassured Rachel that her entrance had not been noticed and she quickly found a seat in the middle of the theatre. Never sit near the back or near the front of the class, she thought, it’s too noticeable. Taking out her notebook, she studied the cover and listened intently to the conversation around her.

"Oh come on, Alan!" Scott snapped irritably at his smugly grinning friend. "You ALWAYS know what’s going on."

"Maybe I do," replied Alan tapping his pen on the table. He glanced up at the crowd that had gathered around him, enjoying the attention he was being given. "Maybe I happen to know who our new tutor is."

A buzz went around the assembled group as they muttered and mumbled to one another. Scott folded his arms across his chest and glared at Alan.

"Spill it," he said evenly and Alan sighed, realising he couldn’t push it any further.

"If you MUST know," he smirked, "our new tutor is none other than…Rupert Giles."

A chorus of heartfelt groans greeted this statement and Rachel frowned to herself.

"He’s a waster," remarked one lad and a number of heads nodded in agreement.

"Let that Slayer of his walk all over him," said another. "He’s weak."

"I want to know what happened to Mr Montague," cut in a third. "My brother works in Records and he said it was odd that as soon as Rupert Giles came back, Mr Montague disappeared."

"Your brother is too fond of conspiracies," countered a smartly dressed girl as she pushed her way to the front of the group. "Everything we know about Mr Giles is hearsay. Why don’t we just ask him ourselves?"

"An excellent idea, young lady," said Giles from the doorway. As one, the group turned to face him. Some regarded him dispassionately; others with interest and a few with ill-concealed hostility. "Please take your seats."

The students filtered away from Alan, silently finding seats in the small lecture theatre and staring down at Giles as he entered the room and casually leaned against a large table at the front of the room. Aware of sixteen pairs of eyes watching his every move, Giles put his hands in his pockets and looked around, deliberately making eye contact with every student. Only a few were able to meet his gaze; most lowered their eyes whereas Rachel flinched and blushed, drawing a quick reassuring nod from Giles.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman," he said evenly, his stare taking in the whole class once more. "As you are no doubt aware, my name is Rupert Giles and I will be teaching you from now on. Any questions?"

"Where’s Mr Montague?" Came a voice from the back. "Why isn’t he teaching us anymore?"

"Mr Montague is…indisposed," replied Giles. "He will not be returning."

Muted whispers greeted this statement and more than a few of the students looked decidedly unhappy at this answer.

"You’re like everyone else here. You’re fobbing us off," said one individual loudly and belligerently. "We’re not children. We deserve to be answered."

"You want an honest answer?" Giles smiled. "Very well, Mr…?"

"Newton…James Newton."

"Very well, Mr Newton. The truth is that Mr Montague had been searching for something for a very long time." Giles paused and looked around, hardening his gaze and straightening up slightly. "He finally found it."

Scott frowned and bit his lip, glancing around at the others who looked similarly disconcerted. He’s not weak, he thought, and if Mr Montague was wrong about that…what else was he wrong about? Taking a deep breath, Scott raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr…?"

Scott stood up. "Clark, sir…Scott Clark."

"Thank you, Mr Clark. Please continue."

"Could you tell us about the Slayer, sir?"

Rachel flinched, waiting for the inevitable jokes and insults to begin. She risked a glance at Giles, surprised to see him smile suddenly.

"And what precisely do you wish to know, Mr Clark?" Asked Giles, amused at the resignation he felt in his mind.

"Um…everything, sir."

"You’re not asking a lot, are you, Mr Clark?" Giles smiled as he started to pace up and down. "SHE has a name. Her name is Buffy. She is a person…just like you. She has hopes and dreams…just like you. She had no choice over her destiny…just like most of you. She has friends…just like you. She thinks…she feels…she laughs…she cries…she loves. Just. Like. You."

Not like me, thought Rachel desperately as she tried to ignore the sniggering around her, not like me at all. Keeping her head down, she willed them to stop, not wanting to attract the attention of their new tutor. He could be worse than Mr Montague…he KNOWS about a Slayer…he’ll despise me…they all do.

At first, Giles thought the giggling was directed at him but then he noticed the students casting glances towards the young lady who had blushed earlier and was now cringing noticeably. Giles frowned and folded his arms.

"And what is so funny?" He asked, the implied threat in his voice quietening a number of students. Giles glanced around at those still giggling, his eyes settling on one young man in particular. "Mr Newton, kindly stop the hyena impression and answer my question."

With an effort, James Newton managed to bring himself under control and he stared down at Giles in scornful disbelief.

"Haven’t you read our files…sir?"

"Certainly not," replied Giles evenly, ignoring the sarcastic tone of voice. "I prefer to rely on my own judgement, Mr Newton."

James grinned and leaned forward, feeling much surer of his ground.

"We have in our midst, sir," he began to intone for effect, "a former POTENTIAL…nay, a FAILED Potential."

Some of the students began sniggering again and Giles raised an eyebrow.

"In what way did this young lady fail?" He asked, glancing at Rachel whose lowered head didn’t quite manage to hide her furiously blushing face.

"She wasn’t chosen, sir…she wasn’t good enough…therefore she failed," replied James, sitting back smugly.

"You consider that failure, do you, Mr Newton?" Giles asked, staring at the young man. "Personally, I consider it a very lucky escape."

A buzz went around the room and Rachel glanced up, just in time to catch a quick wink directed at her by Giles. She smiled and bent her head once more, intrigued at the somewhat unexpected twist in the conversation.

"I am aware that discussion of Potentials’ training methods is strictly off-limits. However, in case any of you are labouring under the delusion that all they do is sit around in armchairs, waiting to see who might be chosen, allow me to divest you of that notion. Mr Newton, you would be on your knees in tears before the end of the first day of training…I can guarantee that. As I’m sure this young lady will agree, it is hard, it is tough and failure is NOT permitted. Had this young lady failed, she would not be sitting here."

Giles paused and stared around at the students, a few of whom had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

"What do you think happens to Potentials who remain unchosen? You think they all disappear in a puff of smoke? Do they go back to their families, changed beyond recognition? I’m sure a few do…most however remain. Some continue training and serve the Council in the way they feel is best, perhaps hoping for another chance of being chosen. Others however, decide to walk a much more difficult path…" Giles broke off and smiled at Rachel, "they decide to become Watchers. The fact that they are former Potentials is NOT broadcast. I would be most interested in discovering precisely how you came to know this."

Silence greeted his statement. Most of the students looked anywhere but at Giles, refusing to meet his eyes. Rachel stared down, occasionally sneaking glances at Giles through lowered lids. A revelation, she thought, someone who knows. It probably won’t help, but at least he understands.

"Never mind," continued Giles, "I think I know where the information came from. From now on, you will treat this young lady with the respect she deserves. Now if there are no further questions I suggest we start the lesson."

Interesting. The impetuousness of youth. Quick to judge and slow to forgive. Our previous discussion regarding a sense of self-worth would appear to be of importance. They need to learn to think for themselves and not blindly follow where others lead.

Jo struggled along the cliff path, carrying an armful of driftwood and laughing delightedly in the teeth of the gale that threatened to sweep her to the rocky beach below. The thin, cotton T-shirt that she habitually wore provided little or no protection against a cutting wind that seemed to consist of little razor-sharp needles and her skin rippled and trembled beneath the onslaught. Maybe I should have worn something a little more…substantial, she conceded, her eyes pricking with tears at the force of the sudden gust that whipped around her. She pressed on, keeping her head down and concentrating only on the small section of path directly in front of her. It was little wonder then that a few minutes later Jo almost collided with a tall, bundled-up figure whose muffled curse had a familiar ring to it. Lisa was dressed in a long, heavy coat; a knitted hat pulled right down over her head and a scarf that was wrapped not only around her neck but also the lower portion of her face. Two bright, mirthful eyes peered out at Jo from a forest of wool and Lisa slowly pulled the scarf down.

"For a minute, I thought we would both go ass over tip," she chuckled, drawing a few breathless giggles from Jo.

"If we did then you’ve got plenty of padding around you…you’re done up like it’s the middle of winter."

"I feel the cold," protested Lisa, "unlike you, obviously."

"Well make yourself useful," replied Jo, "and give me a hand back with this."

"You’ll be doing some more carving?" Asked Lisa, taking a few pieces of driftwood.

"Depends how inspired I feel."

Lisa nodded and started back towards the farmhouse with Jo. The cliff path was just wide enough to allow them to walk side by side.

"This ‘vision’ you saw," began Jo, glancing at Lisa. "Tell me about it…please?"

"Barbara explained all that to the Council," replied Lisa with a touch of weariness.

"I wasn’t there," Jo smiled slightly. "Nikki and I snuck off…remember?"

"Oh yes," a brief smile lit up Lisa’s face before she sighed and then nodded. "There’s not much to tell. It was like…a gathering. A convergence of evil…they were everywhere. They seemed overwhelming, unstoppable…but something stood in their way."

"The Watchers?"

"Yes," replied Jo, "but one in particular. He’s not like the rest, he’s different somehow."

"Good looking?" Asked Jo with a wicked grin, trying to lighten the sombre mood.

"I couldn’t see his face but," Lisa frowned, "I think we’re going to find out. I have a feeling we’ll be dragged into this whether we like it or not."

"Hmm…why was this ‘evil’ gathering?"

"I don’t know but I have some suspicions." Lisa glanced at Jo. "There’s a quote that springs to mind: And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them."

"Cheery. Where’s it from?"

"The Bible," replied Lisa. "Revelation to be exact."

"Revelation? The Antichrist?" Jo looked incredulously at Lisa. "You can’t really think that?"

"I don’t know what I think any more."

"Oh please," scoffed Jo. "I can just about take your notion of the Watchers lined up against an army of evil, but imagining that lot as some kind of heavenly host? I think not…no way are that unholy crew going to be guardians of MY soul."

Mrs Dawson sipped at a mug of tea and sighed inwardly as she gazed across at the chaotic desk opposite. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, a teacup was substituting as an impromptu pen holder and the telephone was buried so deeply underneath an assortment of clutter that it obviously hadn’t seen the light of day for a considerable time. I don’t know how anyone can work in those conditions, she thought, her fingers itching with the desire to bring order to chaos. Mrs Dawson’s desk was a model of organisation. Everything was symmetrical: papers were all in alignment, books were piled neatly and pens were lined up like a battalion of soldiers on parade. Even the telephone had succumbed – it was clean, no speck of dust daring to settle on it and the cord was amazingly untangled, lying on the desk in a perfectly straight line. Mrs Dawson put her mug down, adjusted its position slightly and then stood up purposefully. I AM his assistant, she thought, therefore my job is to assist. The best way of doing that is to organise the gentleman so that he will be able to FIND what he is supposed to be working on.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Dawson," Nicholas peered around the office door. "Are you settling in okay?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr Goldsmith," she replied, picking up a small pile of paper from her desk. "Here’s the Ancient Hebrew translation you were waiting for."

"Oh…" Nicholas looked slightly nonplussed. "Thank you…I’m surprised you managed to find anything on Rupert’s desk."

Mrs Dawson smiled tightly. "It was on top of that…chaos. I dread to think what lies beneath."

"Rupert may appear to be unorganised, but he can lay his hands on everything he needs."

"I’m sure he can," she replied smoothly, "however, if I am to assist Mr Giles then I will need to be able to find what I need as well."

"Right…yes…" Nicholas took the papers. "Well, I’ll leave you to it…have fun."

I KNEW she’d start organising him, Nicholas thought triumphantly as he walked back to his office. Let’s see how smoothly this place will run now with Mrs Dawson greasing the wheels.

The underground tunnel was hot – very hot and Hathor was regretting his decision to answer the mysterious summoning he’d felt. Hathor was a Furse Demon, his bright red skin showing that, at 120 years old, he was in his prime. I should be out there having fun not stuck in here with this weirdo, he thought, glancing at his human-looking companion. Hathor and Daniel had fallen in together on the way to the meeting place but Hathor had found his new friend a morose travelling companion.

"Damn hot, isn’t it?" He said with a sigh, determined to break the uncomfortable silence. "And no…I hadn’t forgotten that your kind are at home whatever the temperature might be."

"We merely adapt to circumstances."

"I see," Hathor mentally cast around for something else to discuss. "What do you think all this is about?"

"I don’t know…I have heard rumours however."

"What rumours?" Asked Hathor, intrigued.

"The final battle…the end of everything," shrugged Daniel, looking supremely uninterested. "One theory is that we will be warriors in the forthcoming war and that humanity will be completely wiped out."

"No way!" Exclaimed Hathor, his eyes wide.

"Way, dude!" Daniel mocked with a smile.

"But," frowned Hathor, "humanity can’t be wiped out…they’re too much fun!"

"The boss-man might disagree," remarked Daniel as he settled back against the wall. Hathor glanced at his companion, somehow managing, despite the naturally red skin, to look somewhat embarrassed.

"Um…who IS the boss-man?" He asked tentatively and Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"You mean you don’t know?"

"No," replied Hathor quietly.

"You’ve come all this way…and you don’t know?"

"No, all right?" Snapped Hathor. "I don’t sodding know!"

Daniel sighed and shook his head.

"Damn," he said, "because neither do I."

Hathor muttered under his breath and then glared at Daniel.

"Haven’t you heard rumours?"

"Oh yes. Everything from the Antichrist to the First Evil."

"I don’t fancy either," replied Hathor somewhat miserably. "They’re both the same. Sending US into battle whilst they stay safely out of the way. And why should we destroy humanity? Humans are okay. They’re fun and they can be reasonable. See…they stay out of my way and I stay out of their way."

"Well maybe the boss means to merely enslave them."

"That’s almost as bad. Suppose we put the whole race in chains…what are we supposed to do with them then? I like things the way they are…I don’t want to rule the world…I wouldn’t know what to do with it!"

"And you’re supposed to be evil?" Daniel smiled broadly.

"I am!" Hathor protested. "I’m evil…I make humans suffer. I once made a whole neighbourhood live without television for a entire month."

"Oh wow," Daniel yawned dramatically, "I’m SO impressed."

"And THIS is what I have to work with?" The deep, rich baritone voice echoed off the walls and Hathor swallowed nervously as he felt the power emanating from the insignificant looking human walking up the tunnel towards them. He eyed Hathor and shook his head sadly. "You just can’t get the staff these days."

"And who might you be?" Asked Hathor defiantly, glancing at Daniel who was showing the first signs of interest since Hathor had met him.

"I’m no-one," replied the man with a shrug, his eyes glinting dangerously, "I’m merely an emissary."

"I…I don’t understand," Hathor frowned and stepped backwards.

"No, you obviously don’t," sighed the man and, with a flick of his wrist, a column of fire engulfed the hapless red-skinned demon. Daniel stepped to one side, flicking imaginary ash from his jacket and seeming unaffected by the burning, shrieking Hathor. Daniel looked up at the impassive face before him and bowed.

"What is your will, my lord?"

"Tell me what you know of the Watchers…Daniel."