Clarice came in the side door, followed by her harem, and she took a rather melodramatic sniff of the air before asking, “Is it lunchtime already?”

He tried not to let his annoyance show, but then, why bother?  Clarice was a necessary evil;  he needed a partner, and she was good enough.  “Is it ready?”

“Of course it is,” she replied, giving him a pissy, prim look.  There were times when he just wanted to smack the shit out of her … most of the time, in fact.  If she was done with her part of the deal, maybe he could get rid of her soon.  “Didn’t you save any for us?”

“Get your own damn dinner.” He snarled, grabbing the Grail out of the broken cask.  It looked just like the kind of goblet you’d find at some lame-ass Renaissance Fair, only blackened with old blood and tarnish inside and out.  He could feel the evil even before he touched it, crawling along his skin like ravenous ants.  Holding
it made him feel a thousand feet tall - he couldn’t wait until he had the power all for himself.

The solemnity of the ceremony was broken only by the setting.  Diego had just assumed most Europeans had more of a respect and reverence for history, so he was taken aback to find the old hunting ground was now the sight of a tourist’s strip mall.  Correction:  a now abandoned strip mall.

It was too neatly stripped to have been the victim of rioting after a disaster, whether man made or natural, and that wasn’t the European way ... well, save for the occasional flare up in London and Paris.  Mostly the mall was reduced to barren cement walls, many with gaping holes through them, demolition not yet completed, possibly due to yet another labor strike that stopped it dead before it properly began.  He wondered what monstrosity they intended to replace it with - another Euro-Disneyworld, perhaps?  Maybe even a movie studio, a satellite branch of some moneymaking whore company back in the States.  Something that surely would defile this ground further, if given half the chance.

Anyway, it was a moot point now.

He took the grail down to the slab floor where the bodies of his small flock of ten (could have been more, but who cared?) were splayed out in a roughly circular pattern.  Diego knew he had always been gifted with excessive charm, even as
a Human, therefore it had not been hard to find locals to fall under his sway, to groom them to be his future sacrificial lambs.

The thing with this sodding spell was that the blood spilled had to be from willing participants, and certainly not vampires;  only Human blood, untainted with fear, would open the door.  So he pretended to be what they wanted, a holy man, a “savior”, until today, when he revealed that this was the day they were waiting for:  the end of the world.  But to be accepted into Heaven in advance of the demon armies, they had to die now, and he went first, stabbing himself in the chest.  It hurt like fuck, but since he was using a kitchen knife, nowhere near fatal, or even all that debilitating.  These poor suckers all followed suit.

It was an asinine story, and he used equally asinine tricks to get them to believe it, but in the end they had wanted to.  That was why it wasn’t amazing that there were so many death cults, but rather so few - everyone wanted to believe in something, and everyone wanted to feel special, above others, 'in' on something no one else knew or had access to.  It was a resource that was incredibly easy to exploit, and the reason so few did could be ascribed only to sheer Human laziness.

The pattern carved into the floor, where the blood channeled, was a spiked
circle not unlike that ancient torture device the Catherine wheel.  What special significance it had to this ritual he honestly wasn’t sure;  he just knew it was important.  But then again, what sadomasochist wasn’t into pain?

He scooped some of the blood into his hand and let it pour into the grail, then waded through the bodies and set it in the center of the circle.  Pulling a knife out of the waistband of his pants, he made a deep, horizontal cut across his wrist.  He let his blood drip into the cup, and recited the words he'd tortured out of the Herald he tracked down on the Rue de Madeleine two weeks ago.  The words had little meaning, but supposedly they were powerful.  Still, he felt nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of Clarice’s girls, Jade, watching with eyes that were lambent, almost glowing in the dim light.  She was probably the best looking of the bunch - he wondered if she’d be all that upset if Clarice died prematurely.

The spell started to work.  The tremble beneath his feet was minute at first, but started growing in intensity, and he was pulling a bandana out of his pocket to staunch the blood flowing from the gash on his wrist, when a brief aurora borealis flickered in the far corner of the room.  “We have company,” he announced, as that was a sign their protective glamour around the immediate area had been broken.  The Herald he had broken warned that many of the undead might be drawn to the raising site once it commenced;  blood, after all, called to blood.

Clarice sighed dramatically, as if put out.  “All right, girls, let’s go see who it is. Maybe, if we’re lucky, Angelus has dropped by.”

“I hope so,” Diego agreed, as the blood in the grooves began to glow, lit by their own molten light.  The goblet simply reflected the red light, not yet willing to give up its own.

He really wanted his old grandsire here, to witness his ascension.  There would be
a poetic justice to him becoming the very first victim of the new god around these parts.

13

“What is it about evil and the French?” Spike asked.

Scott glared at the peroxide-blonde vampire, wondering if he was joking.  It was so hard to tell. “Excuse me?”

Spike gestured at the woods around them as they tramped through, headed for what Wesley had called the “focal point” - an abandoned shopping complex in a semi-rural area of France, close to its border with Germany.  It was technically day time, but you’d never know it - it was pouring buckets, and the cloud layer was so dark it might as well have been dusk.  It was hard to think of that as coincidence. But couldn’t they have warned them?  Rags teleported them in only two minutes ago, and already he was soaked to the bone.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Rags had left him with Spike.  They were the “initial team”, to help Wesley and his group of mages - or whatever the hell they were - determine what kind of supernatural defenses Diego’s group had, and the rest would be right in, or so they promised.  Could he trust them?  Wesley had pulled Logan aside, and Scott couldn’t hear what they'd discussed, although he thought he'd picked up fragments - something about a thing being “unleashed”, and their own “ace in the hole”.  But Logan hadn’t looked pleased as he left the room with the loudly dressed, demonic looking Lorne leading the way.  It was hard not to laugh at his  “This way, hard, dark, and hairy,” but the situation as a whole was more puzzling than funny.  Why wasn’t Logan on the initial team?  And what the fuck were they doing to him?  What was being “unleashed”?  Should he be concerned?

“Well, I mean, every time something nasty goes down, you can usually tie it back to the Frenchies.  Why is that?”

Scott just stared at the back of his head, and wondered how brittle his hair must be - not only was he dead, but he must have just bleached the shit out of it.  How was it not falling out in clumps?  “You’re a moron, aren’t you?”

Spike stopped and turned back to glower at him. “Listen, meat, I’m tryin’ to be nice to you, so keep your gob shut before I stick my foot through it.”

Boy, he blustered a lot.  He had high cheekbones that would have made a model gleeful, but on him they made his face knife blade thin and hungry, like a starving ferret.  Even if he wasn’t a vampire, Scott could never see trusting anyone with a face like that. “You know why we were sent in advance, don’t you?”

Spike scoffed, looked arrogant. “ ‘Cause I know these jerks, and they don’t hate me, like they hate Angel.  Everybody with half a brain hates Angel.  And you … well, you’re just Human;  yer harmless.”

Yes, he was indeed a moron.  His black eye wasn’t even completely healed yet. “We are bait.  We draw them out, make them reveal their defenses, then the others show up to save our butts.”

Spike shook his head, snorting again.  He sure snorted a lot. “Maybe you’ll get your butt kicked.  But not me.” He turned away and started walking again, boots sloshing in the newly forming mud.

“So, you just walked into a door on your way to find the Sisters, huh?”

That did it.  Spike stiffened and spun around so fast he nearly lost his footing in the muck. “Listen you, shut it.  I don’t know if you’ve been payin’ attention, but I’m actually the nice one ‘round here - I must be ‘cause I haven’t killed you yet.  So shut your fucking pie hole until we find some vamps to kill, right?”

Scott just stared at him, wondering who he was trying to fool and impress.  Himself? Maybe.  “Who said you were in charge here?”

When he was angry, Spike’s face seemed to crumple inward. “Can your mutant powers kill vampires?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Fine.  I’m in charge then, ain’t I?”  It was obviously a rhetorical question, as he spun back around and started tromping up a small rise next to a cluster of blue pines.  It was at the top that he stopped and turned around again, nearly slipping. “Wait - that you know of?  You have killed vampires, yeah?”

Ah shit.  Should he be honest? “Not really.”

“Not really?  What kinda bullshit answer is that?  Yes or no?”

“No.”

Spike threw his hands up in the air and looked skyward, as if appealing to the heavens. “Holy fucking Christ, they stuck me with a virgin.”

Nowl there was something he hadn’t been called since he was twenty one. 
Spike looked down at him, an angry set to his jaw.  “You have killed somethin’ though ... right?  Demon?  Evil mutant?  Spider in the bathtub?”

Scott scowled at him, wiping water from his forehead with the back of his hand, and heard thunder rumbling in the distance.  It could have been a present from Storm, but he didn’t think so, as it would have been better if the skies were clear - vampires and sunlight didn’t mix.  “I realize your species is a bloodthirsty type, but killing anything is wrong and morally reprehensible.”

Spike rolled his eyes, and turned away, grumbling, “They stuck me with a fucking virgin hippy.  Angel is so fucking dead -”

“I am not a hippy!” Scott protested, clamoring after him.  Besides, he understood
if you had to do it to defend yourself or others;  but nothing excused doing it as much or as easily as Logan and his “friends” seemed to.

“Just stay outta my way, and try not to get killed, ‘cause I just know they’d blame me for that.”

They didn’t talk to each other, just remained in a tense and resentful silence until they came to the edge of the woods, and it seemed like Spike suddenly slipped - he staggered back, grabbing his head.  “Ow,” he complained, then added, “I think they know we’re here.”

The rumble of thunder was louder, but probably coincidence. “Why do you say that?”

“I just felt … somethin’ weird.  Can’t explain it.  Mystical mumbo jumbo crap.”

Well, that was certainly definitive.

They left the clearing and headed for a boxy collection on interconnected buildings, whose facades were peeling away, or marred by graffiti.  He’d been hoping that they’d look different in Europe, but no, pre-fab shopping centers of this ilk were always identifiable, regardless of the soil they stood on.  The only real difference was most of the graffiti was in French. At least that made for a change.

They were half way across the weedy back lot when the ground started to tremble.  It was minute, but definitely there.  “Are there earthquakes in France?” Spike wondered.

“I hope you’re not asking me.”

It was then a small group of people appeared before them, as if stepping out of thin air.  The tallest, oldest apparent member of the group was a woman with curly reddish brown hair, wearing a long and very gothic looking indigo velvet dress with a deeply plunging neckline.  Flanking her were three very young girls - one a stocky Latina in a “Hello Kitty” shirt and hip huggers, another a slender Caucasian girl dressed in punky casual and sporting sunglasses, and the last a
stick thin Asian girl who seemed to be studying something fascinating on the muddy ground.  Why didn’t anyone warn him they would be so young?

The woman, who must have been Clarice, grinned, and said, “Spike!  My god, I never expected to see you!  And what have you done to your poor hair?”  She tittered. “You look like Billy Idol.”

“I do not look like Billy idol!” he snapped, annoyed.  But that’s who he looked like -
it had been on the tip of Scott’s tongue as well, but he couldn’t remember the name.  Frowning like he was personally offended, he still tried to stick to the script. “So what’s going on, love?  What’s with the niblets?”

But Clarice wasn’t prepared to take the bait. “I had no idea you were still around, Spike.  I heard you were dead.  In fact, I’ve heard lots of interesting rumors about you.”

Spike just shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of his long leather jacket. Rain sluiced down his back like it was oilskin. “I know, I’ve heard lots of rumors about me too.  Some of ‘em are pretty funny.” The earth started shaking a lot more violently now, causing the mud to shift. “You doin’ this?”

Clarice’s sky blue eyes focused on him, and Scott felt the oddest thing - like ice settling at the base of his backbone.  “Why are you hanging with a Human, William?”

William?  Was that Spike’s real name?  “He’s one of ‘em freako-s, ya know?  Pretty hard core.”

“I told you I am not a freak.”

Clarice appraised him coolly.  “So what kind of power do you have, Human?”

Spike glanced at him over his shoulder, rain dripping off his nose, and said casually, “Wanna give ‘em a demonstration, mate?”

Oh, it was going to be that way, was it?  Actually, if he just considered the fact that this woman probably “changed” these girls (killed them), and had something to do with Matt’s alteration, it wasn’t a bad idea at all.  “Sure,” he agreed, bringing a hand up to his visor.

The Asian girl looked up sharply, and started to say, “No-”

But Scott had already fired, and an intense beam of energy lanced towards Clarice and hit her straight in the chest.  It sent her flying, and Scott didn’t let up on the beam until she hit the far wall of the mall complex and went straight through it, taking a majority of the cinderblock along with her.

“Ooh, that’s gotta hurt,” Spike commented.

The rumbling of the ground intensified - no, it wasn’t coincidence - and the Asian girl stepped in front of Spike to keep him from approaching the mall. The Latina girl disappeared in a bright blink, and as Scott was about to shoot the Asian girl (he dialed down the beam considerably - he really didn’t want to hurt her, and she looked frail), the girl with the sunglasses and spiked black hair punched the air with an angry growl - and it felt like an invisible freight train hit him dead center in his torso and subsequently sent him flying.

The mud cushioned his fall a little, but not much.  Before he could get up, the girl slammed down on his chest knees first, and held her hand flat about six inches above his face.  Bizarrely, he couldn’t move his head or upper arms, and the pressure was enormous - like there was now an invisible rhino trying to crush his head.  “Think you’re so smart, little man?” She snarled, sounding years older than she looked. “You have no idea what you’re up against.  And you’re too late anyways.”

Spike wasn’t doing any better.  In fact, it reminded Scott of something he'd seen in one of those pre-Hollywood Jet Li flicks - every punch Spike attempted to throw was blocked by the girl’s slender forearms, and every kick he attempted she blocked half way with a kick of her own.  It was like some odd form of shadow boxing.  “You bloody cow,” Spike spat. “You’re cheating!”

She probably was, but Scott didn’t know how.  And he didn’t know how to keep this girl from either suffocating him or crushing his skull like a grape.  Spike tried to turn into some kind of fancy spinning kick, but it was unwise on trembling and muddy ground:  half way through, he lost his footing and fell flat on his ass. “Shit!” He roared in anger, but was probably more frustrated than anything else.  Scott sympathized, but felt like his head was going to explode.  What was she doing to him?  He knew telekinesis, thanks to Jean, and he honestly didn’t think that was it.

It was then there was a loud “whoomp”, and Rags had returned, obviously, with back-up, somewhere to the right of Spike.  Scott knew this, because the split second he heard the noise, a dark blur launched itself at the girl.  She turned and yelped, but it was too sudden and unexpected, and Angel caught her in a full body tackle (what was he, a rugby player before he was vamped?), and they both went flying into the mud, splashing it all over.

The earthquake stopped dead;  no tapering off, no slowing down, just full stop. That could have been either very good or very, very bad.

Punk girl was distracted, and looked towards the newly arrived group, and Scott felt the pressure ease up.  Good, he could breathe again.

He also hit the shutter on his visor, and blasted her so hard she went flying.

Well, she was a vampire.  It probably hurt like hell, but it couldn’t kill her.  He didn’t want to even think, for a single moment, that that was a shame.

Spike had taken off towards the old strip mall, leaving Angel to mud wrestle the clearly mutant girl, while Wesley was saying something in a very strange language until he shouted a single word that he understood:  “Company!”

Oh shit.

Getting to his feet, Scott saw what he meant.

The thick thunderheads had rendered the day almost as dark as night, so at first it looked like shrubs were encroaching on them from the sides.  But they were not moving with the wind, no matter how hard it gusted, and once his eyes adjusted, he saw them for what they were - people.  Dozens and dozens of people, moving slowly but relentlessly towards them, closing in on both open sides.  Scott was afraid he was having a zombie flashback, until he noticed most of them had distorted faces, glowing yellow eyes, and far, far too many teeth.

So that’s what vampires all looked like.  Huh.  Kind of disappointing, all in all.

There was a bright flash of light, and they turned to see that the Latina girl - obviously the teleporter - had returned, square between the ruined mall and Spike, and with her was Clarice wearing her vampire guise and looking really pissed off (couldn’t blame her there), and - oh shit, no - Matt.  And it was Matt who rushed to meet Spike.

“Don’t let him touch you!” Scott shouted, unable to get a clear shot at Matt.  It was chaos in the muddy back lot:  Wesley was shooting crossbow bolts (!) at the encroaching undead army (and yes, Logan hadn’t been shitting him - they screeched and exploded into big clumps of ash when hit in the heart.  How freaking strange), Angel was trying fruitlessly to escape from the Asian girl - who was obviously a lot stronger than she looked - and Rags was standing off to the far side, looking like he was thinking of bolting.  Or, in his case, “whoomping” out of here.  Where the hell was Logan when they really could have used him?  Why wasn’t he here yet?  What was he waiting for - an engraved invitation?

Spike took a swing at Matt, but it was too telegraphed in his body language, and Matt easily ducked under it and grabbed his arm.  Spike screamed so loudly the snap wasn’t actually audible, and, just to add insult injury, Matt threw him by that arm, sending him flying back into the mud.

A gunshot made Scott jump, but a quick look showed that Wesley had pulled a gun, and seemed to be using it alternately with the crossbow, one in each hand. The bullets weren’t killing the vampires, but shots to the leg and head seemed to make them go down, just like anyone else.  And a gun could fire more rounds per second than a crossbow.

Spike was writhing on the ground, cradling his shattered limb to his chest. “The fucker broke my arm!” He rolled onto his uninjured side, looking like he was trying
to get up, but it was clear Matt wasn’t going to let him - it looked like Matt was moving to grab Spike’s head.  In the meantime, Angel had gotten free of the Asian girl by pretty much giving up, but that put him right in the path of an angry, snarling Clarice.  She barreled into him like a linebacker, and Angel went flying back into the mud again, this time dragging Clarice with him, who let out a chilling, inhuman shriek of rage.

Scott shot the ground at Matt’s feet, sending up a tiny geyser of mud that at least made him stop where he was.  It made Spike glance up, notice how close Matt was, and quickly shove himself away.

Matt looked at him with strangely flat and malevolent brown eyes, and sneered, “Ahh, you.  So where’s Brendan?  I’d like to give that little shit a piece of my mind - or maybe just take a piece of his.”

“Matt …” He didn’t know what to say to him.  He wasn’t a student anymore, or even Human, was he?  But he didn’t look like a vampire either.  Angry, yes, but not undead.  “Stop. Just stop this.”

His eyes narrowed to angry, defiant slits. “Make me, 'teach'.”

And that’s when one of Wesley’s arrows exploded through Matt’s chest.

Matt’s eyes widened in shock and pain, and Scott gasped, taking a step forward before he stopped, mentally reminding himself he was a vampire, and a threat. What else could be done?

But his heart still skipped several beats as Matt looked at him - really looked at him - and Scott could swear, at that moment, he was seeing the old Matt again, the Human one.  The vain, selfish boy who honestly was just lost, who didn’t know what else to do.  “Mister Summers?”  He asked with sad curiosity, just before exploding into dust.

Scott felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and sorrow was swallowed by rage as he felt like shooting Wesley, maybe going over there and feeding him one of his own arrows.  But Matt was not his student - Matt was the enemy here, and he had been extremely dangerous.  Wesley had no choice to do what he did.

Or did he?  He didn’t try and kill Angel and Spike, and they were vampires.  They didn’t even try and kill Yasha, not while she was alive (so to speak).  What made them different?  Couldn’t Matt have been an exception too?

He was distracted from his own angry thoughts by flickering lights in the dead mall, seen through the hole Clarice had made when she'd plunged through the wall.  It flared red, then became so white it was painful to look at.  As they all glanced away, there was a sound unlike any Scott had ever heard before.  It was a chilling combination;  like a roar;  almost a scream, as if the Earth’s tectonic plates ripping apart.  All of those things and none of those things simultaneously;  it pounded through the ground and their bodies like a concussive force, knocking the wind out of them all while leaving them curiously untouched.

Spike, on his knees in the mud, still holding his useless arm, said the first intelligible thing: “I’m not going in there.”

Well, who could blame him?  Scott really didn’t want to go in there either.

Then sunglasses girl - now without her sunglasses, and looking really angry - suddenly popped up, and punched the air towards him.  Scott felt that dull sense of invisible impact once more, and hit the mud again, wondering what in the hell she had done.  That was not telekinesis - but then what the hell was it?

It was then that he heard the noise of Rags departing … no, returning, as he was suddenly standing beside him.  Scott looked up to warn him, but Rags just threw some of that glitter he always seemed to have towards the charging girl, and said, “Take it on the road, love - we’re kinda busy ‘ere.” He then added something unintelligible - and the girl disappeared in mid-stride with an audible whoomp.

Wait a minute - didn’t Rags have to touch people to make them teleport?  What the hell was that glitter anyways?

“She’s outta it, boss,” Rags shouted to Wesley, then stepped aside, looking around cautiously as if expecting an attack from behind.

It was a solid bet Wesley couldn’t hear him.  Scott climbed back to his feet in time to see several of the vampire army had engaged him in close combat, including - most devastatingly - that Asian girl who could predict every move.  Wesley’s crossbow lay broken in the mud, and Scott had no idea where his gun was.

Angel and Clarice were locked in a rather brutal struggle, and Clarice was getting some help from same said vampire army.  But it didn’t seem to matter, because Angel, even half covered in mud, was a machine - he’d punch Clarice hard enough to send her reeling;  then spin around and back hand a vampire trying to grab him from behind, hitting the would be attacker so hard he’d send him flying into the crowd; and then he’d turn back towards Clarice, pausing long enough to give another vampire a solid kick to the stomach.  To watch him, you’d think he’d been fighting evil vampire hordes all his life.  (And maybe he had - what did Scott really know about him?)  He could see why Logan was friends with him, though; they probably traded hand to hand combat stories.

Scott shot towards the vampire army swarming Wesley - well, Angel didn’t really look like he needed help - and using his beam at almost full power, cut down huge swaths of them like wheat stalks.  But that didn’t send them scrambling, like it should have: they seemed determined to kill Wesley, possibly for killing so many of them.

He took two steps forward, then stopped, as he realized the Asian girl had left the pack, and was now aiming Wesley’s fallen gun straight at him.  Oh shit.  Could he shoot her first?

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, startling him.  She had a oddly Valley girl accent, which was perhaps the strangest thing of all.

But then he noticed she had two flanking shadows, two vampires who had seemingly come out of nowhere. “No-”

“-fair-”

“-peeking,” The truly weird - and aptly named - Weird Sisters said, making the girl jump and look at one of them, then the other, so fast her neck almost snapped.

The poor girl never had a chance - he almost felt sorry for her.

“Pick-”

“-on-”

“-someone your-”

“-own freakishness-”

“-sweetheart.”

From what he understood, the Weird Sisters coordinated movements like they did speech - if one kicked with the right leg, the other did as well, and they were so deadly simply because they sandwiched their opponent and attacked as one. But that’s not what happened on this day.

The girl blocked the attack of one Weird Sister, abandoning the useless gun, but while one Sister punched high, the other went low and caught the girl in a leg sweep, taking her down to the mud.  Logan probably would have given them an A+ plus for changing their tactics to fit the situation:  by one doing the opposite of the other, they had the girl dead to rights -and pinned in the mud - in no time flat. He bet Spike felt like a right pillock.

Then there was another deep noise that was not a noise - an air bubble like a muffled sonic boom, a feeling more than an actual sound, a glancing impact more than a direct hit - and time itself suddenly seemed to stand still.