Chapter Text
Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist or [sic] understand. For all one knows that demon is the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's personality.
- George Orwell, "Why I Write"
Before the first shard hits the floor Faith's already in motion, grabbing and hurling a tacky and-or priceless lamp. Before it hits her target's head she has the decorative sword in one hand, judging the angle as she gets a grip with the other and drives it into the intruder's beefy neck.
With Slayer strength behind it, the thin metal actually slides almost all the way through before catching on what's probably the guy's spine. Faith decides asking would be pointless, grabs him by one horn and grimly finishes the job, envisioning a Thanksgiving turkey coming apart at the seams. A river of foul smelling blood gushes forth from its neck, befouling the hardwood floor as the twitching body pitches forward onto its knees, collapsing like a deflated balloon.
She tosses the head aside, scanning the hallway.
Nothing.
Then the window explodes.
**
Willow knows she's panicking when her first instinct is to teleport directly to Faith. Fortunately, a moment's contemplation of the infinite unpleasant possibilities is enough to dissuade her. Instead she grabs her flashlight from the bedside table, comforted by the aluminum heft.
Moonlight streams through the thick glass window as she pads over to the door, barely daring to breathe. Confused shouts echo from the hall; Rafael and Danielle, arguing up a storm.
"You know why! Because of him --"
"You know what I'm tired of? You blaming him for everything --"
"You think this has nothing to do with him? You don't think they're here looking for him, right now?"
"Got that right, kid."
Willow stands utterly still, one hand on the knob. The new voice takes gravelly to unforeseen depths, with all the superlative excess mucous production that keeps demon slaying so consistently interesting.
"He's not here." Rafael's voice threatens to crack beneath the edge of boldness. "Don't hurt her --"
A howl of pain greets Willow as she flings open the door, white-hot fire running down her arms, pooling at her feet. The living flame vanishes as the redhead takes in the sight of Faith, standing atop an enormous demon wearing an incongruously pricey suit. Danielle and Rafael are huddled against the far wall, both of them clutching one another.
"Motheragod!" Willow can see the demon's left arm is utterly limp, fingers failing even to twitch as Faith manhandles the rest of its body. "How come I hadda draw Slayer duty?"
"Slayer?" Danielle seems to realize her position, angrily shaking off the contact with her brother.
"I know," Willow helpfully interjects. "He isn't really dressed like a heavy metal fan, is he?"
Danielle's eyes narrow as she turns to her cousin, the thing on the floor forgotten. "And weren't you just on fire?"
"I believe she was."
Willow groans inside as she turns to face Abigail, imposing as ever despite her ornate cap and nightgown.
"Willow, dear?" The matriarch pokes the fallen demon in the rump with her cane, heaving a sigh. "I'm about to say that other thing."
Unless you say it first.
Willow nods, and gives up the ghost.
"We need to talk."
**
Watching them interact, Faith realizes she'd got it wrong. Something in her had anticipated Abigail's concern for curtains and carpets would outweigh any protective instinct toward her grandchildren, even the ones still living at home in her apparent good graces. The straight-shooting, no-nonsense vibe is still in full effect. But it's becoming clear that in this family, blood really does run thicker.
"What are you doing?" Rafael has been quietly sitting, watching them, ever since Willow went off with grandma for the Big Talk. Danielle glances over from the kitchen, a spoonful of yogurt halfway to her lips.
"Gotta pass the time somehow." Faith smiles and claps the trussed-up demon on the back as she sits down beside him, kicking her heels up on the coffee table. Rafael opens his mouth to protest before Danielle silences him with a gesture.
"Whaddayouwant?" Up close the demon looks like a wereweasel, with the near-reptilian hide of a rhino. Its beady eyes shift back and forth in their sockets like spectators at a tennis match. "You ain't no cop."
"Nice tie." Faith pats the fabric. "Real silk, huh?"
A bumpy tongue lolls out in a leer. "Like your underwear?"
Faith exposes her teeth as she strokes the tie. "What underwear?"
"I knew it -- ack!"
"I'm not a cop." Faith looks almost bored, apart from the strain in her biceps as she holds the length of cloth taut against his throat. "But if you don't tell me why you busted in here, you're gonna wish the boys in blue found you first."
"I don't think he can breathe." Danielle sounds utterly fascinated. "Or talk. Unless he doesn't breathe through his mouth."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this." Rafael rises from his seat, one hand over his mouth. "Seeing...oh God...damn..."
"Rafe!" Danielle chides, in faux shock. But the boy is already turning away, tottering to the kitchen to unquietly relieve the contents of his stomach into the sink.
Danielle turns back to Faith with an air of distaste. "Is this necessary?"
"You think this is bad?" Faith hasn't taken her eyes from the demon's own, now bulging from its profusely sweating head. The calm in her voice is rapidly being replaced by outright menace. "Cause I don't think you wanna know how much worse I can get."
"And neither does anyone else!"
Willow's chirpy interjection comes none too soon for their captor, whose shade of purple is beginning to resemble his tie. Faith sighs and drops him back on the couch, turning to face the redhead and her grandmother, standing in the doorway wearing matching looks of disapproval only varying by degree.
"Just havin' a little fun." Faith pastes on a smile, swallowing the uneasy feeling. "What's up?"
"Well, my granddaughter now feels a good deal less inadequate."
Willow offers a weak grin as her shoulders sag. "I really didn't --"
"Nonsense. We'll speak no more of it."
"I can see you're havin' a family thing," the demon wheezes. "I don't wanna interrupt...I'll just let myself out --"
Abigail's eyes flare as she takes in the hostage on the couch.
"As for this fellow -- I'm afraid we were mistaken."
"What do you mean?" Rafael stands in the kitchen doorway with sunken eyes and dampened hair, traces of green around his mouth.
"They didn't come for Nathaniel." Abigail sounds abruptly ancient.
"Bubbeh?" Rafe's eyes grow wide in confusion, the boy wavering on his feet.
"They came for you."
**
"So." Armin is not quite sprawled out on the seat, a newspaper draped over his face as Nat tries to refrain from rubbernecking. "You got a plan?"
"I did." Nat wonders if the muscular black guy across from them is sizing him up for a mugging, or to ask him on a date. "Things changed."
"And what happened?" Armin asks, like he knows the answer.
"I needed a new plan."
The newspaper puffs briefly upward with a sigh. "Let's keep this simple. What could you possibly have to offer those paisanos that they wouldn't just fillet you and take it if they had half a mind?"
"I didn't go in completely blind and trusting." Nat scales back his rising temper. "Sorry."
"And you knew going in they were shedim?"
Nat's brow crinkles. "Foreign gods?"
"Demons."
The muscleboy rises from his seat. Nat's heart becomes a spastic greyhound until he realizes the man is walking away, as quickly as possible given the speed of the swaying subway car, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure the two crazy Jews aren't about to choose him for a human sacrifice.
"And how long have you known?"
"This isn't about me, kid."
Nat scowls. "I wish you'd quit calling me that."
"When you quit acting like one."
"I don't mean for the obvious reason. It makes you sound like you're trying to be Humphrey Bogart."
"You have no idea." Armin sits up, dislodging the newspaper and glancing around. "Our stop's coming up."
Nat remains silent, sullen. Armin doesn't blink.
"You gonna help me out or what?"
Nat looks at him, confused. "I thought you were helping me."
Armin smirks. "Help me help you."
Nat looks away again. Armin grunts, fishing in his pocket. For a split second Nat thinks he's pulling out the pistol, but it's just a subway pass.
"You owe me a new Fun Card."
"I..." Nat tries to marshal his thoughts. "I don't have any cash on me. I was going to see a friend --"
"Unless you tell me why you're trying to set every unholy bastard in this city at each other's throats."
Nat swallows, feeling his ears pop.
"I'm trying to save my brother."
Armin's incomprehensible grunt is a clear demand for more detail.
"Look -- I was Judah, he was Joseph. Okay?" Nat bows his head and shuts his eyes.
"Least it wasn't Cain and Abel," Armin says, with no little sarcasm.
"Not yet." Nat feels the bubble of misery well up inside. "I was jealous, I was stupid and desperate and I tried to sell him into slavery for twenty pieces of silver. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Far from it." Armin sounds less grumpy. Almost compassionate, until his next words. "About what I expected, though."
"I tried to make up for it. I put wards on the house -- gave them a red herring..." Nat clutches the edge of his seat, not daring to open his eyes. The sting of tears threaten as the car sways back and forth, rocketing down the tracks with a clicking rumble. "I gave them someone else! He was supposed to be safe --"
"Nobody's safe." Armin sighs again, rising as they approach the stop. An iron hand encircles Nat's forearm, compelling him to do likewise. "Who's the new target?"
Nat blinks. He'd almost forgotten her name...
"Willow."
**
"I can't believe it."
"You said that already." Danielle's fingers hover over the pincushion, selecting her weapon.
"I can't! I can't believe he'd do such a thing. My own brother --"
"You said that too." Danielle isn't even looking at Rafe any more, sitting in the picture window, staring out at the street below. Willow observes them from the corner, lost in thought and a beanbag chair.
"I always knew he was a schnorrer." Rafael runs both hands through increasingly disheveled curls, the resulting spikes rendering him a young, more than half-mad Einstein. "A lecher, for sure. But selling me out? Literally! I can't --"
"Be a believer," Faith cuts in. "Turn your back on family? They'll put the knife in it every time."
Willow gives her a reproachful look, but remains silent.
"With your bubbeh's bankroll, he probably didn't have to go far." Faith's cynicism remains clear. "Any gangster worth his salt would jump at the chance. Fat, easy ransom."
"So there are demons in the Mafia." Danielle's tongue emerges from between her teeth as she pokes at her doll with a pin. "I can't decide if that's cool or disturbing."
"I usually go for disturbing," Willow chimes in.
"And Grandma says you guys are gonna handle it?"
Faith shrugs. "Another working vacation?"
"That's about the size of it." Willow looks over at her girlfriend. "Sorry, honey."
"And she didn't go completely cloud cuckoo when you dropped this whole megillah on her?" Danielle shakes her head. "There's where my belief starts to break down."
Willow manages a weak smile. "It wasn't that complicated."
**
"Magic is real?"
"Yes."
"_Shedim_ are real?"
"Yes."
"Oy."
"Pretty much what I said."
"I'm glad we had this talk."
**
"Figures she wants to move up the ceremony." Danielle's lower lip takes on a familiar stubborn cast. "I'm still not wearing that damn dress."
"Please!" Rafe's ranting devolves to a pathetic plea as he sinks onto the couch, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "Like I don't have enough problems? Is it asking so much for you to show the tiniest tzniut, on this one day --"
"Yes." Danielle glares at him with settled finality, giving the doll a particularly vicious jab.
Willow sighs, wincing as she realizes how much she sounds like her mother. "I just hope I don't end up wishing for blood larvae and burlap."
Faith smirks. "I'd pay to see that."
**
She remembers the last time she wore one of these things. That modest little pink number, all girlish and soft. The one that after all this time, she still can't bring herself to hate.
This is the first one to make her forget all about it.
Faith can't remember the brand, and she doesn't care one bit. Since they sent their hostage packing back to his bosses the morning had turned into a whirlwind of activity, most of it eaten up by hastily arranged fittings. Rafe had about had another stroke when Faith insisted on all red, but Abigail stood firm and supported her. Now barely six hours later, she's staring at at herself in the mirror. It's almost like two separate halves: A tight, almost gymnastic top, falling off one shoulder; the bottom a slinky, floor-sweeping number, tied at the waist with a long sash. Freedom of movement to the max.
Only thing that seems off is her hair. Just never seems right not to let it fly free.
Danielle's voice filters in from the hall. "You're not supposed to see her before the ceremony."
"Don't even try it." Willow's warning is followed by a knock at the door. "Are you decent?"
"Once in a while." The snark is automatic, but Faith continues to stare into the mirror as the door swings open.
A low whistle greets her from behind. "Oh, my."
Faith's sudden gratitude for the lowered lighting is overcome by the sight of them standing beside one another. From the look in her eye, Willow very much approves.
"Kinda what I was thinkin'." Her hand drifts down to the left leg, checking the almost invisible slit. Reaching for a garter holster wouldn't exactly be discreet, but if things go that far they'll have more to worry about. "Not that I'd kick you outta bed for eating crackers."
Willow gazes at their reflection, sounding distracted to the point of enraptured. "Backup stakes?"
"Lacquered and sharpened." Faith pats the bun in her hair. "Long as I don't have to say any words, we're golden."
"This is like my fluke moment all over again. With even better dresses." Willow's arm drifts lower, fingers twining with the Slayer's just above her hip. "Except one of us should have a tux."
"Thought the idea was to keep your cousin alive," Faith reminds her.
Willow turns and leans into her. "Is that a note of wry toast?"
"Groan."
"Heh." Willow's gaze drifts lower. "You know, you're probably the first Slayer to wear steel-toed Pradas."
"Gotta be me, Red."
"Could you be anyone else?" Willow chucks her under the chin, just gentle enough not to make Faith feel like nipping at her fingers. "Come on. It's show time."
Faith follows her out, with one last look in the mirror. Whatever else goes wrong -- and it always does -- she is not letting this dress go without a fight. Even if the thought of being seen in it by anyone else is suddenly the scariest thing she's ever had to face.
Show time.
**
"You're sure this is the place?" Armin surveys the refuse-riddled hallway with a skeptical eye. A scowl lights up his lips at the graffiti scrawled on the crumbling walls. "Thought you said this guy was a hustler like you."
"That's like saying broccoli is like a carrot because they're both vegetables." Nat sidesteps a pile of excrement, staying well away from the sagging wallpaper. "He's got more than one place."
"Impressive." Armin doesn't sound it. "Still, inflation and all."
"Well, he did. I don't know if he still does." Nat halts, with the satisfied look of one whose vague memory has been vindicated. "Last door on the left."
"Fitting." Armin's hand returns to his pocket, failing to reemerge. "You first."
Nat doesn't bother contesting it. The door yields to his ungentle shove, bringing a wince from both men at the horrendous squeal.
Armin's failure to be impressed continues unabated. "Your guy lives in a closet?"
"Sublets." Nat takes two steps forward and kneels. The plate covering the air duct refuses to come all the way loose, but his hands are small enough to fit inside, finding the hidden latch with ease.
The wall slides aside in total silence, followed by Armin's eyebrows going up.
"Nice." The older man's assessment is only moderately begrudged. "Could have used more of those back in the day."
Nat doesn't even hear, his pulse thundering in his ears as he stares at the wreckage of the room beyond. Shabby as Ollie's domestic skills could charitably be described, his flawless sense of organization bordered on an obsessive compulsion; the few times Nat had set foot in any of his safehouses had been like watching Bob Geldof rearranging piles of broken glass, his host taking great pains to point out the system at work underneath the madness. A pile for everything, and everything in its pile. Now it's all one great big pile.
Armin frowns. "You hear that?"
"Obviously not -- hold on." Nat cocks his head, trying to locate or at least recognize the faint song. Some Bob Marley tune, how cliche could you get --
Armin kneels and pulls a battered cellphone from the trash pile, holding it out to Nat. "You wanna take this?"
"Not in the least." Nat steels himself, hitting TALK hard enough to bruise his finger. "Hello?"
"Just the man I was looking for." The voice is so cultured it drips buttermilk, as his aunt would say.
"Is he all right?" Nat already wants to kick himself, with both feet. As if he has any leverage to ask questions...
"If you mean young Oliver? I have no idea." His erstwhile patron sounds more amused than annoyed. "I only sent someone round to inquire after you. I can't imagine why he would have --"
"Gotten the hell out of Dodge," Nat finishes. "Like you thought I would if I couldn't deliver."
"And are you prepared to do so?" An oily chill enters the voice. "If not what you promised -- then at least yourself?"
Nat closes his eyes.
No more running?
Seems like a good thing.
"I'm ready."
"Then make haste."
As if on cue, two hulking figures emerge from the shadows, blocking their exit. Armin slowly removes the empty hand from his jacket, his flared nostrils the only sign of emotion as one of the patron's flunkies removes and pockets the pistol.
"Forgive my little insurance policy," the cellphone chuckles. "But your brother's big day has been rescheduled. There isn't much time."
Nat ignores Armin's evil eye as they turn to leave.
"And we're _all_ going to be there."
**
"So far so good."
Willow shoots Faith an aggrieved look. "Tempting fate again, are we?"
Faith shrugs. "So far, not so bad?"
"So far, we've been a captive audience." The pale, plastic smile pasted onto Willow's face is showing signs of strain. While Faith doesn't know precisely what will happen when the dam breaks, she is distinctly uneager to find out.
For her, it had been the ceremony. For Willow? The true torture would be the party.
"Company." Faith plucks her sleeve, giving a nod to the new arrivals. "Tell me you're not surprised?"
Willow looks over at the entrance, where Nat and Armin are flanked by a pair of linebackers in matching suits. She does a quick scan of the goombahs, finding mystical auras more or less in line with the average human. In other words, near zero.
"I got the big one," Faith declares, with no little satisfaction.
"Wait." As she watches, the two toughs fall back to either side of the doorway, each one keeping an eye on their respective ward.
"Looks like someone doesn't want them scampering off." The Slayer looks back up the aisle to the main room, where Rafe is surrounded by a flock of cheering relatives. "Think we can do this quiet like?"
"Would make it harder," Willow admits. "Thought that wasn't your style?"
"I got lots of different styles." Faith nods at the goombahs. "These guys? Straight outta Winter Hill."
"Winners will what?"
"It means relax." Faith flashes a grin, cocky as ever. "I got the big one."
Willow sighs, waiting patiently until the Slayer has lured her man away. The remaining goombah gives her a fish eye as she approaches, which turns into an appreciative leer.
"Well hello, little lady." So predictable, the way he stands up straighter than ever, puffing out his chest like a rooster. "What can I do for you?"
"Actually, it's for yourself." Willow doesn't smile. "You can leave."
"Right." To his credit, the guy doesn't burst out laughing. Still, the quiet snort speaks to his complete lack of taking her seriously. "You some kinda Slayer too."
"I could so be one if I wanted." Willow glares at him before remembering to remain calm. It works better that way. "Besides, you'd be safer with her."
"Why?" The goombah follows her gaze over to Faith, emerging from the bushes and dusting her hands. "She your girlfriend or somethin'?"
"Good point." Willow acknowledges. "Forgot about that."
Faith nods as she passes by. "Doin' all right?"
"Got it covered." Willow returns her attention to the henchman, sighing as she waits for Faith to exit the room. "Hello?"
"Huh? Right." The guy looks back with a grin, rubbing his beefy hands together fast enough to spark a flame. "Girlfriends."
"See, if you mess with me, Faith will just beat you up." Willow considers. "Or maybe just kill you. She's not big on the torture these days."
"Torture?" The goon sounds amazed at the turn in conversation. "Like you are?"
Willow just looks at him.
The man shivers. Much like you'd expect from someone who just felt a twinge of not-quite-pain zing down their spine all the way to their groin, ending in a tiny tug deep in their scrotum. Nothing major or earth-shattering, but enough to convince a fellow he could have just suffered an instant vasectomy. Or had his package crushed into jelly.
Willow's gaze is without hostility. Pure, unwavering calm.
"She knows I can take care of myself."
"Sor--" The guy coughs, dancing back and forth. "I'll be goin' now."
Willow watches him gingerly limping away with fast, tiny steps. No doubt to the nearest bathroom for a safety inspection.
"Ouch." Faith's sympathy shines through despite her amusement.
Willow looks over to see the Slayer framed in the doorway, the light from the room behind not quite rendering her dress transparent. "I told you I had it covered."
"What can I say?" Faith's grin takes on the crooked cast of overt seduction. "I like watchin' you work."
**
Not watching the door they came in, Nat doesn't understand why Armin is smiling. Besides, he's too busy navigating the most treacherous gauntlet of all.
"You have that sore spot still?" Aunt Ellen's suspicious stare zeroes in on his face. "Are you doing cocaine?"
Nat can feel himself breaking into an abashed, sweaty flush.
"No, Auntie. I'm still picking my nose."
"Oy!" Ellen's hands flutter in horror, taking flight like frightened birds. "Better you should do the cocaine! You might have the energy to visit once in a while. Or call, even!"
"I'll...get right on that, Auntie." Nat spies a familiar face, quickly making his escape. "Excuse me."
Ellen watches him leave with a cluck of disapproval before turning her sour attentions on an unrepentant Armin. "Still corrupting young boys?"
Armin's placid calm turns to a pleasant smile. "Still getting them killed?"
"Faith!" Nat's smile is a hundred and ten percent genuine, as are his next words. "It's good to see you."
"Heard you put the word out on your little bro." Faith doesn't mince words. "Not cool."
Nat stands up straighter, every nerve on alert. Is this a test?
"You know the old saying. Owe someone a million dollars, you're screwed." Nat makes a seesaw motion with one hand. "Owe them a trillion --"
"They're screwed," Faith finishes.
"I've been making good progress." Nat watches the cluster of aunts drawn toward Rafael, rotating around him like a solar system. "But at this point, I think it's safe to say I'm still screwed."
"Never too late."
Faith seems to realize the wrongness of that statement. Still, Nat has to admire how it doesn't lessen her conviction.
"Do you believe in a hierarchy of sin?"
Faith squints at him, suspiciously resembling his Aunt Ellen. "Like a ladder?"
"Exactly," Nat confirms. "Some say it doesn't matter what sin you commit. That any wrong act is as bad as any other."
"I'd say they're full of it." Faith watches him closely, as if waiting to strike.
"They are." Nat meets her gaze. "I learned that when I met you."
**
"Some party, huh?"
"I'm sensing no small amount of sarcasm here." Willow peers at Danielle over her drink. The two of them are seated at the periphery, observing the rest of the room from the best outside vantage.
"Is that another one of your superpowers?" Danielle stares into her glass, twirling the little pink umbrella. "Captain. I'm sensing he's full of --"
"It's a useful skill for anyone." Willow takes a quick sip, trying not to gag on the overwhelming fruit flavor. "Growing up on a Hellmouth? Makes it essential."
"Whatever." The little enthusiasm seems to depart as Danielle slumps in her chair, directing a morose stare at the growing number of revelers flinging themselves headlong onto the dance floor. "Thanks a lot."
"Assuming this is more sarcasm?" Willow grabs a club soda, emptying half the bottle into her drink. "You might want to spell it out for me. Lately I've been feeling not so smart."
"You?" Danielle scoffs, disbelief writ large on her otherwise angelic face. "Besides boy genius over there -- you're the one they always hold up as the shining hope we all aspire to."
"Until they learn I'm something they don't even have a word for." Willow tries a cautious sip of the dilute solution. "Then it's Katie bar the door. Or Rachel."
Danielle looks back at her with renewed interest, considering.
"You want to go make out?"
Willow chokes on her drink. "Excuse me?"
"Geez, don't have a space cow." Danielle looks away, sounding more than a little irritated. "It was just a suggestion."
Willow looks back at the dance floor, where Faith and Nat are engaged in a jitterbug. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen." The grumpiness remains. "It's not like I'm a virgin --"
"Tee emm eye!" Willow manages not to drop her glass, waving weakly as Faith catches her eye. "And the whole cousin thing? Gotta say that leaves me a little cold."
"God, where's your sense of adventure?" The waves of negativity have retreated back to standard teen angst. "Is everyone in this family a complete killjoy?"
"So your idea of fun is to piss off a jealous girlfriend who can bench press a truck?" Willow raises her glass. "It's your funeral."
Danielle shrugs, looking more confident than she sounds. "I won't tell if you don't."
"Not the way to build trust in a relationship." Willow smiles and pats the girl's hand. "Sorry. You'll have to find your illicit pleasures elsewhere."
"What's that, dear?" Abigail materializes only slightly less than literally, looking hearty and cheerfully fortified on her near-empty wineglass. Willow coughs.
"Uh, I was just telling Danielle -- when I first saw her, I thought she was a Hassid?"
"With a little change," Abigail beams. "You so could be --"
"Bubbeh, the day I wear a sheitel is the day I join Kappa Beta Moo." But Danielle's annoyance is tinged with near-involuntary affection.
"Willow sweetie, hit the buffet already, you must be starving. Danielle, I want you to seriously consider --"
Willow takes the hint and leaves them to it, sending an apologetic look back when Danielle shoots her a glare of betrayal. Faith and Nat have apparently gotten past their serious talk and are likewise raiding the table, piling their plates high in an apparent contest.
"You finding everything okay?" Willow looks down at the Slayer's plate. "Heh. Looks like."
"You're the one that said I was still growing." Faith grabs a carving knife and starts hacking away at the brisket with a gleam in her eye. "God, this thing is half fat!"
"Ain't it great?" Armin thrusts his plate into the circle of people clustered around the table. "Save some for the old folks, would ya? There's a peach --"
"That's cheating!" Nat points at his plate, waring the greivous look of the righteously wounded. "Where's the bagels? The latkes, the dumplings --"
Armin grins, exposing a double row of perfect teeth.
Willow takes the opportunity to snuggle in a little closer, enjoying the extra Faith-contact allowed by their slinky dresses. It's at that moment that the confluence of factors is just right or wrong, and a lull in the conversation combines with a very loud, inappropriate comment.
"Oy! The geyler is shtupping a shikse?"
Nervous titters and coughs ensue before the music swings awkwardly back into motion.
"I don't know." Willow's cheeks are a trifle warm, but she meets the gaze of the speaker -- a woman of Abigail's age, with none of the charm or fashion sense -- with her chin held high. "Is it technically shtupping if I don't have a schvanz?"
"Well." The icy reply leaves no doubt in Willow's mind of the direction this is going. "It's nice to know Sheila's liberal arts degree paid off."
"Willow, this is Ellen." Armin doesn't even glance at the other woman. "Somehow, the two of you are related."
"Imagine that?" Willow offers a disarming smile. "Anyway, I don't like labels. I mean, geez, I voted for Schwarzenegger."
This has precisely the predicted and intended effect. Ellen's jaw loosens on its hinge, swinging, as the woman stares at her aghast.
"Why on earth?"
"I like his movies." Willow manages to keep a straight face despite Faith's expression. "*Predator* is a surprisingly well constructed example of the hero's journey --"
Ellen's shock has become outrage. "That's no reason to vote for someone!"
Willow casually springs her trap. "It was good enough to put Reagan in the White House."
"Careful, honey," Armin growls. "I voted twice for Reagan and I'm not ashamed one bit. A man of integrity that was, who had the guts to admit when he was wrong --"
"By abandoning everything he supposedly stood for?" Ellen appears on the verge of passing out. "These days, you'd call him a flipper flopper --"
"Excuse me!" Abigail's harsh interjection quells the burgeoning debate, and the matriarch glares around the circle at everyone in turn. "I think that's more than enough politics for today, don't you?"
"No argument from me," Armin chuckles. "Spoil the boy's big day? I never!"
Faith pulls Willow away from the table while balancing a full plate with her free hand. "You really voted for the Governator?"
Willow adopts a prim demeanor. "Don't ask, don't tell."
Armin chuckles as he falls in line behind them.
"I was really gonna say something." Faith's hand lingers at her waist. "Or, you know -- pop her one."
"Your discretion is appreciated." Willow keeps a grip on the Slayer's wrist, a silent warning to stay at waist level while they make their way to the back table. "Anyway, you know the drill. If I'm not the dutiful daughter, I'm Lilith in disguise."
"Better not let the boy hear you say that name." Armin briefly mulls this over as he seats himself beside them. "Either one."
Faith sweeps her gaze over the scruffy little senior. "Still carryin'?"
"Almost always." Armin appears unsurprised at her percipience. "You expecting trouble?"
"Nothin' we can't handle." Faith feels compelled to elaborate. "Her and me, that is."
"That so?" Already Armin has made a sizable dent in his plate, scarfing its contents neat and quick. "Voice of experience?"
"How about you tell me what you got?" Faith narrows her eyes, shrewdly assessing him. "You in the Mafia too? Like those goons we sent packing?"
"Pah!" Armin pauses to dab away grease, almost dainty in his precision. "Today's Jewish Mafia, so called? More Israeli and Russians into ecstasy and heroin. Dutch Schultz would have eaten them for breakfast!"
Willow glances around, finding the three of them are being thoroughly ignored. For her part, Faith appears eager to continue her semi-subtle interrogation.
"So what's your story?"
"Ah, nothing special. Wouldn't want to bore you." Armin wipes his hands, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "You know, you remind me of this sweet doll I knew when I was running numbers."
"Yeah?" Faith's interest is obvious.
"She knifed me and took my roll." Armin sips his water, smiling in recollection. "What a woman! This tall, stacked schvartze from Harlem. Unbelievable, I tell you..."
"Runner, huh?" Faith adopts a calculating expression. "How early you start?"
"Oh, I must have been...twelve, maybe?" Armin shrugs. "Up at five, out on the street. We had to eat, ya know?"
"Been there, done that." The Slayer raises her glass with a knowing look. "Here's to better days."
Willow silently joins the toast with her lemonade. Glancing around the room, she finds the festivities once more in full swing. The spacious hall is packed to the rafters with friends and family; Rafael sits at the head of the main table, suit pockets stuffed to overflowing with discreet envelopes courtesy of the wide and varied avuncular crowd, whose generosity he had apparently been unable to refuse.
Her roving eye falls upon another familiar face. Nat stands apart from the crowd, staring into his wineglass.
His face is pale as death.
**
For all his vaunted cool, the oldest of the clan's current generation finds himself cursed in perpetuitum with two left feet. Nat's been watching the dancers, content to observe, ever since his cousin dragged her girlfriend from his side. He wonders if Rafe will ever want a girlfriend.
It would be nice if he lived that long.
At the table, Rafe is flushed red, but not from wine. At least not yet.
"One glass! It's watered even --"
"Don't push him, Elvin." Abigail stands stern, overseeing the proceedings with an iron hand.
"What pushing? One glass, for the proudest day --"
At least he's over the old resentments, the jealousy of never being the favored son. The halcyon days of innocence gone, when his biggest worry was having enough baggies to smuggle food away from the buffet table. If he had half a chance of surviving past tonight, he could have made off with an epic haul..
"Hello, my boy."
Nat stops the outcry before it can pass his lips, feverishly aware of the lack of reaction throughout the hall. This voice is for his ears alone.
He looks down into his wineglass.
"I'm not surprised you dealt with the family men." His patron's voice is smooth and suave, matching the exquisitely mustachioed face reflected up at him from the gleaming surface of his equally exquisite Cabernet Sauvignon. Nat quickly glances toward the door, finding it unguarded.
"No matter." A wave of the hand dismisses this concern. "I never did share well with others. But you..."
Nat's hand trembles, distorting the handsome features.
"Can you honestly say you'd rather deal with those thugs...than a gentleman like myself?"
The wine sloshes in his glass. Undulating neon flickers, as the image shimmers and transforms...
"Listen, you little schmendrick." The new voice is a lion's growl, matching the image of an grizzled predator; the same face Nat saw in the alley, grown grey and ancient. "I've been sweating, and bleeding, and spilling blood for this family before your amphibian ancestors even thought about crawling out of the gene pool. You screw with it in any way, you're gonna wish they stayed there --"
The image vanishes before Nat finds out his grip can break the glass.
"I realize you're faced with some hard alternatives. But you have only yourself to blame." The godfather is no longer smiling.
"Are you ready to honor your agreement?"
Nat shuts his eyes.
If not now, when?
**
"Gonna grab a smoke." Faith pushes her chair back and stands, nodding to Armin. "Keep an eye on Princess for me?"
"My pleasure." Armin's eyes flicker only briefly to the Slayer's retreating hindquarters before returning to Willow. Another sign, she thinks, of his monumental control. "Look, kid. I didn't want to spook your girl, but --"
"Kid?" Willow echoes. The split second of annoyance must be a little too obvious. Or he's just more perceptive than most.
"Willow. I hate to ruin a nice day like this, but you --"
(FUCKING STUPID)
Willow clutches her skull, blindly reaching out at lightning speed. The Slayer's thoughts are a jumble of combat and overwhelming self-recrimination, and she's just starting to get a handle on them; Armin's voice of concern buzzing in the background...
An explosion cuts him off.
Willow's first reaction is to inhale, giving herself an unhealthy double lungful of the acrid smoke now thickening the air. Retching beyond control, tears weeping from her eyes, she can barely make out the panicked cries all around; people running, slipping, falling...
"Distraction!" Armin yells, rising from his chair. "Keep your head down --"
"Willow!"
The new yet familiar scream interrupts her concentration. Danielle is barely visible through the smoke, in the clutches of yet another well-dressed thug. Willow can't actually see the gun in his hand, held to her cousin's head, but his posture is unmistakeable. She can feel Armin behind her, tensed, coiled to spring.
"Don't move a muscle, witch!" The hulking heavy is sweating profusely through his pricey fabric. Probably knows how dangerous she can be. If the whole 'witch' thing wasn't enough of a clue...
"I'm not moving." Willow doesn't hold up her hands. "Just talking."
"Don't do that either," the heavy snarls. As the smoke clears, Willow can make out a fair number of similarly attired and musclebound men, each holding their own hostage.
Willow holds up her hands, very slowly. "What do you want?"
"They want you."
Willow goes rigid as Nat slips the collar around her neck.
The instinctive flash of power expands inside her, becoming a universe before rebounding, crumpling her to the floor.
The last thing she hears are the thugs' screams of outrage. Something about double crosses...
Faith!
**