l'androise blanc

Chapter Three: Erasure

Birds chirped cheerfully at the windows as the morning light streamed through the kitchen. Willow was happily whistling off-key as she poured velvet-thick batter into the pan on the stove. Dawn staggered in, eyes bleary and tired, and grunted an incomprehensible greeting before slumping onto a stool. "Why are you so perky?" she mumbled. "I feel like I've been run over by a truck."

"Dunno," Willow answered. "It's a new day, it's all sunny and pretty out. How many pancakes do you want?"

"Ugh," Dawn said, clutching her queasy stomach. "Food bad. Sleep good. Want more sleep." Her head fell with a dull thud onto the counter.

"All the more for me then," Willow said. She lightly patted the bubbling batter with the back of a spatula, then frowned as something nagged at the back of her mind.

"I feel like we're forgetting something," she mused. "Like that feeling you get when you go on vacation and think you've left the sink running or the door unlocked?"

Dawn lifted her head. "I know what you mean, I feel like that, too."

"What is it?" Willow asked. "What did we forget?"

Dawn thought a moment, but nothing came to her. "Beats me."

The back door opened, and Tara stepped into the kitchen. "I thought I smelled something good," she said, spotting Willow at the stove. "Hey, Dawnie."

Dawn gave Tara a weak smile, then plopped her head back down on the counter.
Tara and Willow met in the center of the kitchen, greeting each other with a kiss.

"Hey, baby, have a good night?" Willow asked. "I missed you."

"Aw, I'm sorry, you know how study group can run late," Tara said. She patted the small bag slung over her arm. "Glad I packed for an all-nighter, otherwise I'd be all stale and gross this morning."

Willow grinned. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Tara turned to Dawn. "Need a ride to school?" she asked.

Dawn sighed, her head still on the counter. "I guess," she muttered.

Willow frowned in concern. "Are you feeling all icky-poo this morning?"

Her head came up again, but only far enough for Dawn to rest her chin on her hands. "Yeah, totally. I don't know why, though."

Tara came around to the other side of the counter and placed a cool hand against her forehead. "You feel a little feverish to me," she said. She looked over at Willow. "Why don't we let her stay home today?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, Dawnie, go on back to bed, you do look a little pale."

"All right, thanks, guys," she said. She slid off the stool and went back upstairs.

"I hope it's nothing serious," Tara remarked. "Should we get her a doctor's appointment?"

"I don't think that's really in the budget," Willow admitted. "It's probably just a bug or something, I'm sure she'll feel better tomorrow."

"I hope so. I know Joyce wouldn't have wanted…" Tara trailed off, then looked down sadly.

"I'm sure Joyce would understand," Willow assured her. "Besides, we're quite the capable guardians, don't you think?"

Tara flashed Willow a little smile. "I know we do our best, under the circumstances."

***

"And what do you propose I do about it?" Giles asked angrily. "I'm not her watcher anymore."

"No," Travers said, his tinny voice clearly tense even over the phone, "but I think you're up to the task, Rupert, and I'm putting you on it."

"Everybody else has something more important to do, is that it?" he asked.

Travers sighed. "I beg your pardon? What on earth could possibly be more important than getting the slayer back on task?"

"She's a lost cause," Giles explained. "Why not get another girl trained and at the ready?"

"Because it doesn't work that way!" Giles heard a metallic thump on the other end of the wire, and pictured Travers slamming his hand down on his desk.

"All right," Giles said quietly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Travers said. "I've already contacted some attorneys in Los Angeles who are sympathetic to our cause, as well as the other relevant parties. I'll fax you the details."

"As I said, I'll see what I can do," Giles said doubtfully, "but I warn you, I think Faith isn't worth salvaging."

"I'd be inclined to agree," Travers replied. "Trouble is, she's the only slayer we've got, isn't she?"

Giles was forced to concur. "That she is."

***

"Xander!"

His mother was yelling down to him from the top of the basement stairs. Crap, it was time to get up, he realized. What the hell for, every day was the same, a blur of job interviews that never panned out, and then there was the whole depressing non-existence of his love life to top it all off.

Oh, yeah, my life is like a freakin' box of chocolates, he thought bitterly. A tiny, crumpled package of cheap, hard, caramel-filled, mud-brown bon-bons that've been sitting on an empty park bench under the blazing sun for a week, melting into a stinky, sticky mess of --

"Xander!" his mother screamed again, louder this time. "You get your ass up here this minute, young man! Are you hung over again?!"

I wish, he thought. Don't even have enough cash to buy a 40 of Rolling Rock.
He dragged himself out of bed, snatching a dirty pair of jeans off the floor. "All right!" he called as he pulled them on. "All right, I'm up!"

***

"Your quota has been unmet yet again, Anyanka." D'Hoffryn's tone was gentle, but that did nothing to calm her nerves. Her boss could speak as gently as he wanted, but when it came down to it, he was still an eight-foot-tall demon honcho with sharp, spiraling ram horns on his head, a fearsome guy who could turn her into a frog with the snap of his fingers.

Or worse: a bunny, Anya thought with a shudder.

"I'm sorry!" she pleaded. "I'll do better, I swear! I was thinking of branching out, actually. Halfrek seems to think I might be good at helping her with the whole children-in-crisis thing, and --"

D'Hoffryn sighed. "Your quota has been unmet for four years," he said. "If this were merely a six-month slump, I could certainly look the other way, but, my dear, I'm afraid this will just not do."

"But… but… I've been working for you for a thousand years!" she wheedled, laughing nervously. "What's four little years in the scheme of ten centuries? It's a drop in the bucket!"

"Times are changing, Anyanka," D'Hoffryn said. "Businesses want workers with good productivity, even my business. It's a new millennium. Can't you manage to reach more clients? With the technology available, I mean, now, really! There's no excuse."

"I have a web site!" Anya whimpered. "I get some good traffic, too! I think it's just… people are too soft these days or something. They don't appreciate a good round of vengeance like they used to."

"I've given you warnings, you know that."

Anya hung her head. "I know."

"You know what has to be done."

She nodded.

D'Hoffryn raised his hands, holding his scepter to the sky. The sun winked out, and lightening flashed behind him. He chanted an incantation, and billows of yellow smoke surrounded him.

A piece of pink paper appeared in his left hand. With a flourish, he handed it to Anya.

"Here you are, Miss Jenkins," he said. "I'm really sorry to see you go. Your desk and locker will be cleaned out for you, and your personal effects will be teleported by the end of business hours tomorrow."

She nodded again, reading the terms of her discharge from the slip. "Good severance package, though," she noted. "Thank you."

D'Hoffryn smiled. "Well, it's the least I could do." He started to raise his arms again to begin his departure incantation, then paused. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, pointing to her neck. "I'll need that back."

Anya touched her amulet fondly. "Of course." She unhooked the clasp of its chain and handed it to him.

"Being a human isn't so bad," he assured her. "I'm sure you'll find something to occupy your time."

Another cloud of smoke, and he was gone. Anya looked around at the empty park D'Hoffryn had left her in. It was mid-morning, and she was somewhere in California. Good a place as any to start over.

***

He woke up, pleasantly sore in all the right places, and, with gleeful expectation, rolled over to her.

She was still asleep, the small curve of her chest rising and falling against the sheets. He propped himself up on one elbow on the pillow next to her, watching her with awe. He wanted to kiss her awake, but she looked so peaceful that he didn't dare move, satisfied for the time being just to gaze at her.

After a few minutes, her dark lashes fluttered open, and she yawned.

"Hello, there," he said.

He was smiling sleepily at her, hair mussed into little tufts and curls, the sheets only covering him tantalizingly up to the arch of one sharp hipbone. She grinned back at him contentedly.

"Hi," she said.

He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her softly, sucking tenderly at her bottom lip. She reached her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him on top of her.

He rose up, resting his weight on his forearms, and stared deeply into her eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Last night… you were incredible."

"You weren't so bad yourself," she said with a devilish grin.

He chuckled. "I wonder if we've ever been together before," he said. "We seem to be pretty damn good at it."

She trailed her fingertips along his back. "I don't know," she said, "but I'd like to do it again."

He fell back down on her, devouring her more hungrily this time, longing building up in both of them, but after a moment he rolled off her with a sigh of regret.

"Later," he assured her. "Think you should probably go back to the shop, check things out."

She snuggled against him, resting her head on his bare chest. "But I like this," she replied, lazily tracing circles around his nipples.

"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "But sooner or later, we've got to leave the nest, don't we? Can't play it safe and ignore the world forever."

"What if that means we can't… I mean, what if it's all written in some big manual of slayage that 'thou shalt not consort with the enemy' or something?" She was trying to be lighthearted about it, but he sensed her underlying fear.

He cupped her chin in his hand and looked at her, his expression serious.

"I don't care what the bloody facts are," he assured her. "What we've found here, we're not gonna let go of, no matter what anybody else says."

She sat up and turned from him.

"Right?" he asked as she slipped from the bed.

Buffy still didn't answer him. She dressed quickly and started for the stairs, but he dashed after her, clasped her arm.

Spike looked suddenly lost and young, his eyes wide with fear. "Buffy," he said, his voice faint. "Please… don't leave before you promise you'll come back to me."

They were in this together, she reminded herself. He wouldn't, he couldn't hurt her, no matter what else she discovered today. He wasn't like the vampires she was supposed to slay. He was different. Last night, she hadn't even thought of what he was as they made love. He'd just been a man -- an amazing and passionate man, but fantastically mortal in his appetites. It didn't matter what chilled in congealed crimson platelets in his refrigerator or how pointy his incisors occasionally became.

She took a deep breath and stroked his cheek tenderly. "I promise I'll come back."

She drew him toward her and kissed him. With his naked form taught against her, the quick and fervent embrace guaranteed she was his.

With a final sweet smile of comfort, she mounted the stairs. After all, the world was waiting.

***

Dawn tossed and turned fitfully. Her face had grown white, lips dry, murmuring whispers and snatches of words in foreign tongues. Beads of sweat sprang up on her brow, and beneath their lids, her eyes danced as the dream took hold of her.

"For Buffy and Tara, this I char," she said aloud.

She spoke for and through and with Willow, who was kneeling before a fireplace. Around the shadowy room, the air was full of static and amorphous spirit forms that clutched at Willow's hair and dress. Dawn tried to shout, to warn Willow that the magic realm disapproved of this spell, but the words stopped in her throat.

She could only helplessly recite the incantation with her as the flowers were set ablaze.

"Let Lethe's Bramble do its chore. Purge their minds of memories grim, of pains from recent slights and sins."

When Willow withdrew the clear crystal from its tiny pouch, Dawn sat bolt upright in bed and screamed.

Feet pounded down the hallway to her room, and Tara flung the door open, rushing to her side. "What's the matter?"

Dawn's coffee-brown hair was matted down in sweaty clumps against her forehead and neck. Her eyes bulged, the pupils dilated to giant black circles, irises nearly invisible. She shivered, and her cheeks seemed drawn and slightly sunken.

Tara gasped at Dawn's appearance and descended to the bed next to her, taking her hand to calm her. Dawn skittishly pulled away and drew her arms around her knees, her head buried, a tight little oval of a girl.

"What happened, Dawn?" Tara tried again.

Dawn turned to Tara, but she had a faraway look in her eye as if she didn't see her.

"After the crystal turns black," she said, "she doesn't know the rest."

"The rest?" Tara asked. "The rest of what?"

"'Tabula rasa' is only half of it," Dawn said. "The dark half. She's hasty." The girl laughed, a strange, old laugh. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she flopped down against the pillows.

"Dawnie!" Tara cried. She took Dawn by the shoulders and sat her back up. Tara racked her brain to come up with a simple spell to snap Dawn out of whatever trance she was in, but nothing was coming to mind. "Willow!" Tara called, momentarily forgetting that she had already left for class.

Dawn laughed again. "That's it exactly, witch," she said. "Willow's a shoddy one. Look what she's done!"

Dawn abruptly collapsed against Tara, shaking and crying. After a moment, she pulled away. She looked like herself again, albeit tired and wan, but her pupils were thankfully back to normal dimensions. "Something bad is happening," she whispered, "to someone… someone named 'Buffy'."

***

She opened the basement door, and soft strains of classical music greeted Buffy's ears. She took a step further inside, nearly colliding with Giles, his arms full of dusty books.

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Where did you come from?"

"I, uh… from the passage through the basement…"

Giles frowned. "I should probably keep that door locked," he mused. He studied her closely. The young woman seemed to be harmless enough, likely just another customer. "Can I help you find something?"

"Well, no, not really, I figured we should probably talk, and I need to get home to Dawn eventually."

"Dawn?" he asked. "Dawn who?"

Buffy was taken aback. "Dawn! Dawn…" She scanned the scant bits of information she'd been given the night before, but couldn't remember her own last name. "About fifteen, long brown hair, inch or so taller than me…"

A light of recognition came on behind Giles's eyes. "Oh, yes, Dawn Summers," he said. "Willow and Tara's charge. You're a friend of hers?" He went to a nearby shelf and began sliding books into place.

Buffy's eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. "No…" she said slowly. "I'm her sister."

He paused. "Goodness, I didn't realize she had a sister," he remarked. "I'm surprised you've not been around since her mother's passing." A wistful, sad expression crossed his face. "I'm very sorry for your loss. Joyce was a dear woman."

Buffy's breathing grew rapid. "I have been around!" she insisted. "At… at least I think I have…"

"Hmm?" Giles asked, confused.

The ring of the phone interrupted further conversation. "Pardon me, Ms. Summers," he said politely, moving to the counter. He picked up the receiver.

"Thank you for calling the Magic Box. How may I assist you?"

Buffy wandered closer to the counter. Had the spell taken hold of him again, she wondered with apprehension, or am I just going crazy? She began to think she might still be asleep in the crypt, Spike's cool limbs wrapped around her as she dreamed this moment.

"Oh, dear," he said. "Tara, Tara, calm down. I'll be there shortly." He hung up the phone and looked back at Buffy. "Well, seems I'm heading to the girls' house," he said. "If you'd like, I could give you a lift."

"Yes, thank you."

Giles put on his coat, and his worried look concerned her even more.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"It seems your sister is… ill," he replied carefully.

"She seemed okay last night," Buffy murmured, now even more unsure as to whether last night had even happened.

Giles didn't respond, just headed for the door.

***

Xander's mother wasn't in the kitchen when he managed to grumpily make his way upstairs. He retrieved a carton of milk from the fridge, sniffed it experimentally, and was in mid-swig when she came in, scowling.

"How many times have I told you to stop doing that?" she asked him.

He swallowed and put the carton back. "A hundred and forty-seven."

She rolled her eyes at her son, thrusting the classified section from the morning paper into his hand. "Make yourself useful today, will you? I circled a few things. See if you can't get at least one interview set up by the time your father comes home."

She began to make breakfast. Xander gave an his mother an angry little salute once her back was turned, which he punctuated by jabbing his middle finger into the air.

"I saw that," she said sharply, catching the reflection of his movements in the toaster.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He took the paper to the dining room table and scanned the selections she'd painstakingly highlighted for him. A coffeehouse was looking for a management trainee ("No experience needed, just have to be a slave to the bean!")… second-shift bartender wanted at the Bronze… then a tiny boxed ad caught his eye, even though his mother hadn't marked it.

A crescent moon was printed above the text of the ad. "Full-time sales associate sought for unique shop environment," it began. "Must have cheerful manner and be tolerant of unusual clientele needs. Ring or apply in person, Rupert Giles, the Magic Box." The telephone number and address followed.

Hey, he realized, that's the place Willow and her girlfriend are always hanging out in, the creepy old spell supply store. He wondered if he had a leg up on the competition, given that he personally knew two witches. He'd met Mr. Giles once before, briefly, and he seemed a nice enough guy, if a little stuffy. He checked his watch. The place should be open by now. No pay scale mentioned, but it sounded more interesting than trying to beg the ice cream vending company to take him back.

He re-read the ad, weighing his options.

"Mom?" Xander called to the kitchen, "I'm going out to check on a job lead!" He grinned, mentally counting down from five. By the time he got to one, she'd flown out of the kitchen and clutched him into a stifling hug.

"Knock 'em dead, son," she told him proudly.

She did that every time he went for an interview, and every time she ripped him a new one when he came home still unemployed. As Xander drove the short distance to the center of town, he felt oddly hopeful. I'm gonna get this one, he thought, squaring his shoulders. Move out of the basement, too. Hell, who knows, maybe I'll meet some cute little goth girl while she's stocking up on incense, we'll move in together, I'll get promoted to assistant manager, and…

His thoughts were interrupted as he pulled up to the curb, spotting Giles locking up the shop, a "Will Return in One Hour" notice posted on the door. A petite young woman with long blond hair was standing with him.

He whistled softly to himself. Wowza, he thought, that is one foxy little mama. He scrambled out of his truck and sprinted across the sidewalk to the shop before Giles and the girl would have a chance to split.

"Hi!" he said cheerfully.

She turned to him and smiled, started to say something, but Xander cut her off.

"You know, correct me if I'm wrong, but you look just like my first wife."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, even I know I've heard that line before! Geez, Xander." She was only mildly annoyed. His brevity helped to diminish Buffy's fear that things were desperately amiss.

Taken aback, he let out a "huh?" before wondering for a split second if he had, in some crazy trip-to-Tijuana haze, not been entirely wrong that this was his first wife. No, no, of course not, I'd definitely have remembered that, he thought.

"Well, now you got me at a disadvantage!" he chided. "You seem to know me, but I could swear I've never seen you before, which is really very tragic."

Her heart leapt into her throat at the words. God, it's not just Giles, she thought with panic.

"Er, Xander, is it?" Giles asked absent-mindedly.

"Mr. Giles! Good to see you! I was actually stopping by about the ad the pa --"

"I'm sorry, I don't have time for anything right now. There's an emergency… your friend Tara called, in fact."

Flirtation and job seeking flew out of his head. "Willow's all right, isn't she?" Xander asked. "Oh, no, they didn't get into some wacky bad mojo and blow out the living room windows again, did they?"

"No, ah, I don't believe so, but I've got to get over there straight away." Giles turned to Buffy. "I'm just parked over here," he said, gesturing around the corner.

"Wait, can I come with you?" Xander asked. "I mean, I just want to make sure everybody's all right."

Giles sighed. "I doubt very much you can be of help, young man --"

"Let him come," Buffy said. "Please."

Xander smiled at her. "Thanks." They started down the sidewalk, and Xander looked at her curiously. "So, where do I know you from, uh… I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Buffy," she replied. She was about to say she was Dawn's sister; that she, too, was a friend of Willow and Tara, but suddenly it all seemed like a lie. She knew she needed to make sure Dawn was going to be all right, but the rest of it now all seemed so futile. If neither Giles nor Xander knew her, Dawn might not either.

She lifted her face to the sun, cursing its fiery glow, because if Spike could only be by her side, maybe the frantic pounding of her heart would slow down.

***

He paced back and forth, bored, frustrated, and worried. Nobody had come, and it was nearly noon. Something was wrong.

Spike placed his hand against the cool stone of the door, solid against his palm. God, I want to find you, he thought desperately.

He yanked at the handle, opening the door just a crack. A sliver of daylight fell across the floor.

Just one step, he thought, screwing up his last ounce of courage. Just to see.
He moved the toe of his boot, splitting the sunbeam's trajectory. Nothing. No sizzles or flames. One more step. The knee of his black jeans was lit pale yellow. Still no incineration. The warmth was slightly uncomfortable, but he was all right.

Thigh.

Elbow.

Spike was fine.

Everybody's been crackers telling me I'm a vampire, he began to think, and even if they weren't, maybe this whole turning-into-a-pile-of-ashes-in-the-sun thing's just a big --

Hand.

A spark. The distinct, choking stench of smoking flesh.

He jerked away from the sunbeam and slammed the door.

Fuck.