"Matched Set" ~ Chapter 3

SPOILERS: loose Season 5, after "The Body" but before "The Gift"
RATING: FR-T for mature themes, mild violence, language.
DISTRIBUTION: KoalasPlace.com, Dword's theLIST, HeadQuarters. Anyone else, ask and it's yours!
DISCLAIMER: Without Prejudice. Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and concepts are copyright ©1997-2002 20th Century Fox, WB Television, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN Television. No Infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. The story and all other characters are mine.

Chapter 3

"Ethan!" Giles yelled. He had been yelling on and off for hours, making Buffy wonder why he wasn't hoarse. "Come on, you pillock, even a condemned man gets bread and water!" He followed this with several hard thumps on the wood of the bedroom door. "Give us some bloody food!"

Sitting by his legs with her back against said door, Buffy rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, trying to maintain a distance between their bracelets that would not trigger another painful electrical shock. At first, shouting demands to their captors seemed like the logical thing to do, but now, after so long of being totally ignored, every time Giles pounded on the door the futility of it went through her like a hot knife though butter.

"Ethan!" *THUMP-THUMP-THUMP*

Finally, she could take no more. "Giles, for God's sake! Stop!" She lifted her head to look up at him the same moment he stopped shouting and thumping and looked down at her, startled. "There's no one coming. You're wasting your breath." She paused, then grumbled, "And you're making my ribs hurt."

Giving in with a sigh, Giles turned and slid down the door to join her on the floor. He brought his knees up as pillars for his forearms, and raked a frustrated hand through his hair before he spoke.

"It's not like Ethan to leave his prisoners locked up without contact," he said worriedly. "He's usually the first one in to gloat."

"Well, maybe we aren't his prisoners. Maybe he's not the head honcho around here," Buffy said. "Although, anyone who would put Ethan Rayne in charge is just asking for trouble." Her brows knitted in a thoughtful frown.

"What?" Giles asked softly, noting her look.

"You know, back at the plane hangar, he seemed as if . . . "

"As if what?"

"As if he wanted me to help him."

Giles snorted in derision. "I'll 'help' him, all right."

"Whatever this is all about, I think Ethan's just following orders. I might even go so far as to say 'reluctantly'."

"Probably to save his own neck, the pillock."

"So if he is working for someone else, the question is who, and why? Well, technically that's two questions, I guess."

"Whoever they are, they apparently wants us starve to death," Giles complained, his stomach punctuating his grievance with a loud growl. His gaze went to the bracelet on his wrist, the fingers of his other hand impatiently spinning it around his flesh, as if its very presence were a constant aggravation.

In truth, the manacle cuffs were so soft and comfortable that it was easy to forget they wore them, except for the punishment that came whenever they moved too far apart. Through trial and error, they had determined they had a tolerable separation radius of about four feet, after which the prickling sensations escalated sharply from annoying to unbearable. An extremely agonizing death presumably followed, but was not something either of them was eager to put to the test. The only time they were completely pain free was when they confined themselves to a division of twelve inches or less, which made even simple tasks difficult and taxing.

"We are not going to starve to death in a day," Buffy chided in response to his decidedly immature tone. "We'd die of thirst first, and we've got plenty of fresh running water in the bathroom."

"Easy for you to say. You've already eaten the only food we had." His stomach growled again.

"You said I could!"

They found them when they shed their coats, hours ago, to pool their individual resources from their pockets. Although the majority of their possessions had been confiscated, their collective secret booty included the small vial of Holy water Ethan had let her keep, a clean men's handkerchief, a plastic squirt gun befitting Giles' 007 guise, and three warm and gooey Hershey's Kisses, which Giles explained must have been ensnared in his suit when he spilt the candy bowl on himself after Ethan punched him. Despite their squishy condition, Buffy had eagerly licked the tinfoil wrappers clean of all traces of chocolate, her empty stomach appreciating the sugar rush.

"I was being polite," Giles said testily. "You could have at least saved one piece for me."

Feeling guilty, Buffy bit her lip and held back her retort. It was true that she shared his frustration at being locked in a room and completely ignored, but she, at least, was trying to maintain a level head. Letting their tempers flare and childishly fighting each other out of boredom would only prove detrimental.

And, yeah--hello!--it was three pieces of chocolate, not a four-course meal. She was hungry too!

Buffy watched Giles study the shine of his black, patent leather shoes. Desperate to distract herself from her own hunger pangs, she pondered his present attire, wondering if he had any idea how adorable he looked in his black tuxedo trousers and white dress shirt, with the ends of his bowtie hanging down on his chest. His glasses were nowhere in sight, and she could only guess that he hadn't been wearing them when Ethan had gotten the jump on him. Spectacles were not part of the sexy 'James Bond' persona, although if there were ever a time she wished her Watcher owned a pair of contact lenses, then it was now. Still, that small obstacle aside, it was so darn cute to know he had taken her suggestion for a Halloween costume to heart--thank The Powers, or else she could have been sitting there with him dressed in that awful Elvis jumpsuit.

She sighed. There wasn't much left to do but wait until their real captors finally decided to show their faces . . . except try not to get on each other's nerves too much. Unfortunately, she didn't have the option of going to sit on the other side of the room; being tethered to Giles when he was Mr. Grumpy Bear definitely had a downside.

For his part, Giles had already played detective and made an educated guess as to their whereabouts, although he had only come up with some pretty obvious conclusions. She suspected the exercise had been more a way to relieve the tedium of captivity than anything else. The log walls and crackling fire, he had deduced, suggested a likely alpine location for the room in which they found themselves, although why he couldn't have just said, 'log cabin equals mountains, fireplace equals cold,' she didn't know. Then, while sitting together on the side of the sagging mattress, they had divulged what they had remembered from the plane hangar, filling in each other's blanks until a clear picture of the waiting jet appeared. It only confirmed that wherever they were, Sunnydale was a very long way off.

Buffy sighed heavily again; she and Giles still sitting on the floor of their bedroom cell with their backs against the locked door he had just given a pounding. She took a deep breath, only to grimace when the action hurt her ribs. Silently, she cursed the vampire who had injured her in the cemetery the other night, and her own stupidity for goading him on.

"I think I want to lie down for a while," she announced, suddenly fatigued. It was the waiting around that drained her more than the injury itself; she was much more at home with kicking butt, not sitting on it. Her comment drew Giles' gaze to hers. Seeing concern color his green eyes this time, she elaborated, "My side hurts, and I want to recoup before whatever's about to go down, does."

He nodded wearily, equally sapped by inactivity. They clambered to their feet, mindful of their proximity to one other but without each other's help. They made it to the bed without any nasty jolts from their bracelets, before Giles suddenly stopped cold with a look of panic on his face.

"Buffy, I don't think it would be proper for me to . . . "

Gingerly, Buffy lowered herself onto the mattress and stretched out, finding a moderately comfortable position on her good side. "Don't worry," she quipped playfully, "I'll still respect you in the morning."

" . . . to risk taking advantage of you again," Giles finished in abject embarrassment.

Buffy looked up, noting he was still rooted to the spot. He was serious. While his sense of chivalry was charming, it was also totally impractical given their present predicament. The skin of her wrist had already started to prickle under her bracelet, and he was only standing a few feet away.

Annoyed, she frowned. "Giles, I'm not asking for a long term commitment, just a few hours sleep. So would you please quit being all British and noble, and come lay beside me so I can rest?" She waved her bracelet at him, as if he needed reminding. "Without fear of electrocution?"

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, then grudgingly did as she asked. To her disappointment, he sat rather than lay with her, with his broad shoulders resting against the antique wood headboard. Buffy kept her back to him, shuffling forward slightly as his weight tipped the sagging mattress in his direction. His nearness sent a flush of heat through every part of her. She longed to turn over and cuddle against him, finding real comfort and respite, but didn't dare risk it. Despite his accidental caress while asleep earlier, while awake Giles strived to maintain an obvious distance between them, in both the physical and emotional departments. If he were not interested in her as a potential lover, then she would just have to be content to take whatever form of affection he was willing to give. To have him close in a limited capacity was far better than not having him at all.

Silence stretched between them, the soft spit and crackle of the dying fire lulling her ever closer toward a false sense of security. Buffy closed her eyes, and lost herself in the fantasy of being with the man she loved. She wasn't sure when she dozed off, or how long she slept, only that she awoke in the exact same position--curled on her side facing away from Giles--but with his warm, rhythmic breathing tickling the back of her neck.

His doggedly defensive posture had again slipped during slumber, and it was with a pang of delight and jolt of panic that she once more found herself lying in his arms. His free arm had again wandered around her waist, his hand resting on the mattress close to her breast, while his body folded protectively around hers, as if sleeping together in this spooned fashion was the most natural thing in the world for them. Despite knowing she should wake him, Buffy selfishly couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she rested her hand on the arm tucked so lovingly around her, stealing a few more moments of his tender touch, while trying not to acknowledge what he had told her earlier; she was not the woman he was dreaming about.

As she lay there, lonely despite the feel of him so close, Buffy realized the room had grown darker. Her gaze fell to the bedroom's only window. Earlier inspection had revealed the heavy wooden storm shutter securely battened down from the outside, allowing no clues to the hour. Neither of them had a wristwatch, there was no clock in the room, and the burnt logs in the fireplace only gave an indication of how long they had been prisoners.

For an ordinary person, estimating the time of day relative to the rest of the world was by best guess alone. For Buffy, it was Slayer intuition. Her internal clock suggested the sun had set, and her inherent ability to sense nightfall despite a lack of visual confirmation was usually never wrong. Night . . . when the vampires and demons came out to play. She wondered if that was when their true captors would show their deformed faces, and when the real nightmare of their abduction would begin.

Buffy shifted restlessly, instinct rousing her hereditary need for action. "Giles?"

She patted his arm then released her tentative hold, re-implementing a modest space between them before he suffered the uber-embarrassment of waking up in another clinch. Despite Giles' earlier self-evaluation of feeling fine, Ethan's drug clearly still had a hold on his system. Hers too, considering how quickly they had both fallen asleep in what she now knew had been the middle of the afternoon.

Buffy sat up, turning slightly to look down at Giles. He rolled over onto his back, his green eyes meeting hers in the glow of embers from the fireplace as he tried to rub the sleep from his face. When he shared a sleepy smile, her heart melted despite the bad timing of it all. How wonderful it would be to wake up with him like this every time . . .

Embarrassed by a fresh surge of emotions, Buffy glanced away. She was hopelessly in love with a man who didn't love her back.

"Buffy?"

Her gaze obediently went back to his, forlorn hope welling in her chest at the gentleness in his tone and his expression. He lifted his hand toward her, and for a brief moment, she swore he was about to tenderly touch her cheek . . . when the sound of an electronic beep outside the bedroom door drew their combined attention.

"Hold that thought," she said, reluctantly getting to her feet. But she stopped, startled, as the door Giles had earlier given a vigorous pounding was flung open with unanticipated force.

Before either she or Giles could react, four large, spiky demons and a vampire spilled into their bedroom cell . . .

* * *

Giles climbed off the bed to stand behind Buffy, as the four demons positioned themselves to block the bedroom doorway. Doggedly trying to shake off the lingering effects of his drug-induced slumber, he eyed the intruders, dashing any half-baked ideas he had of escaping the log-walled room that had been their prison for innumerable hours. The four demons were kin to the ones that had jumped him at his apartment; large, stupid, but obedient oafs. They would think nothing of crushing his and Buffy's skulls should their vampire handler request it, and from experience he knew they had the unstoppable strength to do it.

Their abrupt intrusion was both welcomed and unwanted, given that he had almost let his guard down and touched Buffy in a manner that he would surely regret later. That in mind, Giles put an unassuming hand on his Slayer's shoulder to stay her without words, knowing that despite her injured ribs, she was already contemplating taking on all four at once.

Buffy grudgingly stayed put, facing the intruders with a look of pure defiance.

"About time for room service," Giles said, trying for flippancy. "We're starving."

The vampire in charge stepped forward to address them. They recognized him as the same vamp lackey that had been in the airplane hangar working with Ethan, although he was now in his human visage and armed with some very modern-looking hardware.

"Milady requires your presence in the banquet hall," Tay announced.

"Milady?" Giles wondered aloud. Buffy's assumption appeared to have been correct; Ethan was working for someone else.

"Why does that sound as if we're on the menu?" Buffy asked, hands going to her hips in a familiar gesture.

Giles raised an inquisitive eyebrow--not at Tay or his invitation, but at his choice of a weapon. The vampire held a dual-pronged, electro-shock, energy taser at the ready; not something he ever expected to see in the hands of his unsophisticated, undead captors. Vampires did not generally take to arming themselves beyond their inherent face full of fangs, but when they did, it tended to be with swords, bows, or other archaic weaponry. This was something new.

In a move that clarified who was in charge, Tay pointed his taser--a blue charge rippling meaningfully between its prongs--at their discarded coats on the foot of the bed. "You'd be wise to dress. You won't be coming back."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Giles asked, joining Buffy's defiance camp.

Although Giles doubted the taser was set to kill, given all the trouble someone had taken to bring them here alive, he very much wanted to avoid being stunned. He would be no use to Buffy unconscious, should the unlikely opportunity for escape arise. For now, there was no choice but to comply. Mindful of the need to maintain a tolerable distance between their bracelets, he retrieved their coats. He handed the black, knee-length duster to Buffy, then donned his own tuxedo jacket, pleased when she followed suit. Better to wear them than to burden their hands and hamper any chance of fighting for freedom.

Tay and his spiky cronies stepped aside, lining themselves on either side of the bedroom doorway. "Move," the vampire ordered, again motioning with the taser. "And no funny business, got it?"

Two of the demons obediently turned and went before them, then Buffy and Giles, with Tay and the two remaining heavies bringing up the rear. This methodical order, when coupled with the narrow, log-walled hall outside, effectively sandwiched the prisoners between their ranks and left little possibility of escape.

Compliantly walking beside his begrudgingly-compliant Slayer, Giles only got a quick glimpse at the electronic locking device mounted to the outside of their cell door. It was a key card affair, requiring the swipe of a programmed plastic card to unlock the door. Again, the technology was unexpected, but rather than waste time pondering it, he turned his attention to a more immediate problem--finding a weakness amongst their captors before they reached at wherever they were going. There were only five of them now, but when they arrived at their destination, and no doubt their waiting compatriots, he feared the survival odds would fall significantly, especially if they were all as well armed as Tay.

Such was the intensity of his focus that he failed to notice the other rooms they began to pass along the torch-lit hall, until Buffy slipped her hand into his and wordlessly drew his attention. Giles glanced down at her, first in surprise and then in acknowledgement of what she silently conveyed in a look. Following her discrete nod, he glanced through the open doorway of the next room they were marched past like inmates headed for the gallows.

Despite his lack of glasses, it was hard to miss the room so jamb packed with computers and electronics that it looked more like a secret bunker at NORAD than a spare room in a log cabin somewhere in the wilderness. It appeared to be some sort of tactical operations room, although just what its assorted demon and vampire workers could possibly be overseeing remained a complete mystery.

The sight shocked Giles back to his initial observations of advanced technology coexisting with the rustic log walls lit by primitive torches. He tried to make sense of what he'd seen; the vampire's taser weapon, the key card door locks, the computers and the large screen electronic map dominating an entire wall of the room he had just passed. By default, demons and vampires did not mess with technology, nor did they possess the skills or expertise needed to operate and maintain it. It simply wasn't done, and there had never been a recorded account of such an odd marriage in all the history of the Watchers Council. He had the books, presently scattered in a disorderly fashion across his living room, to prove it.

What the devil was going on out here in the middle of nowhere?

The long hallway eventually opened up into a semi-circled balcony area, complete with an archaic, metal-forged candle chandelier hanging from a rafter chain at the ceiling's center. A staircase with a roughly hewn banister curved down and away, disappearing into the gloomy of some sort of foyer area below, which itself was lit--at intervals--by the same flickering torches they had seen in the hall.

With little choice, the prisoners slowly descended until, at the bottom, Buffy suddenly stopped. Just as horror-struck by the unexpected visage that greeted them, Giles glanced around the gloomily lit foyer. Dozens, perhaps even scores, of stuffed heads looked back at him in somber silence, all mounted on shield-shaped wood plaques and each bearing brass nameplates proclaiming--oddly enough--their vocations in life.

Trophies.

Human trophies.

"Oh God . . . " Buffy murmured, dropping his hand.

Appalled yet transfixed, Giles turned to examine trophies closest to him in greater detail, vaguely aware that Buffy had swiveled the other way to gape at the gruesome collection nearest her. The need to stay within the acceptable circle of their bracelets was momentarily forgotten, but since they ended up back-to-back, the point became moot.

Even from brief examination, it was obvious that these trophies were more than just random kills. These were specifically matched sets, male and female pairings that were not merely representative of the human race's many colors and creeds, but occupations. There appeared no other apparent connection between the victims, save for the fate they now shared within these God forsaken log walls.

Suddenly, the tactical room and the modern weaponry gave birth to an extremely chilling scenario.

Giles sought his vampire guard for confirmation of these morbid fears, but it was Buffy, not Tay, who substantiated them.

"Giles?" He felt her fingers claw on his back, before taking hold of his arm in an iron Slayer grip. She tugged in a manner that demanded either his immediate attention or dislocation. "GILES!"

Her inflection should have been enough to warn him, but turning to her, he asked the question regardless. "What?"

Buffy pointed, robbed of speech.

He followed her gesture to the pair of nearby wooden plaques, polished and shield-shaped like the others, but empty for now, as they awaited the addition of their taxidermied heads. It wasn't until he squinted to read their accompanying nameplates that he fully understood exactly what had instilled a note of terror in her normally confident tone.

One read, 'WATCHER' and the other, 'SLAYER'.

"Oh dear God . . . " His arm instinctively slipped around Buffy as she clung to him; an automatic gesture of protection. Giles turned them to face their vampire guard, who took in their reactions with a smirk of evil glee. Tay's as-yet-unseen employer clearly had an affinity for hunting humans, and it was with a wrench to his gut that Giles realized finally the truth of his and Buffy's role in this kidnapping. "I demand to see whoever is in charge."

"You're about to, Watcher." Grinning, Tay nodded a silent command to his telepathic lackeys, stirring their suspended bulks into simultaneous movement. Two quill demons again went ahead of them, leaving the others to close ranks behind and muster them forward, as helpless as sheep. "You're about to."

Giles gently disentangled Buffy from his arms, donning a confident little 'it will be all right' smile when she appeared to want to stay attached to him. It wasn't like her to be so disconcerted by the idea of death--even her own--and it certainly wasn't like her to show weakness in the face of the enemy. The shock had been like stumbling across one's own gravestone, and although great, it was not something that would have normally rattled a seasoned Slayer like Buffy. In truth, seeing those empty plaques in such manner had rattled him too. Their long hours of confinement, hunger, and discomfort had combined with the ever-present threat from an unseen enemy, giving their captor a distinct psychological advantage.

Reaching down, Giles took hold of Buffy's hand again, if nothing else than to remind her that she was not alone. She drew comfort and strength from the simple gesture, squeezing his fingers as they were shepherded across the dim foyer toward a pair of massive log doors.

And their fate.

The entranceway loomed ominously between the flicker of two sentry-like torches, and even from a distance, they could see that the handles had been fashioned from bleached human thighbones. Each step tightened the cold knot that had formed in Giles' stomach since glimpsing the empty name plaques, until his dread of what awaited him and Buffy on the other side of those closed doors threatened to undermine his external calm. If they were going to attempt an escape, then it must be now . . .

The quill demons swiftly rearranged their ranks, as if reacting, telepathically, to his very thought. Despite their large bulks, they moved gracefully to form a box around their prisoners, the ease with which they executed the maneuver suggesting they had performed this death march a hundred times before. Glancing at the innumerable sets of heads on the wall, Giles apprehensively figured they had.

The glass-eyed stares of the dead unexpectedly made him shiver. Their eyes seemed somehow animated in the glint of torchlight, as if the tiny, dancing fire-flecks were imprisoned souls seeking release. And respite. Giles swallowed, fighting his growing trepidation. If they were about to face death, then he would endeavor to face it as he had lived.

Bravely, at his Slayer's side.

* * *

"No . . . thank you," Ethan said, politely declining the scrambled brains offered to him in a chipped clay bowl. They looked like squiggly gray noodles in an equally disgusting gray broth, but smelt a hundred times worse than anything he could have possibly imagined. He smiled pleasantly at the scaly, red-eyed demon offering the food, who merely shrugged and added a second repulsive helping to his own already heaped platter.

Night had fallen, and since all of the vampires and many of the demons had just arisen, the first order of the 'day' called for a hearty breakfast. This feast--consisting of flesh and blood and everything in between--was presently in full swing, a feeding frenzy far, far removed from the simple tea and toast he normally consumed for the meal.

Swallowing hard to keep his nausea under rigid control, Ethan cast a nervous glance to his demon mistress, seated on his other side at the head of the main table. Her high throne accentuated her prominence amidst her devoted rabble and, thankfully, kept chitchat to a blessed minimum. It was with genuine relief that he found her focus on them, rather than on him, as they gorged themselves with all the fervor of rabid hellbeasts. Disturbing as their table manners were, Ethan's real concern was how much longer he could survive being the focal point of her arduous attention.

The very thought made him shudder. He hurt all over, and he felt humiliated and used. The innumerable hours spent in Milady's bedchamber had been long on torture and short on bliss, the end result leaving him feeling as if he'd been worked over by a slab of granite in a velvet wrapper. Copulation wasn't part of the deal. Their bargain had been for him to deliver the Watcher and Slayer into her midst, which he had done, in the process gaining her pardon, which she had so far neglected to grant. Until she did, he was as much a prisoner as, well, her prisoners.

Ethan sighed. At least, he justified to himself, at least he was still alive. There were worse things in life than being forced to fornicate with a beautiful, exotic demon with a fondness for collecting stuffed heads.

One of those 'worse things', surely, was to actually eat the revolting contents of the platters and bowls on the banquet table before him. The disemboweling and dismemberment that had produced the disgusting morsels had obviously been a hack job, and as such, he was hard pressed to determine if they were eating animal or human parts. Sickened by the idea of cannibalism, Ethan fasted despite the rumble in his empty belly. So far, Milady seemed indifferent to him, yet to refuse her, to disobey in any way, shape, or form, was to rub shoulders with his imminent demise.

He wondered how long he could maintain the charade.

It was then, during his grimace of self-pity that his mistress chose to skewer him with her striking quicksilver gaze. His empty plate drew an annoyed frown to her brow, which he duly countered with a humble smile, and reached for the platter of steaming entrails.

For strictly appearances sake, Ethan scooped out several loops of blanched intestines, desperately trying not to gag. The pungent odor was even more repulsive up close, and in hindsight, he realized that he wasn't going to successfully pull this one off. If he left the plate under his nose for more than another five seconds, he was definitely going to make a spectacle of himself by adding to the breakfast table in a totally unacceptable manner. Hesitantly, he chanced a look at his demon lover, only to find her still watching him, now with noticeable interest. Again, he returned her smile, now far less confident in his ability not to puke.

Casually scooting his platter of entrails to one side, he reached for clean plate, a move that surreptitiously removed the offensive odor from direct nostril range. If nothing else, it bought him scant seconds, and Ethan was all for extending his threatened lifespan for all the seconds he could grasp. Ignoring the growl from his scaly, red-eyed dining associate, he dragged over another serving bowl and began to dish himself a generous helping. If he didn't eat something and eat it now, Milady would have his head--quite literally, on one of her polished wooden plaques.

His chosen bowl held what appeared to be hard-boiled eggs, and smelled . . . surprisingly tolerable. Ethan spooned a few onto his plate, and it wasn't until he had neatly cut them all in half and marveled at their multi-colored centers, that he belatedly realized they were boiled human eyeballs.

"Oh crap . . . "

"Something wrong, sorcerer?" the lady demon asked, her amusement twinkling like starlight in her quicksilver eyes. She obviously enjoyed watching him suffer.

Ethan smiled amiably, turning on the charm. "Not a thing, Milady. What do you ask?"

"My late husband was human," she remarked. "Several hours of vigorous copulation usually gave him a ravenous appetite."

"Poor bugger," Ethan muttered under his breath, sympathetic to both the activity and the reward. "Late husband?" he added, seizing on the opportunity to change the subject. Opportunistic, that was Ethan Rayne. "My condolences, Milady. I'm sure you miss him dearly."

She waved a casual hand at the trophies behind her throne. "Not at all, he's over there with the rest of my most prized possessions." Her look hardened. "Eat. Lest you want to join him."

Ethan gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing like a yo-yo caught on its string. Scooping half an eyeball onto his spoon, he shut his eyes and slowly raised it to his mouth. He needed a distraction and, by Chaos, he bloody well needed it now . . .

The massive doors to the banquet hall slammed open, drawing immediate silence and wide-eyed astonishment from all creatures present. Buffy and Giles, engaged in a free-for-all brawl with four demons and a vampire, tumbled into the room. Ethan's prayer to his chosen deity had clearly been answered, because Milady pushed to her feet, annoyed at the disturbance, and in the process forgot all about him. Gratefully lobbing his uneaten eyeball in the opposite direction, Ethan stood loyally at his lady demon's side and, like her, frowned disapprovingly at the brawlers. It was far healthier for him to follow her lead than to oppose it.

Rupert and his Slayer gave good accounts of themselves, beating two of their brawny quill demon foes into spiky piles before Tay got in a clear shot with his taser. Ethan winced, honestly feeling for his old chum as the blue ripple of an electrical charge drew a sharp cry of agony from the man in the tuxedo. Burnt ozone added to the already spicy aroma of blood and guts, and Giles collapsed to his hands and knees in a rather ungracious heap. Buffy betrayed her heart by immediately giving up the fight and turning to aid her fallen Watcher, her concerned shout of his name an obvious declaration of love.

"I'm all right," he insisted meekly as she helped him to stand. Evidently he wasn't, for he teetered precariously. No doubt he would have landed on his face, had Buffy not positioned herself under his arm to act as a prop. The taser charge, although set to stun, had momentarily turned his leg muscles to something with the support quality of overcooked spaghetti. Definitely something the wily sorcerer wanted to avoid.

Buffy's free hand went flat against her Watcher's chest, steadying him, and he responded by slipping his arm around her, grateful for her support. She met his gaze, concern coloring her eyes, until he managed a faint little smile that fooled everyone but the person to whom it was intended. Frowning, Ethan watched the pair convey more with that single glance than most couples spoke in an entire conversation.

Then he smiled, thoroughly amused. How odd--and utterly appropriate--to think of them in such 'couple-ish' terms. Of course, he'd suspected there was more to their relationship than the innocent Watcher/Slayer gig not long after he'd first had the pleasure ogle the blonde schoolgirl bombshell . . . but that was a whole other story. Right now, their fighting skills and obvious affection only reinforced what he had been saying all along. The Watcher and the Slayer were, by all accounts, the perfect pair for Milady's hunt--capable warriors, yet caring lovers.

Wondering if the latter were indeed true, Ethan glanced at the demon huntress to see if she was as pleased by their display as him, but the smirk on his face quickly vanished at her expression of persistent fury. As the quill demons recovered and regrouped--their raised poison-tipped spines giving them the appearance of overgrown, behooved hedgehogs--she let fly with the question on everyone's mind.

"Tay, what is the meaning of this? I asked you to bring our guests down to breakfast, not play with them."

Ignoring his mistress, the pissed off vamp hoisted his taser up for another try at subduing his rebellious prisoners, adjusting the setting on the side of the unit. The charge between the prongs crackled and hummed as the power was increased, the color of electrical energy intensifying from blue to purple. Buffy and Giles, still locked in a supportive clinch, failed to notice his advance until it was too late.

Ethan grimaced again, as Tay stabbed the dual prongs into the back of Buffy's shoulder, the charge probably enough to melt the cerebral cortex of any ordinary human. As it was, it tore the Slayer from her lover's embrace and flung her across the room.

"Tay! Cease this at once!"

"Buffy!" Giles called helplessly, almost falling on his face without her support.

The Slayer landed dazed, but thankfully--for Ethan and the temporarily insane vampire-she was still alive. Buffy fairly jumped right back to sitting, breathing hard, as if stuck by an invisible pin. With one hand clamped against her injured rib, she scrambled back in Giles' direction. Ethan didn't understand, until the expression of controlled agony on his old chum's face made it perfectly clear. Giles' gritted teeth proclaimed his haste to rejoin his Slayer, thus returning a tolerable distance between the bracelets on their wrists. He lumbered unsteadily and painfully toward her, until they met in the middle of the banquet room floor and fell into an entangled, but grateful, heap.

"Tay, I swear I'll have your head," the demon huntress proclaimed in a voice so cold it sent ice down Ethan's spine.

"Forgive me, Milady." Tay backed off, still infuriated but knowing better than to cross his mistress in this mood. "But look what she did to me!" He turned his head, and for the first time Ethan noted the right side of the vampire's face had been horribly disfigured. It was red raw, with wisps of acrid smoke rising from the open wounds, as if he had been badly burnt. He looked back around, drilling Ethan with a look so violent that it actually caused the sorcerer to take a step back. "You did this to me, sorcerer," he growled accusingly. "You frisked her, you said she was clean. You let her keep a bottle of Holy water!"

"I-I-I--" Ethan stammered, the large and heavy dining chair at his back hampering his retreat. He shot a timid glance at Milady, fearing his life had just been forfeited.

The demon huntress' quicksilver eyes studied him with a long, questing look, before dismissing her loyal minion's serious accusation of betrayal as though it meant nothing. "We'll speak of this later."

"But that human scum--!"

"We'll speak of this later, Tay." Her tone brooked no further argument, at least not without dire consequences. She regarded the Watcher and Slayer with a congenial smile, as if none of the preceding had taken place; as if she were hosting an elaborate dinner party rather than reigning over a hideous blood feast. "Right now, we have guests."

"Yes . . . Milady." The vampire snarled, but wisely withdrew with his four thorny chums in tow. The quill demons took up unassuming but noteworthy positions just inside the massive banquet hall doors, obediently waiting to pound some skulls, should they be asked. Tay sulked in a corner, nursing his wound with a goblet of freshly spilled blood.

As Milady returned to her seat, the matter closed, Ethan obediently sat at her side. Every one of the room's otherworldly occupants followed her example to return to normal, even if 'normal' did constitute resuming their noisy feasting with the same disgusting fervor as before. It was as if the interruption had never happened, save for the fact that Rupert and his Slayer were now surrounded by the enemy, in hostile territory, injured yet so obviously on their own.

Watching them pick themselves up, Ethan slipped into another bout of self-pity. At least their fates were inevitable. His was so damnable uncertain . . .

"Come," Milady said to her beleaguered guests, who, now that they had recouped from the agony of their bracelets' separation, were regarding the ravenous horde in fascination and repulsion. She indicated two place settings at the main table, left vacant--and reasonable clean of torn and flung carcass tidbits--especially for them. "Join us."

"I'd rather kiss a troll," Buffy said bluntly, sounding more like the stubbornly defiant Slayer Ethan remembered.

He bit his lip, not daring a look to see how his mistress received such an insult to her hospitality. He could only hope, for their sakes, that death would be delivered with mercifully swiftness. The She-demon's strangely exotic laugh, then, came as a complete surprise.

"You were right, sorcerer, the girl has spirit. I admire that." A curt nod brought two of the sentry quill demons forward, giving the reluctant prisoners no choice but to move forward to the banquet table where Ethan and the huntress held court over the voracious rabble. "I insist. Dine with us."

"Look, lady--"

"Buffy," Rupert cut in, his confidential tone intended only for his Slayer's ears. He had to physically restrain her, not that Ethan believed Buffy would get within striking distance of his mistress without any dozen of her cronies butting in. They all looked busy eating, but in truth, they were loyal and vigilant. "I'll handle this," Giles warned softly, "she's a Xazax."

Within earshot, Ethan perked up at the positive ID of his demon lover's species. He committed it to memory, intrigued enough by this whole experience to want to look up the reference at some time in the future . . . if indeed he still had a future. Good old Rupert, the man did not disappoint. But surely with such knowledge also came the means and/or methods of defeating her? If anyone could rival the demon bitch and get him out of this bloody mess--alive and preferably with all his parts intact--then that pair were standing right in front of him now.

Knowing the next few moments were crucial, Ethan bit his tongue. He only prayed young Buffy had learned some civility while in Rupert's charge, and managed to be gracious about Milady's demon heritage. Best not to provoke that hair-trigger wrath--

"What the hell," Buffy began loudly, not sharing her Watcher's prudence for politely hushed tones, "is a Xazax?"

Ethan winced, certain the world had just ended . . .

* * *

Buffy gave the weird demon lady a serious once-over. Her flawless dark skin, enticingly ridged cheekbones, and voluptuous curves may have cast the spell of underworld supermodel over the males in the group, but the ever-changing silver eyes--that seemed to do far more than simply look at her--gave the only other female present a case of major wiggins. She shivered, and amended her question. "Apart from being just plain freaky."

"Extremely strong, quick tempered, prone to insults," Giles cautioned quietly. "We're sorely outnumbered here. A little diplomacy is in order."

"Wait, you're gonna be diplomatic? With her?" Indignant at the idea, Buffy pulled out of his supportive embrace to stare at him, agog.

While it was true that the current diners in the banquet hall seemed far more interested in stuffing their faces than fighting, Giles was right. There were too many for just the two of them take on, especially if they wanted to win. And especially with her stupid cracked ribs. Still, it was the principle of the thing. Being polite to the person who had kidnapped them, locked them in a room for endless hours without any food, and put those damn electric shock bracelets on their wrists, just wasn't something done in Buffy Summers' book.

"Have you forgotten what she did to us? Or what we just saw in the foyer? Giles, the Xazzy bitch queen brought us here to kill us."

"Buffy," Giles growled in a low warning. To his captor, he said, "Milady, please forgive my--"

"And then she's gonna put our heads on her wall, with the heads of all those other poor schlobs she's kidnapped and killed! And you want to try being 'diplomatic'?"

"Um," Ethan began, as if fearing his mistress would blame him for Buffy's discourtesy, "if I may interject--"

"Shut up, Ethan!" Buffy and Giles told him in unison.

"I'll deal with you later," Giles promised, a Ripperish gleam in his eye.

"Actually, I don't intend to kill you," the Xazax huntress clarified, amusement in her tone as she watched the humans.

"You don't?" Buffy asked, momentarily confused.

"Of course not. Where would be the fun in that? I intend to hunt you."

Buffy balked, mouth falling open, eyes widening. "As in . . . we run, you track us down?"

"Precisely."

"And then you kill us," Buffy added flatly.

"I assure you," Milady said, "as the chosen warriors of your species, your heads will be the pride of my collection."

A flash of her strange silver eyes made Buffy instinctively press closer to Giles. He put his arm around her, the gesture automatic but no less appreciated. The empty plaques suddenly filled Buffy's mind's eye, the shiny new nametags spelling out the huntress' plan in chilling detail. This demon wanted their heads because of their calling--their profession--just like all the other victims that had been hunted, mounted and paired by their vocations. And all for this freaky demon's pleasure.

God, how sick was that?

Milady skewered one of Ethan's cut eyeballs on the end of her fork, and toyed with it like a delectable lollipop. Leaning back, she crossed her legs, the split in her gown revealing more than a little tantalizing glimpse of thigh. Shameless, she eyed Giles up and down, devouring him in a glance as he hugged Buffy. "Pity you are already mated, Watcher. I'm sure you could please me far more than this worthless excuse for a sorcerer."

Buffy's wide-eyed gaze traveled to Ethan. He slept with the Xazzy bitch? Sheesh, how desperate could the guy be? She watched him squirm a bit under her visual accusation, remaining dutifully silent despite the affront to his sexual prowess.

And then Buffy tweaked on what their mutual foe had just said about Giles. "Mated? Oh no, you see, Giles and I . . . we're just good friends. 'Fated' maybe, but not 'mated'. He's never even touched me."

She paused, aware of the incredulous look Giles shot her, considering they were presently clinging to each other for physical and emotional support. They both simultaneously released each other and straightened to stand side-by-side, looking the part but fooling no one.

"Okay, so maybe he's touched me, but not 'like that'." Then, remembering the way she had woken to find him fondling her breast, she self-consciously crossed her arms, and amended, "Okay, so maybe 'like that', but he didn't mean it . . . Giles, help me out here."

"I, um, that is to say . . . " He cleared his throat. "My . . . Slayer . . . is correct," Giles said, finding that diplomatic Watcher tone after an unconvincing start. "My feelings for her are purely platonic. I assure you, Milady, our relationship is strictly professional."

Buffy couldn't stop herself from looking at him with big wide eyes, a lance of pain zinging through her heart. Hearing his clinical denial of what they meant to each other cut her in two, the effect far more devastating to her self-confidence than the thought of her head on a plaque for the rest of eternity. Despite the fact that she had just asked him to denounce all affection for her, did he have to sound so damn sincere about it?

"I hear your lips utter words of denial, my friends," the Xazax observed shrewdly, "but I have seen, for myself, your actions speaking a language all their own. You see, my late husband was human, and his body language always spoke the truth, despite what lies came out of his mouth."

"How intuitive of you," Giles said quietly.

Buffy shot him another sidelong glance. He diverted his gaze, making her wonder if maybe the Xazax was far more insightful to human emotions than anyone gave her credit. Buffy couldn't speak for Giles, but she knew that the female demon had just read her body language like the proverbial open book. She was hopelessly in love with the man so calmly facing his fate at her side, and no matter what words she used to deny it, the depth of her passion was pretty darn obvious. So . . . if the huntress was right about her, did that mean Giles really did have feelings for her, too?

"It was he who introduced me to the sport of big game hunting," the lady demon continued in an almost wistful tone. She finally popped the skewered eyeball into her mouth, and then reached to stab another off Ethan's plate. She was warming to the casual repartee with her prisoners, as if idle, dinner chitchat was the one thing missing from her lodge-bound, demon-ruling, head-hunting existence. "He was quite the marksman in his day, I have to confess. Although he never had the stomach for killing his own kind."

"What happened to him?" Buffy asked, not really caring one way or the other. The expression on Giles' face had changed. She knew that frown; he was thinking, presumably about how to get them out of this mess. The more time she bought by asking stupid questions, the more time he had to better formulate his plan.

Either that, or he was just as incredibly grossed out as her, watching the demon chew those human eyeballs.

"Over your left shoulder," Ethan mumbled, loosening his collar in a meaningful gesture. "Second set on the right."

Despite themselves, Buffy and Giles both looked. The grotesquely stuffed heads of a man and a woman peered back at them in the flickering light of the banquet hall's many torches; their somewhat gruesome expressions of surprise revealing their horrific, and swift, demise. Under the plaques, their nameplates proclaimed them; 'ADULTERER' and 'ADULTERESS.'

"I take it you've never watched 'Divorce Court'," Buffy said, only half-joking.

"Now to business," the huntress said, thankfully finishing off the last of Ethan's halved, multi-colored eyeballs. "Despite what you think of me, I am not a cold-blooded killer. You will, of course, be given a sporting chance."

"Very gracious of you," Giles said, dripping sarcasm. He didn't sound diplomatic now, just pissed off.

"I hope by that you mean an AK-47," Buffy added, remembering the tactical room upstairs. "But hey, at this point, let's not quibble. I'll even settle for a nice, old-fashioned crossbow."

"I mean a two hour head start. Unfortunately, your time started when you entered this room."

"Hey, wait, that's not fair!" Buffy complained. "I mean, you could have mentioned that before you subjected us to tales of your interracial marital woes!" In emphasis of her point, she took a defiant step toward where their captor sat on her fur and clothing covered throne, not far enough from Giles' bracelet to trigger an excessively adverse reaction, but still a meaningful enough in terms of a power play to get a reaction from the room.

Although maybe not the reaction she was hoping for.

The perfectly synchronized movement of the occupants in the banquet hall stopped her cold. A moment ago, Buffy could have sworn they were all so busy stuffing their faces with whatever really gross stuff was in those chipped clay serving bowls that not one of them was paying even the slightest attention. Now, as they reacted to her alleged threat on their mistress as a single, honed, rapid-response team worthy of SWAT, she actually had to commend their vigilance.

"Whoa . . . " Buffy murmured, immediately backing off with her empty hands held up near her shoulders. In the split second it took for her to surrender any hostile intent, every demon and vampire present was on his--or its--feet, aiming a handgun at her with unnerving, unwavering accuracy. Not exactly what she was used to dealing with when fighting the likes of these guys, or what a Slayer was built for and trained to combat.

Buffy felt Giles grasp her arms and pull her to him. She ended up with her back flush against his front, where he held her, immobile, lest she again think of doing something undeniably stupid. Alone together, they stood in middle of the logged-wall banquet hall surrounded by their enemy, their bodies peppered with the red, pinpoint dots of several dozen laser-sighted weapons.

Unperturbed, the Xazax huntress uncoiled her long legs and leaned forward to retrieve a goblet from the tabletop, showing an impressive glimpse of cleavage as she did. Sitting back, she took a long, unhurried swallow, satisfied that her stalwart minions had the situation perfectly under control.

"Now," she finally said, "we can do this my way . . . or I can have you both shot right here. The latter would definitely not be as much fun, but I assure you--as you yourself pointed out--the end result will be the same. The choice is yours . . . although I do so hope you will take into consideration how difficult it is to get human blood out of these flagstones."

Following her nod, Buffy looked down at her feet, and was instantly sickened by the ugly dark stain underfoot.

"Bitch," she growled looking up, barely suppressing her rising hatred of this she-devil and her unspeakable little game. Buffy's keen eyes darted left and right, as she weighed her chances of taking down the Xazax before her flesh and blood human body was riddled with high-powered slugs of hot lead. All she needed was to get her hands around that sleek, chocolate throat for a minute or two, and squeeze with her Slayer strength . . .

"Forgive me, Milady, but if I may speak?" Ethan asked, obediently looking to his demon lover for permission. She nodded graciously, so he directed his words toward the hapless prisoners. "Rupert, old friend," he began in all seriousness, but he was unable to stop the malevolent grin from spreading across his face. "I suggest you run."

"You," Giles returned, his low, perfectly controlled voice sending a cold shiver down Buffy's spine, "are a dead man."

Ethan actually had the gall to look amused. "Look who's talking."

"One hour and forty-six minutes," Tay counted off, rejoining his mistress on the right side of her throne. Back in his full, but disfigured, vampire face, he snarled, enjoying the hopelessness and inevitability of a situation he had undoubtedly witnessed many times before. In a show of power, he put his energy taser on the banquet table and forcibly pulled the handgun from the scaly, red-eyed demon next to Ethan. Bringing it up, he aimed the laser sight at Buffy, producing a steady red dot in the center of her forehead. "Make your choice, Slayer."

"Mind the head, Tay," the Xazax said offhandedly. "I don't want it damaged."

Buffy's chin lifted defiantly as the vampire smirked and slowly readjusted his aim. The tiny red pinpoint slithered down her cheek and throat before coming to rest directly over her heart.

"Come on." Giles' quiet voice was the only sanity amidst the turmoil inside her. He tugged her backwards with firm hands, toward the massive banquet hall doors and the opportunity to run for their lives.

But Buffy remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, her inner Slayer at war with her sense of survival, even in the face of such overwhelming odds. The demon huntress' cocky overconfidence was really beginning to tick her off, and she desperately wanted to hit something.

"Buffy, we stand no chance here," Giles urged rationally. "To believe we do is suicide. At least outside--"

Furious at the notion of retreat despite the common sense of it, Buffy shrugged from her Watcher's grasp and whirled to march toward the banquet hall exit. Part of her was livid with him, too, since he not only sanctioned the idea of running way, but had suggested it. She stopped impatiently, waiting for the silent quill demons standing sentry to do their thing and open the heavy wooden doors, using the pause to throw a vehement look over her shoulder. Giles was only a step behind, but her resentful gaze zeroed in on the Xazax still reigning on high at the head of the table.

"This isn't over," she stated, then defiantly turned her back.

"No, Slayer, you're right," the demon huntress called, the utter glee in her tone only adding to Buffy's rage. "This is not over . . . thankfully not by a long shot!"