Willow Rosenberg: Knight of the Blackened Denarius.

A Dresden Files/ Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover.

((()))

The night was dark.

It wasn't stormy, and there was no Igor around to lend a hand; but, Willow mused, you couldn't have everything.

The moon was certainly picturesque. The waning crescent looked like a sickle. Her mind briefly entertained charming metaphors involving the ancient druids and their sacrifices.

The waning moon. Symbol of the Crone. The vengeful aspect of the Goddess. Willow wondered if Tara would have appreciated the symbolism. Probably not; she was such a kind person.

Willow had pretty much given up on kindness by now. All that mattered to her, all that held her to her old morals and values, all that made her the cheerful crayon-breaker that she had been had died with Tara. All that was left was the darkness that had simmered beneath the surface, the killer beneath the geek.

Glancing at Warren, who was securely tied with conjured ropes, she wondered what her vampiric alternate would have done, had she been in her place. She wished, now, that they hadn't returned her to her universe. She had been a bit trashy, and really needed to get a grip on her libido, but she would have made great company.

Hmm. Vamp Willow probably would have done naughty things with whips, tortured him a little (real torture, not just the kinky kind) and then drained him.

Vamp Willow wasn't here, though; and Vamp Willow wasn't the one who had suffered.

This Willow was.

Willow grinned evilly, her dead gazed fixed firmly on the eyes of the wretch who had taken her Tara away. She held up the very bullet that had killed her with for his inspection. It seemed to glint evilly in the wan light that shone down from the crescent moon. She rotated the bullet, showing off every bit of it. Willow wanted Warren to suffer. She wanted him to feel what Tara felt, what Will herself was feeling now, all of it. And more.

"Do you see this?" she asked. "Do you know what this is?"

Warren cringed, blubbering wordlessly. "Aw," Willow cooed mockingly. "Look. The little boy's afraid. You don't have to be afraid, little boy. All I'm going to do is torture you to death." She considered that for a moment, and then acknowledged, "Well, maybe you do have something to be afraid of. Ah, well, no use crying over spilt blood. At least, not over yours."

Her faux-cheerful expression vanished, replaced by a vicious snarl. "I'm going to drive this bullet right into your guts, you simpering idiot," she informed him. "Then I think I'll skin you alive, and eat your liver." Her lips parted in what would have been a smile, had there been anything remotely resembling humor (or sanity, for that matter) to it. "What do you think?"

"N-no… please, no!" Warren squealed.

"Oh, shut it," she snapped, making a complex gesture with one finger. Dark thread shot out of her fingers, sewing Warren's lips shut. "Right. Pain time now." Another thought, another gesture, and the bullet left her hand, coming to rest on just in front of Warrens stomach. He squealed through his gag makeshift gag, trying to free himself from the ropes that held him suspended in the air. Willow reached out, pulled his shirt out of the way, and made the bullet slowly drive itself into his belly button.

She idly admired the way the spurting blood glittered and gleamed in the moonlight. She considered making a poem about it for a moment, but dismissed the idea. She simply couldn't decide whether it would be free verse or iambic pentameter.

Ah, the dilemmas of the poet. Poor Shakespeare. She understood now why he had such a reputation for oddness.

"Right," she said after a few moments of artistic ennui, "bored now." She waved her hand idly along his length, and stripped his skin off. "Hmm, you look like a picture from Grey's Anatomy," she said. "How fun." She briefly considered taking a photo and sending it in to the publishers for publication in the next edition, but decided it would be too much effort. Besides, she didn't want to share Warrens suffering with the world. It was all hers.

Warren gazed at her, his eyes pleading.

She sighed, snapped her fingers for effect, and watched as he burst into flames. Burning, as he surely would in the next world.

"I know," she told his ashes. "Haiku! Let's see… Watch happily the/ blood gleam upon the ground/ ah, ain't it shiny? Yeah, that's nice. Bye bye, Warren."

She gathered her magic about her, preparing to return home for a time. She rather fancied a snack before she killed the others. "One down," she muttered as she drew magic from the earth, from the sky, and from the lingering aura of death that came from Warren's corpse. Her delicate concentration, so necessary for such a complex spell, was rather disrupted by the feeling of a heavy stick crashing against the back of her head.

Her last thought, before everything dissolved into agony and darkness, was, I guess I'm going to miss out on that snack.

((()))

In all those stories that Willow had read, whenever a character was waking up from a coma or something, it felt like they were in a dark well, and someone was pulling them to the surface. The water was often pleasant, and the characters resented being pulled out into consciousness. The metaphor had always reminded Willow of that creepy Japanese movie with the girl who killed people who watched the videotape. She had hated that movie; the girl was just so eerie.

This, though, didn't feel like that at all. It actually felt like waking up, except she didn't normally wake up feeling like someone had hit her on the head with a baseball bet. Which, now that she thought about it, was pretty much what happened.

Well, there had been those few experiments with underage drinking, but at least her mouth didn't feel like anything had died in it.

Best to think positive.

She took stock of her situation as best she could without opening her eyes. She was lying on a bed, her head lying on some of the most comfortable pillows she had felt in a while. Silk covers, with that fancy space-age stuffing that contoured to your head. The sheets over her ware also silk, although she thought that there must be a comforter over them, as she felt more weight than simple silk could explain. A good thing it was, too, as her face felt a little cool.

It smelled damp and musty, almost like a cave. There was a steady, almost soothing trickling noise coming from somewhere over to her left. It sounded like a little creek.

"Ah," a warm, male voice said quietly, seemingly pitched so as not to exacerbate her throbbing head. "You are awake. How lovely."

Willow raised her head and opened her eyes. No use pretending.

The first thing that hit was the thought, Hey, I was right. Cave! She was, indeed, in a cave. The bed she was lying in (with black silk sheets and a heavy black comforter; nice to see her deductive skills weren't hampered by a headache like a mini-apocalypse taking place between her ears) was smack-dab in the middle of a cave. The rock was damp, and there was a small creek a few feet away.

Next, she focused on the source of the voice. For some reason, she thought that it sounded like Giles'. Quite polite. Very cultured. Infinitely British. But this voice had a predatory aspect to it; steel blade clothed in velvet. The sight of the man confirmed it. Black hair, a touch of grey at the temple. Elegantly casual silk shirt, nondescript but tasteful slacks. Roman nose, piercing eyes. Almost like Giles, but older. And there was something about the eyes. Something ancient.

The last thing she noticed was the small, antique table sitting next to the bed. She didn't pay much attention to the table itself, being more interested in what was on it. A cup, a pot of tea (Earl Grey by the smell), and a plate of-

"Ants on a Log?*" she squeaked, regretting it when her head exploding. She collapsed to the pillow. Focus, she told herself. Ground and center. Heal the headache. It should have occurred to her earlier, but, hey, she was in agony. After her head felt better, she glanced up at the man. He looked mildly concerned, and was in fact half-way out of his seat before he saw that Willow had recovered.

She continued angrily, "You hit me on the head with a baseball bat-"

"Blackjack," the man corrected mildly.

"Heavy thing," she snapped, glaring, "kidnap me, take me away from my revenge, and then put me in this luxurious bed and feed me my favorite snack? What the hell is wrong with you?" A thought occurred to her. "How did you know I liked Ants on a Log and Earl Grey, anyway? No, scratch that, I don't care! Who the hell are you?"

The man smiled condescendingly. "First questions first, shall we? Te only thing wrong with me, at the moment, is that I am cursed with incompetent minions. They were instructed to bring you here, but I apparently should have specified that I be willingly. My sincerest apologies." He smiled charmingly. "As for the snack, I am rather skilled at mind-magics. I attempted to scan your surface thoughts to determine the cause of your unique appearance." He held up a hand to quiet her. "I was concerned that it might be some sort of disease or affliction. I was also attempting to sooth dome of your pain. I was only able to gain two pieces of information from you before you rather violently threw me out. The first was that you had suffered some tragedy recently, the details of which were unclear, and frankly none of my concern. The second was a great craving for that snack."

He shrugged causally. "As for the luxuries, it was the least I could do to make up for my mistakes. I'm only regretful that the surroundings are somewhat less than congenial. Unfortunately, I do have my enemies, and this is a rather safe location."

He tilted his head to the side, as if trying to recall if there were any other questions.

"As for my name," he said quietly, "you may call me Nicodemus."

((()))

*Celery, with the depression along the length filled with peanut butter, and studded with either raisins or chocolate chips. Willow proffered chocolate, although it was definitely a guilty pleasure. Ants on a Log is the perfect contrast between wholesome celery, sweet chocolate, and earthy peanut butter.