"I'm kind of surprised that you wanted a fire," Angel said as he came over and sat down next to her on the couch. "It's not like another freak cold front's come through."

"It's no problem," Buffy replied, stretching slightly as she sighed again. "I'm still a little sore from that test; the heat feels good."

"You sure you're okay?" Angel asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice as his fingers reached out and lightly traced the fading cut over her right eye.

"I'm sure," she said as she opened her eyes and looked at him lazily. "I'm almost back up to full strength and everything. Want me to bend the poker to prove it?"

The smile implicit in Buffy's voice wasn't shared by Angel. "I still can't believe Giles would do that to you."

"He didn't have any choice," Buffy protested, straightening up slightly. "And he went against his orders. That's why he got fired, remember?"

"Yeah," Angel said unhappily, "but--"

"Do you really want to spend all night talking about Giles?" Buffy shifted closer to him. "Because I can think of better things to do."

The cloud of gloom enshrouding Angel evaporated. "Well, when you put it that way..." The rest of that thought was muffled by Buffy's lips.

Unbeknownst to either Buffy or Angel, other eyes were taking in their passionate embrace. "You're a few centuries late for mouth to mouth resuscitation," Edmund muttered under his breath, vaguely nauseated. Seeing that neither of them had heard him, he withdrew from the French doors and back into the garden. This had been a mistake, he realized. Not returning to Sunnydale, but deciding to spy on Buffy and Angel. Bad enough that he was already down in the dumps, as these colonials used to say, but now... "God, how happy couples depress me," he sighed, then, despite himself, smirked slightly at his choice of phrasing. Even now, after nearly three centuries of unlife, he still addressed his comments to a deity who had undoubtedly stopped listening as soon as Edmund's pulse had stilled.

Shaking his head at the vagaries of habit, he noiselessly ascended the stairs out of the garden, weighing his options as he did. While he had suspected that there was still a spark between Buffy and Angel, and had in fact counted upon it as the basis of his next bit of fun, the fact that they were so chummy, as it were, presented an interesting challenge: his plans wouldn't work if he couldn't isolate the sissy from his lethal paramour. Oh, well; there was nothing Edmund enjoyed more than a challenge. In fact, he could already feel the depression which had compelled him to sneak away from Karl and return to Sunnydale lifting as his brain rose to the problem.

By the time he was fifty yards from the house, a half dozen possibilities had presented themselves and been rejected as either too difficult, too dependent on good luck, or just too dangerous (his enjoyment of the game would be dampened considerably if he were to be destroyed, after all). Possibility number seven had just come on stage when it was rudely shoved off by a small movement just at the fringe of his peripheral vision. Stopping, Edmund turned and stared intently into a small, shadow-cloaked thicket near the house. It had been right about... there! There was definitely something moving around slightly in the shadows. Creeping up on cat's paws, he made his way over to the thicket, and was surprised to see a dark-haired woman standing in the shadows. Intrigued, he crept closer, and, with his undead senses, could see her watching the mansion intently, her eyes burning with hatred. This bears some investigation, he thought silently, and closed in on the spy.

"Bleeding hearts," Cynthia growled under her breath as she reached the French doors. She stared at Buffy and Angel through the window and brushed absentmindedly at a leafy vine tendril that popped into her face, obscuring her view of the embracing couple. "Lovesick morons," she muttered again, her vampire features blooming briefly as her self-control ebbed. She sighed wearily and concentrated, her human visage returning with no small degree of effort. That had been happening all too frequently of late. She was definitely off her game since her previous encounter with Angelus and Ms. Summers only three weeks ago. It was going to get her into trouble.

Cynthia sunk to the stone bench next to the shrub. She knew the insufferable lovebirds wouldn't see her, given their rather intense pre-occupation with other more pressing matters. And she was reasonably sure that they wouldn't come outside anytime soon; the couch seemed to suit them quite nicely, she thought irritably. She could almost feel her stomach turn at the thought; a vampire and a slayer. Go figure. If she lived for an eternity, she would never figure them out.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Cynthia thought back to that previous encounter. It hadn't proceeded quite the way she had planned it: Buffy was still alive and slaying. Not that she cared much about the slaying part; Buffy could dust off vampires to her little heart's content. The more the better, in fact. No, that didn't matter in the least. What did matter to Cynthia was the fact that until Ms. Summers was six feet under she would never be happy again. Retribution for her sister Lori's death would be the only consolation for enduring her own personal hell over the last nine months since she had lured Angelus into taking her into the world of the undead. Damn it, if she couldn't have retribution, then she had done it all for nothing. And 'nothing' was unacceptable. Would it have been easier if she hadn't asked Ethan Rayne help her restore her soul? Cynthia chuckled sardonically, the sound lacking any trace of humor. That question would never be answered. Her soul--though others would say there was room for debate on the issue--was well intact.

Cynthia glanced back through the window, slapping impatiently at the offending tendril again. "God, they're still at it."

As she watched, ignoring the fleeting thought that her actions seemed vaguely and unappealingly voyeuristic (that was her soul talking), her lip curled wickedly, growing into a full smile as a delicious thought formed in her mind. "How perfect. They're distracted." She should just kill them outright, caught in the act, as it were. And how wickedly ironic, she added inwardly, given the circumstance under which her sister had been killed. "Maybe I should just--"

Cynthia's Cheshire Cat-like grin blossomed more fully as she stealthily rose from the bench, pulled out a wooden stake and turned in the direction of the French doors.

"Excuse me," a cultured English voice said from behind her. Cynthia froze in mid-turn. "Is there something I could help you with?"

Damn, she thought. Just my luck someone would happen by right now. Maybe she could scare the interloper off. Letting her vampire face out, she spun around with a snarl and saw a tall, handsome brown haired man, about forty, wearing glasses, a vest and tweed coat and slacks, and a look on his face which was totally lacking in fright. The lack of a reaction came as a bit of a surprise and the thought crossed Cynthia's mind that her vampire features hadn't come out. Concentrating, she waited until she was sure she was in her full, malevolent glory, and snarled again, taking a step towards the interloper. To her surprise, and chagrin, the man actually smiled slightly, and then she knew why as his own game face came out so quickly and so horrifically that Cynthia found herself jerking back in fright.

"Nice to know I still have it," Edmund said as his game face receded, leaving a slight, sardonic smile. Behind that smile, his mind was racing. There was something about this girl... "You must be fairly new. What's your name?"

There was something odd about that voice, something Cynthia found somehow compelling and she found herself blurting out, "Cynthia Willson" before she could catch herself.

Edmund's smile took on a regal air. "I am pleased to meet you, Miss Willson. I am Edmund Kitteredge," he announced, then paused slightly. The female vampire, whose demonic visage hadn't receded yet, merely stared at him, unappreciative. Definitely a newbie, he thought to himself, as he continued, aloud, "I ask again, is there something I could help you with?"

Cynthia's first impulse was to say no, but it then occurred to her that he might make a useful distraction. "Sure," she said sweetly, forcing her vampire face down. "The slayer's in the house and--"

"Yes, I know," Edmund interrupted as his eyes flicked down to the stake in her hand. "And I gather that you intend some violence against her and Angel."

Was that disapproval in his voice? Cynthia wondered. "That's the plan," she said evenly.

"What a relief," he said. "I feared that you were merely a voyeur." Cynthia resisted the urge to look embarrassed. Edmund noticed the struggle, and, intrigued, looked more closely into her eyes. Hmm. The eyes, windows to the... Well, he thought to himself, what do you know? "I'm afraid that your plans are cancelled," he announced.

The calm finality with which Edmund said that should have disturbed Cynthia, but at the moment she was too incensed. "Oh, really?" she asked. "Who says?"

"I do," Edmund said simply. "You see, I have plans for Angelus."

Cynthia immediately picked up on Edmund's omission of Buffy, and it bothered her. "Don't you mean the slayer?"

"Oh, Buffy enters into my plans," he assured her, "but, as with your plans, my focus is on the boy."

A flicker of surprise dashed across her face. "What makes you think I'm gunning for Angel?"

"Your choice of weaponry, in part," Edmund said, inclining his head slightly towards the wooden stake in her hand, "but mostly it's my suspicion that a resouled vampire wouldn't really be all that interested in the slayer."

"You know I'm resouled?" Cynthia gaped. "How?"

"Why are you so interested in the boy?" he asked politely, ignoring her.

Any other feelings brought on by Edmund's shocking degree of knowledge about her were forgotten as she was gripped again by a slow burning anger, dangerously close to toppling her over the edge. She wanted to scream, but held the impulse in check. "That bastard killed my sister," Cynthia said through slightly clenched teeth. "He has to pay."

Edmund's eyes went wide as his jaw dropped slightly. "You mean to tell me that one of us, a vampire, actually 'killed' a human? Good Lord!" He clutched his chest and took a deep, if unnecessary, breath. "Such shocks aren't good for my heart." He released his grip, thought for a fraction of a second, then shrugged. "Leastways, they wouldn't be if it hadn't stopped beating 300 years ago."

"It's not a joke!" Cynthia screamed involuntarily, then quickly looked towards the mansion. After a few seconds, it was clear that the occupants hadn't heard. Probably too busy tongue wrestling, she thought bitterly.

Turning her attention back to the arrogant man who had nearly blown her cover, she closed her eyes and forced herself to calm down. After a moment, she trusted herself enough to open them and turn back to Edmund. As she did, she saw that Edmund had also been watching the house. "I realize it's not a joke," he said, looking back to her, and Cynthia swore she could almost hear a note of sympathy. If it was there, however, it had vanished by the time he added, "Humor requires some degree of spontaneity."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Merely that your actions are rather predictable; after all, it's not terribly surprising that a vampire would be 'out for blood.'"

He was mocking her again, but she'd be damned (more so, at least) if she'd give him the satisfaction of another outburst. Instead, she merely glared at him, folding her arms tightly to her chest. "Are you finished?"

Edmund thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe I am."

"Good."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because you're boring me."

Edmund's lip twitched with a touch of amusement. "Well, I'm quite sorry, Miss Willson, that my brand of humor is so tiresome to you. You are free to leave anytime you desire." Bowing slightly, he stepped out of her path and gestured in a courtly manner.

Cynthia rolled her eyes and favored him with a wide grin. Strangely, though, her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Not so fast, Ed."

Edmund winced at her use of that particular diminutive. Drusilla could call him Eddy, but... "Yes, Miss Willson?"

"You're trying to get rid of me. Why are you so interested in Angelus?" Time to go on the offensive, she thought.

"It's really none of your concern."

"I told you why I was interested in him."

"That's because you were interfering with my plans."

"You're interfering with mine."

"That's different."

Cynthia's arms tightened ever so slightly across her chest. "How so?"

Edmund resisted the urge to sigh; talking with this irritating woman was rather like dealing with an obstinate child, which, in a way, when he thought about it, she was. "I can assure you that my motivations are infinitely more important than your petty vendetta," he said, fully expecting that explanation to merely irritate her.

He was right. "Someone has a high opinion of himself," she growled.

Edmund smiled slightly. "If that someone is me, you're quite correct." His smile took on a tinge of weariness. "It's an unfortunate side effect of being inherently superior to almost everyone I meet, but one I've learned to come to terms with."

Talk about being able to push buttons! Half of Cynthia wanted to stake him right then and there. The other half, though, was struck by the way Edmund had made his statement. Not arrogantly, not disdainfully, but as if he were simply reciting a fact, as true as saying the earth went around the sun. At that instant, she realized that the vampire before her was a genuine danger.

"Ah"--Edmund's voice broke into Cynthia's dark musings-- "I see I've rendered you speechless, an olympian feat that I sense is worth celebrating." Cynthia scowled, her continued silence becoming an intriguing diversion for Edmund. An interesting creature, this woman. Yet, she was an obstacle to an even larger, more satisfying diversion. Mustering himself for probable verbal assault, he continued. "Alas, it is time for us to part. I bid you a somewhat less than fond farewell."

Edmund stepped away once again and gestured towards the stairs. Cynthia remained rooted. Edmund sighed dramatically. "I see that subtlety is lost on you, Ms. Willson; a more straightforward approach is required."

Cynthia stiffened, unfolding her arms.

Edmund quirked an eyebrow and studied Cynthia's battle-ready stance. "You are a tiresome young lady. I have no desire to fight you. I merely wish you gone. So, go away." No movement. "Run along," he prodded. Not a budge. "Shoo fly."

Shoo fly? Cynthia laughed inwardly, despite the gravity of the situation. Was she pushing too far or was he as amused as he appeared to be? Undecided, Cynthia put on her best 'you can't scare me' face. "You expect me to go with 'shoo fly'?"

I really should give up on idioms, Edmund thought tiredly. "Very well," he answered aloud, his resignation implicit in his tone. His vampire face burst out and he growled. "Better?"

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Fair enough," she replied stubbornly. "But this isn't over."

To emphasize her point, Cynthia gripped the stake, then pocketed it reluctantly and took one long last glance at the couple--who, by the looks of things, were having a hard time parting ways.

Edmund glanced back as well then watched Cynthia turn away to mount the stairway, taking two steps at a time. "Good riddance," he murmured, once she was out of view. Peace at last; now he could return to the job at hand. He looked in the windows again. It appeared that Buffy was preparing to leave as she put on her jacket and backpack. "And so the games begin," he chuckled, slipping back into the night.

"This show's just gone downhill since Jamie had that baby," Mr. Trick muttered sourly as he flicked off the television.

"Children will do that," an English accented voice said, almost in his ear.

Trick jumped up, and for a millisecond the thought that Spike had come back for revenge froze his brain. It thawed quickly, though, when he realized that the voice was too upper crust for the Billy Idol wannabe. Turning around, he saw he was right; it was a middle aged guy in tweed. "Okay," he said, pointing at the intruder, "who are you and who should I call to pick up the body?"

Edmund smiled. "My name is Edmund Kitteredge--" the look on Trick's face changed gratifyingly "-- and I believe that we both know that if anyone is going to be providing that second piece of information, it's you."

Showing fear is always a mistake, Trick thought to himself, keeping his face rigid. "Uh, yeah," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

"You can do nothing for me."

"What?" Trick asked, confused.

Edmund said nothing, but let his eyes watch his fingers as they lightly skimmed over a table top. "I'm going to be in town for a while," he finally explained, "and I would appreciate it if you and your subordinates stayed out of my way."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Trick said, meaning it; most of his people liked unliving too much to mess with the infamous Edmund the Heretic.

"I suspected as much," Edmund said, shrugging slightly as his fingers continued their glide. "Since the Master has gone to his so-richly-deserved reward, most of our associates have been willing to forget about that little death sentence he issued, but I seem to recall that your former employer was rather fond of vengeance crusades. And rather less than fond of me."

Trick shrugged nonchalantly. "Kakistos is warming his hooves in Hell and I don't feel the need to read from his day-planner."

"Good," Edmund murmured, after spending a moment or two translating that last bit. Moving onto the next order of business... "I'm planning a bit of fun for the slayer and Angelus," he informed the other vampire, still studying his fingers as they skated over the wood. "I would appreciate it if you would leave them and their friends alone as well during my stay."

"Okay, there we might have a problem," Trick said. "First off, if we don't do anything to her, that doesn't mean she won't do anything to us. I don't like tying my people's hands like that."

"Fewer associates just means more meals for the rest of us," Edmund replied, unconcerned.

"Yeah, whatever. Second thing is, you play games with the slayer, she's likely to come down on all our heads."

Edmund looked up at him. "Possibly," he conceded with a languid smile. "But would you prefer I play my games with you instead?"

Trick stared at Edmund evenly as his brain reminded him not to show fear. "All right," he finally said, growling ever so slightly. "Play your little games; we won't do anything."

"Thank you for your kind indulgence," Edmund said politely. Lifting his hand from the table, he examined his fingertips, his thumb tracing out a circle as it rubbed over the pads of his index and middle fingers. "I'm impressed," he said. "No dust."

"I have a maid service. Comes in three times a week."

"Very good." Edmund smiled ironically. "You know what they say, after all: cleanliness is next to godliness." With a small chuckle, he withdrew.

Trick stood there, his pursed lips the only outward sign of his displeasure, until he was sure Edmund had left. Once he was, he flopped back down on the chair. "Maybe Ally McBeal is on," he grumbled, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. It was. Good. He always felt better after trying to figure out how many pints he could get out of that skinny little blonde.