the cut

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Joss Whedon does and I just borrow them.

chapter 1: the womb

He was wet…

As he glanced down at his bare forearms, they appeared to glow in the moonlight with perspiration dotting his skin like so many neon pebbles. It was always too hot for him in this part of the world. It was stifling. He preferred London's chilly moist nights and gentle waltzes to this town's blazing sun and mariachi bands. Even in the middle of the night, it was too hot. He touched his lower lip with the index finger of his left hand and sucked it into his mouth, moistening his fingertip with his tongue. As he pulled it out and held it in front of his face, he cursed. “Not even a fucking breeze.”

With a groan, he stepped through the archway of the outdoor café. It was brimming with over-heated couples dancing and jerking feverishly against each other, lost to the rhythms of the guitars and drums. These dull fools didn't even seem to care that they were boiling alive, he snarled, knowing the sound couldn't be heard above the clapping hands, howling shouts and banging drums. Still, he had to remember that this was their town, their home. He was only a visitor.

Leaning lazily against a choppily carved mahogany pole (meant to pass as décor he assumed), he allowed his gaze to explore. A row of dried bushes at the edge of the cafe's dirt dance floor served as a barrier between the partygoers and the deserted alleyway. Shifting his eyes slightly to the right, he could see the sweat pouring from the faces of the bartenders; their fat hands were busy grabbing empty bottles of beer and filling plastic cups pushed into their palms with dark, cheap rum. Opposite the bar, a group of big-breasted women sat huddled together, whispering. Their jiggling bodies, bent heads and hushed tones reminded him of a herd of cattle munching grass.

Swallowing his disgust, he returned his attention to the dance floor. It was time to concentrate on the business that had brought him to this place. Straightening, he pushed away from the pole and strolled toward the dancers, eyes searching for his prey.

Almost instantly, he found her and stopped to marvel at the vision. She was barely a woman, still a girl really, with long brown hair and bright, round eyes, innocent and seductive all at once. She was not a deliberate temptress. He believed it was simply her gift to tantalize. Tall and coltish, she wove through the dancers with grace and ease, her erect nipples pushing through her white cotton blouse, unbuttoned delicately low, as she twirled her full skirt around and around.

Slyly, she glanced his way and tossed him a brief smile before continuing to dart through the crowd. She didn't see him return her smile. He didn't care, though. She was majestic, flaunting her power over the others like a sparkling white diamond in a dusty coal bin. He was glistening, watching her dance and smile as she worked her magic, leaving broad grins on the souls she touched with her full lips and friendly words.

“She is beauty,” he whispered.

Stepping onto the dance floor, he kept his eyes cast down. Now he could follow her with his senses.

He waited patiently, and when she moved to the edge of the dance floor, he pounced. He dragged her into the alley, and there in the dark corner he began the ritual. The music was loud. The girl was afraid. She screamed and twisted her body violently, trying to punch and kick him away from her. He was too strong, though, and her struggle quickly became pointless as he pressed one hand over her mouth and the other hand held her firmly around the waist. Pulling her ass against his hardening cock, he sighed into her neck, his breath scorching his lips as he rested them against her cool skin. Then he bent her forward at the waist, lifted her skirt and tore away her panties. Freeing himself, he entered her from behind, thrusting into her hard, brutally splitting her slim body.

His cock hammered away at her cunt until she was no longer capable of screaming.

Now he could take his time and slowed his pace, raking in and out of her dry pussy in earnest as her small pained cries echoed through him, caressing his damaged soul. As their grunts and groans mingled with the music and laugher of the café's guests, he felt close to exploding. Then suddenly everything, except for the sensation of his cock pounding into her taunt flesh, seemed to disappear.

After a time, he withdrew from her, spun her around, ripped open her blouse and roughly squeezed her breasts, bruising her savagely with his hands. Then he used his teeth, sinking them into the softness of her neck. He devoured her throat, drawing her pure blood deeply into his body. Even in the silence of her pain, he felt her stiffen as he began to orgasm, his seed spewing against her bare chest and stomach. He did not need to be inside her to relish this. Her blood was his sex and his desire.

“Yes, God, yes,” he cried aloud softly. “You are my gift.”

Turning her to face him, he gently kissed her pale lips. The girl whimpered. She was still alive. Lifting her under her arms, he dangled her in front of him as he took one last look into her doe-shaped eyes. Then with one hand, he ripped her head from her shoulders. Holding the blood-drenched object up to the moonlight, he saw the face of the next creature he'd hunt in the eyes of the dead.

He then dropped the body and the girl's head, and walked slowly out of the alley.


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“Oh please god, help me! I can't stand it. Make it stop. Please, Buffy. Please make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!” Dawn screamed.

She was flailing her arms and jabbing her fingers at her face, trying to pull her own eyes out of their sockets. Buffy had to push her onto the bed and press down on her shoulders hard (but not too hard) to keep her still. Then she planted her knees firmly on either side of her sister's pelvis.

Sure, there were easier ways to control Dawn. Buffy was the Slayer after all. But this wasn't Slayer time. Buffy wasn't going to treat her sister like a demon. She refused to chain Dawn up in the bathtub; she wouldn't rope her to a chair. She was going to help Dawn like a normal big sister. She'd wrestle her into submission.

From room to room, upstairs and downstairs, all through the Summers' house, Buffy had battled with Dawn. Now they were in the witches' bedroom where the memories of their Mom still lingered in the sheets and in the soft pastels of the wallpaper. Even the lace scarves that hung over the lampshades had Mom-smell. There had been times since Dawn's headache nightmare tore through their lives that being in this room seemed to calm her, thought Buffy. But not today.

Dawn's headaches had started three weeks earlier and a month after Buffy had been brought back from the dead. Buffy had found Dawn on the bathroom floor one morning, screaming and grabbing at her eyes and face. Immediately, she'd lifted her into her arms and ran as fast as she could to the hospital. Buffy had decided after her Mom died that she'd never dial 911 again in her life. So she ran. When she finally burst through the doors of the emergency room, she was screaming, “Help her! Help her!” She couldn't lose Dawn. Not after losing Mom. Not after stopping Glory. Not after being brought back to life at the whim of her friends. She couldn't lose anyone or anything else. No matter what.

Twenty stress-filled hours later, it turned out that Dawn didn't have a brain tumor or an aneurysm or high blood pressure, or poor eyesight. She didn't have any of those things. She had migraines. But these migraines weren't physiological, according to the doctors. They were psychological. Yeah right, Dawn is a perfectly healthy sixteen-year-old girl, except for these pesky headaches that are so painful she was trying to kill herself, Buffy had snapped.

With a shivering girl in her arms and no answers, Buffy had stormed out of the hospital. She'd deal with Dawn herself. Willow and Tara would be back from wherever they'd gone in a few days. So for now, Buffy was going to do just that - deal. But after one night of Dawn's blood-curdling screams and self-inflicting wound obsession, Buffy called Giles. He had to check out the demon factor. The monster trying to destroy Buffy's family this time had to be something she could kill.

Three days later, the watcher and the witch (Willow had returned home) confirmed that magic or demons or prophecy was the culprit. But that was all they could figure out. Neither one of them could tell Buffy what kind of big beastie was causing Dawn's headaches or why. They swore it wasn't the ghost of Glory returning from wherever she'd been vanquished. Giles also assured Buffy that Dawn's headaches weren't a cross-dimensional brain suck. Dawn was sane, just in a lot of pain caused by an unknown demon or other badness yet to be determined.

Suddenly, Buffy was pinned against the bedpost by a screaming teenager in full thrash mode, a stray fist catching her in the jaw. Damn, that stung, Buffy thought, rubbing the spot Dawn had claimed. She took hold of her sister's shoulder with her free hand. But Dawn jumped, catching Buffy's jaw – again – with another strike from a wild forearm. Quickly, Buffy adjusted her grip, adding a little super strength to keep Dawn still, at least for the moment.

“Can't keep falling asleep on the job,” Buffy muttered.


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Dawn's eyes flew open and she searched the room, frantic.

She spotted the darkness swirling in the corner near the closet door almost immediately. Somehow, she managed to keep from screaming and shot a pleading glance up at Buffy. She wanted to speak, but couldn't get any sound out of her throat. Calm down, she coaxed her mind. Don't act like a sixteen-year-old kid, she thought and took a deep breath. Then she looked at her sister again.

Buffy should have been able to see the black cloud in the corner from where she knelt on the bed. Why didn't Buffy see it? Dawn wondered. Why wasn't Buffy fighting it? Protecting her? It was right there in the corner. It was there! There! Dawn's anguished eyes locked on Buffy's face.

Her sister was mumbling about her 'job'.

Dawn wanted to hit her. Why don't you care about the thing in the corner that's trying to get me? But she knew Buffy hadn't cared about things for weeks. Nothing at all, or so it seemed, not since she'd returned to life.

Dawn watched open-mouthed as the black gash in the corner grew and slid from floor to ceiling to windowsill and then stopped in front of the closet door. She still couldn't scream or make any sound. So she kicked, scratched and pawed at the dark.

It started to inch closer to the bed.

As Dawn watched the darkness move slowly toward her, the pain inside her head intensified, stabbing her in the back of her eyes, blinding her with agony. Dawn clawed at her face. It helped her deal with it if she could hurt it. Dig it out. That worked sometimes, didn't it? Like being in her dead mother's bedroom helped her win some freedom from the pain. She could find a place in her mind where black clouds did not exist – a place only the Key could reach. Then the pain would ease and the blackness retreat, shrink into a tight ball.

She pulled as much oxygen into her lungs as she could. It was working. For the first time in more hours than she could count, her head was feeling better. The agony was disappearing. Most importantly, the image of a thin man grabbing her head and twisting it from her body was almost gone.

“Better, Dawnie?” asked Buffy after a while.

“Getting there.” Dawn's voice was a whisper as she watched Buffy lean forward to place a soft kiss on her dry lips.

The pain had dissolved. All that was left was a sweet taste floating over her tongue that she couldn't describe. Exhausted, Dawn relaxed in her sister's arms.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, Buffy. Thank you, thank you for being here.” Dawn didn't feel like playing the independent teenage girl. Right now, all she wanted was to be at the receiving end of Buffy's hugs and kisses.

“Let's get you cleaned up. How about a nice hot bath – okay?"

“Sounds good, Buffy.”

In the corner in front of the closet, Dawn kept an eye on the fading blackness. Maybe Buffy hadn't been able to see it because she wasn't the Key. Dawn was, and she had a feeling, a strong sense, that the darkness in the corner was Key business. Even without Glory, she was still what she was.

Free my heart. So my soul can fly.

Dawn mouthed the words to a song Willow had been playing on her CD player nearly every day since forever. It had become Dawn's private chant. A few hours of peace before the blackness returned was all she ever asked. And yeah, it was coming back. She knew that. And she could only pray that she'd be ready when it did.

to be continued…