The Circle of Scooby Chapter Twenty

The New Chapter, as well as the two Collected Story formats are in their folder https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kiJiqSezjz38di9wj31KbEuI-uJH4P0h?usp=sharing

STORY TITLE: The Circle of Scooby

PART: 20 of?

AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (red.jacobson@gmail.com)

DISTRIBUTION: FanFiction.net, Archive of Our Own, Twisting the Hellmouth

DISCLAIMER: None of the Characters You Recognize belong to me, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (Grrr! Argh!), and the Boondock characters belong to the Estate of Robert A Heinlein and his publishers. The concept of Highlander Immortals and all associated characters are the property of Rysher Entertainment.

SUMMARY: The activation of the world’s slayers has caused massive destruction throughout the multiverse, and the Circle of Ouroborus is determined to prevent that from happening and recruit three natives of the critical timeline to save the

Multiverse!

FEEDBACK: Of course! It Makes Me Write Faster

RELATIONSHIPS: Xander/Cordelia/Tara, Buffy/Willow, Giles/Jenny, Kendra/Oz

RATING: PG-13

WORD COUNT: <4,965>

SPOILERS: A Crossover with RAH’s Lazarus Long Books. I’m afraid that, while I’m going to do my best to explain things, at least a passing familiarity with Time Enough For Love, The Number of the Beast, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, and To Sail Beyond the Sunset would help you understand who these characters are. There are no spoilers, but if you don’t know how the Buffy the Vampire Slayer story goes by now, why are you reading this story?

AUTHOR’S NOTES: I’m going to try something unusual for this story, no lemons. Frankly, they’ve gotten to be a bore to write, and I imagine they’ve become boring to read as well. Hope this goes well.

#

Doctor Dormer’s Apartment

Boston, Massachusetts

Tuesday, November 11th, 1997

Afternoon

The home office of Dr. Diana Dormer, unlike her official office on the campus of Massachusetts General, was a hybrid of monastery and bunker. Diffuse light came through frosted windows, filtered by the leaves of an ancient chestnut, and played against the vaults of battered oak bookcases. The shelves were loaded to collapse with medical texts, occult compendia, and a curated selection of forbidden monographs—titles bound in battered buckram and veal-skin. The artifacts she had acquired over the years—an obsidian knife, a crossbow, a Maori war-club—were discreetly mounted where patients and parents would never see. Only the sharpest observer would note the layer of dust on the war club or the faint lines of a protective ward etched around the window frame.

Dr. Dormer herself sat upright at her desk, her posture the sort that made residents and interns stand taller when they entered. She wore an unadorned black sweater over a starched white blouse, glasses perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. She favored paper over screens: her right hand moved with muscle memory, unsealing the envelope with a sterling silver letter opener as she scanned the return address. Her lips thinned at the sight of the wax sigil—she recognized the slanted "R" and the flourishes of the Giles family crest.

Diana broke the seal, unfolding the heavy parchment. The lines were exact and tightly-spaced; Giles’s hand was notoriously meticulous, but the tone was brisk, urgent. She read the first paragraph twice. By the end of the second, her fingers were drumming a steady, involuntary rhythm on the desk. She stopped, adjusted her glasses, and set the opener aside.

She scanned again, this time slower, hunting for confirmation bias and unwelcome omens—three students, arriving before Thanksgiving. The names were not given, but Giles’s descriptions were as unmistakable as fingerprints: “One male, two female, all trained in covert operations and occult research. The boy has exhibited both advanced resilience and trauma-related behaviors; the taller girl is reported to possess emerging magical aptitude; the third, a close-quarters combatant, is both the group’s emotional anchor and its most unpredictable member.”

Diana let her gaze flick over to the calendar. It was an old-school wall model, with dates marked out in military time and a color code that only she understood. The week before Thanksgiving was a gauntlet: double clinic shifts, a consult at Harvard, and the slayer’s training regimen doubled in anticipation of the holiday.

She looked again at the third paragraph, where Giles explained the reason for the visit. “They wish to consult with your office regarding the situation of Miss Faith Lehane. They are aware of her status, her training, and her… challenges.” Dormer underlined "challenges" with a mechanical pencil, adding a cryptic cross in the margin. She circled the arrival estimate, and then, in smaller script, jotted “three” and “shared dream symptoms?” with an arrow pointing to the bottom of the page.

She set the letter down, then turned to a legal pad on which she had kept a log of recent incidents. She traced her own notes, lined up the dates, and found the overlap she’d feared. Faith had mentioned them, obliquely, in her dream recountings: “Three shadows in the snow, watching me.” “The girl with the braid—she says they’re coming.” “A voice, almost British but not quite, telling me to run.”

Dormer’s jaw set. She glanced at the door to the training suite, where a low muttering and the whump of a heavy bag signaled her charge’s presence. Faith was, as ever, incapable of sitting still for more than fifteen minutes without initiating kinetic therapy. Dormer glanced at her watch—a gift from a grateful family in Italy, the band engraved with a tiny cross—then gathered the letter and her annotated notes into a slim file folder. She rose, rolling her neck as she stepped over to the wall.

She paused before the war club, running her fingers lightly across the polished wood. The dust was undisturbed. That was good. Her office’s wards had not been breached; whatever danger was coming, it was on the horizon, not at the threshold. She tapped the club twice, a superstition she’d acquired from her own Watcher, then moved to the door.

She opened it, just a crack, and called down the hall, “Faith? My office, please. Now.”

There was a grunt, then the slap of footfalls on linoleum. Dormer closed the file, tucked it under her arm, and returned to her seat. She composed her face into a mask of clinical calm, but her foot betrayed her, tapping faintly beneath the desk.

Faith would want to know everything, and for once, Dormer intended to give it to her straight.

#

Immediately After the Prior Scene

Faith always entered every room like she was about to be thrown out of it. She cracked the door, poked her head in, and then let her whole body follow—a kinetic chain-reaction that ended with her collapsing into the leather visitor’s chair across from Dormer’s desk. Her legs splayed, sneakers squeaking against the parquet, and her arms dangled off the armrests, as if she’d spent the night being chased through a minefield.

“Yo, Doc,” Faith said, not waiting for permission. “Did you want to see me about my dream log, or is this something I can plead the Fifth on?”

Dormer folded her hands over the file, considering the right point of entry. “Neither. This is about a correspondence I received from Sunnydale.” She let the word hang between them; Faith flinched, but curiosity outpaced dread.

Dormer slid the letter across the desk, its pages weighted down with annotations. “It’s from a Watcher. A colleague of mine, Rupert Giles. He’s sending three of his students to Boston. Before Thanksgiving, apparently.”

Faith scanned the first lines, lip curling as she fought the urge to mispronounce the big words. “Why’re they coming here? Not like this place is much of a vacation spot.”

Dormer steepled her fingers. “They’re interested in meeting you. The details are thin, but Giles’s phrasing suggests urgency. He believes it’s important you connect with people your own age. People who understand your… particular circumstances.”

Faith’s composure fractured, just a hairline, and she leaned forward, eyes lit. “You mean, like, a Slayer mixer? Or is this more of a ‘let’s all gawk at the psycho’ deal?”

“Neither,” Dormer said. “He mentions two girls, one with ‘emerging magical aptitude,’ and a boy with advanced survival instincts.” She tapped the page. “Does that sound familiar?”

Faith didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and then blurted, “Yeah, actually.” She opened her eyes, and for a second, she looked all of sixteen—no armor, no sharp edges. “That’s them. The girl with the braid, she’s always doing that glowy thing with her hands, and the other girl, she’s got—” Faith stopped, searching for a word that wasn’t “sadness,” then gave up. “They were in my dreams last week.”

Dormer raised an eyebrow. “Describe them, please.”

Faith squirmed, then sat up and started ticking off points on her fingers. “Okay. The tall one with the hair? She’s quiet, but she has these eyes that see through you. The other one, the short one, she keeps telling me stuff’s gonna be okay, even when I know she’s lying. And the guy—he’s always bleeding, but it doesn’t slow him down. He talks a lot, but nobody listens to him.”

Faith shifted in her seat, suddenly wound tight. “In the dream, we’re all on a roof, and it’s snowing, but not cold. The girl with the glowy hands grabs my wrist, and I know if I jump, I’ll actually fly. Not fall. She says, ‘It’s your turn now, Faith.’” She paused, staring at the wall, lips moving as she replayed the scene. “I woke up right before we hit the ground.”

Dormer watched carefully, noting each tell. “You’re certain it was them?”

Faith’s mouth quirked. “I mean, as much as I’m certain of anything. My dreams are usually more Freddy Krueger than Hallmark Channel.”

Dormer couldn’t quite hide a smile. “It’s possible your mind is preparing you for change. Or—” She tapped the letter, “—it could be more literal. There have been documented cases where Slayers and their… colleagues share visions, even before meeting.”

Faith’s grin went crooked. “Awesome. So now I’m psychic, too? You sure know how to pick ‘em, Doc.”

Dormer ignored the jab. “If they arrive before the holiday, I want you to be ready. I want you to be at your best.”

Faith nodded, but her leg started jiggling at twice the speed. “What do you want me to do? Bake cookies? Show them the sights?” Her bravado was undercut by the nervous energy that radiated off her in waves.

Dormer removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her own nose in the same motion Faith had used a moment ago. “I want you to be honest. I want you to be yourself. They’re coming to meet you, not an idealized version of you.”

Faith let that sink in. Then, as if the concept were too heavy, she bounded up out of the chair and started pacing. She circled the office, pausing to tap the spines of books she couldn’t pronounce, then swiveled toward the window. “So, what, we’re just supposed to hang out? Swap Slayer stories?”

Dormer’s voice was level, but there was warmth in it. “You may find you have more in common with them than you expect.”

Faith braced her hands against the window frame, rocking back and forth on her heels. “You think they’ll wanna spar? I bet the glowy-hands chick is tough, but the guy’s probably a lightweight. They always are.”

Dormer smiled, just a little. “Perhaps. But don’t underestimate them.”

Faith spun, suddenly animated. “If they’re coming from Sunnydale, you think they’ll bring weapons? Like, actual weapons? I’ve only seen that stuff in training videos and when you let me clean the crossbows.”

“I suspect they’ll be prepared for anything,” Dormer said. “Giles wouldn’t send them otherwise.”

Faith’s face went a little softer, the tough facade slipping for a moment. “You ever think about it? What would it be like if you weren’t stuck here with just me? Like, if you had a whole group?”

Dormer hesitated, then replied, “I had colleagues. Friends. But the nature of this work is… isolating.” She gestured to the cluttered shelves and the battered chair Faith had just vacated. “This is the world we have. Until it changes.”

Faith chewed her lip, then said, “Well, maybe it’s time for a change.” She grinned, all dimples and mischief. “I mean, three visitors in one week? If this were a sitcom, we’d be headed for a Very Special Episode.”

Dormer gave up the last of her restraint, allowing herself a small, genuine laugh. “Perhaps we are.”

Faith plopped back into the chair, arms thrown wide. “What now, Doc? You want me to draw up a battle plan, or do I just keep working the bag until they show up?”

“Keep working,” Dormer said. “But be ready.”

Faith nodded, then added, “Hey, if you hear from the blonde one, tell her I said ‘bring snacks.’ The food here sucks.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Dormer said, already reaching for the phone to make arrangements.

As Faith bounded out the door, the air in the office lightened, just a shade. Dormer watched her go, then turned back to the letter. She underlined one more phrase—“psychic resonance possible”—and, for the first time in weeks, allowed herself to hope.

TCOS & TCOS & TCOS

The energy in Dormer’s office had shifted; even the old war club above the door seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Faith was all but vibrating herself—drumming the eraser end of her pencil on the edge of the desk, feet kicking at invisible enemies beneath her chair.

Dormer slid her own notebook across the glass, open to a blank page, and poised her pen. “According to the letter, they are planning to arrive on the 27th, the day before Thanksgiving, hopefully early enough to get them through the jet lag.”

Faith leaned in, eyes darting from the calendar to Dormer, then back. “It also gives me less time to screw up and do something embarrassing.” She caught herself, then quickly added, “Not that I will. I’m good at first impressions.”

Dormer, lips pursed to hide a smile, drew a neat circle around the date. “I’ll confirm the schedule with Giles. In the meantime, keep your normal routine. And, Faith, remember: the people who are coming? They’re just kids, too. Not judges, not cops. They want to meet you because they think you’re extraordinary.”

Faith’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, pretending to scan the bookcases. “What if they don’t like me?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s like all the other times—like, they show up, decide I’m nuts, and bail?”

Dormer wrote something on her pad, then met Faith’s eyes. “You’re not nuts. You’re unique, and you’re brave, and you have every right to be here.” Her tone shifted, steel behind the warmth. “Don’t let them decide your worth. That’s your job.”

Faith nodded, but her eyes lingered on the circled date as if she might will it closer.

A long silence, the comfortable kind, filled the room. Faith absently traced a set of wings in the margin of her notebook, giving them exaggerated, razor-sharp feathers. When she finished, she shaded them in, then added a little stick figure—herself, presumably—leaping into the sky.

Dormer capped her pen and folded her hands. “Anything else on your mind?”

Faith hesitated, then blurted: “You think they’ll want to go on patrol? Like, after dinner or whatever?”

“If they’re anything like you,” Dormer said, “I suspect they’ll want to do more than that.”

That lit Faith up; she leaned forward, excitement swallowing up her usual cynicism. “I hope they’re ready. I mean, Sunnydale kids have to be tough, right? That place is like vampire central.”

Dormer’s smile was gentle. “Not everyone who comes from a hard place turns out hard, Faith. Some of them learn to survive by helping each other.”

Faith considered that, then grinned. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll learn how to do that, too.”

A glance at the clock told Dormer that the session had run long. “You should hit the gym before dinner. I’ll get in touch if there’s any change to the schedule.”

Faith stood up so fast her chair wobbled. “Thanks, Doc.” She tucked her notebook under her arm, but paused at the door, one foot in the hall and one still in the room. Her next words were quiet, almost lost beneath the thrum of the building’s old radiators. “You really think I’ll be okay?”

Dormer didn’t hesitate. “I know you will be.”

Faith held her gaze for a long beat, then nodded and ducked out, swagger restored.

Dormer watched the door close, the last traces of Faith’s nervous energy lingering in the air. She stared at the circled date on the calendar, let herself hope, just for a moment, that maybe this meeting would change everything.

After a minute, she turned back to her notes, already planning how to keep her charge safe—and maybe, for the first time, how to let her fly.

#

1630 Revello Drive

Sunnydale, California

Tuesday, November 11th, 1997

Evening

Buffy always claimed that she didn’t inherit her mother’s sense of style, but sitting between Joyce and Willow on the old blue couch—bare feet on the coffee table, a half-empty popcorn bowl between her knees—she felt the resemblance down to her bones. The living room was a comfortable mess: DVD cases littered the carpet, cans of Diet Coke perspired on the coasters, and a knitted throw, the color of orange sherbet, had been claimed by all three of them at some point during the last double feature.

The TV screen faded to the end credits of "Airplane!" and all three dissolved into giggles, reciting lines in perfect, overlapping unison.

“Don’t call me Shirley!” Willow crowed, doubling over. She wore one of Buffy’s sweatshirts, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair in a flyaway halo from all the static. Her hand rested on Buffy’s thigh, casual, comfortable. Every time their eyes met, they grinned like idiots.

Joyce, hair clipped up and reading glasses perched halfway down her nose, reached for the remote. “What’s next, ladies?”

Buffy flipped open a DVD case, brandishing it like a holy relic. “The Naked Gun. Only if you’re ready for more Leslie Nielsen.”

Joyce made a dramatic show of checking her pulse. “I think I can take it. But only if Willow promises not to recite the lines before the actors do.”

Willow raised a solemn hand. “No promises. A pack of wild VHS tapes raised me.”

Buffy snorted, then elbowed Willow gently. “She really was. You should see her at Rocky Horror.”

Joyce smiled, then got up to switch the discs, her skirt rustling around her knees. She lingered in front of the TV, straightening a stack of books on the credenza, her back to the girls for a moment.

Buffy watched her mother, a little knot forming in her chest. Joyce had started wearing her hair up more often, and Buffy wondered if it was to hide the new streaks of silver at her temples. She was still beautiful, but there was a tiredness in her movements that hadn’t been there last spring.

Joyce turned, caught Buffy’s look, and gave her a gentle smile. “What is it, honey?”

Buffy shook her head, but Willow jumped in, “She’s worried you’re going to beat her at quoting the movie.”

Joyce rolled her eyes, but her smile deepened. She perched on the armrest next to Buffy, smoothing her skirt before saying, in a voice just above a whisper, “Maybe I should learn some self-defense. Or at least get fit enough to run away from vampires.”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, then all three burst out laughing—loud, genuine, just this side of hysterical.

Buffy, once she caught her breath, said, “Mom, if you want to learn how to punch things, I know a couple of gyms that’ll give you the Slayer Family Discount.”

Willow grinned, “Stake-aerobics is sweeping the nation. You get a wooden dowel and everything.”

Joyce joined in, “What about vampire dodge? I’ve heard it’s excellent for your reflexes.”

Buffy threw her arms around her mother, mock-wrestling her back onto the couch. “Deal. We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll make a training montage playlist.”

Willow gave a thumbs up, but then looked at Joyce, all teasing gone. “You know we’ve got your back, right? No matter what.”

Joyce nodded, squeezing Willow’s hand. “I know. And I feel better than I have in a long time, thanks to you two. Even if I never make it through an entire push-up.”

Buffy leaned in, head on her mother’s shoulder, and said, “If it ever gets weird or scary, you tell me. Promise?”

Joyce kissed the top of her head. “Promise.”

Willow snuggled closer, nestling her feet under Buffy’s. “I think that’s enough sincerity for tonight. Let’s watch Frank Drebin save the Queen.”

Buffy hit play, and as the opening theme filled the room, she realized that this—this mess of popcorn and in-jokes and the safety of home—was the reason she fought so hard in the first place. For the first time since her birthday, she let herself believe it might last.

As the three of them watched, the world outside could have been on fire, but inside, the only emergencies were who got the last Junior Mint and whether or not Willow would keep her movie-quote oath.

Joyce lost, of course, but she didn’t seem to mind.

#

Chase Manor

Sunnydale

Tuesday, November 11th, 1997

Afternoon

Tara’s room was the only place in the Chase house that felt untouched by the slow, persistent entropy of family life. She kept her bed made, her clothes folded, and her books arranged by a system only she could decode—a taxonomy that grouped spellbooks with organic chemistry primers and battered paperback fantasy novels. The air was heavy with lavender, sage, and a faint electric smell from the old laptop balanced on her knees.

Tonight, she’d gone further: a circle of smoky quartz and Himalayan salt lined the edge of the bed, interspersed with fragments of blue chalk. In the center, the Circle of Ouroborus Ring rested on its velvet pouch, looking less like a piece of jewelry and more like a dead man’s trigger.

Tara typed one final passcode, then pressed her palm to the sigil at the ring’s center. The room pulsed once with a static charge, and a projected screen—impossibly crisp, even in the gloom—hung above the ring, flickering with the iridescent blue of a properly shielded secure line.

Deety appeared after only two rings, her image rendered in perfect clarity from somewhere a thousand miles and a million years away. She wore a gray blazer over a Henley, hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. She looked like a high school senior pretending to be a junior executive, which, as far as Tara could tell, was exactly right.

“Good evening, Tara,” Deety said, her voice perfectly modulated—soothing, but with a clinical edge. “This is a secure line. Spell-dampeners on. What’s the emergency?”

Tara cleared her throat, glancing at the diagnostic readout scrolling along the bottom of the screen. “I’m picking up increased magical surveillance in Sunnydale. Pattern suggests a shift—possibly Wilkins or one of his lieutenants has upgraded their detection spells.” She hesitated, not wanting to sound paranoid, then added: “There was a probe sweep within a hundred yards of the Harris property this afternoon, and another near the school library right after closing.”

Deety’s face didn’t move, but the cursor on her end raced across a virtual keyboard. “Frequency? Directionality?”

“Intermittent, but getting stronger. Not random. They’re searching for something—or someone.” Tara’s thumb worried at the edge of the velvet pouch. “We don’t know if he’s onto us, but if he is, we’re going to need an extraction protocol.”

Deety nodded once. “Understood. Who is the ‘we’ in this scenario?”

“Me, Cordelia, Xander, possibly Willow and Buffy,” Tara said, counting off on her fingers. “Also, the Harris adults. And—” She hesitated, then let it out, “Heather, if we can get to her before Wilkins does.”

There was a flicker of surprise from Deety, but it didn’t last. “You’re proposing a full assembly at Boondock. That’s a major security risk. I’ll need detailed manifests and scheduled arrival times for all participants, plus any anticipated magical or temporal anomalies.”

Tara relaxed, just a little; if Deety had objected, it would have been over already. “We’ll have to coordinate departures. We are already planning on bringing Faith and her Watcher back with us from Boston. If you can add a ghost protocol, we might be able to keep the arrivals off Wilkins’s radar.”

Deety tapped a few more keys, then fixed Tara with a look that was both kind and merciless. “You know that once they’re in, you won’t be able to communicate with anyone outside until the lockdown ends.”

Tara nodded, already anticipating the isolation. “That’s better than losing someone because of a slip.”

Deety’s tone shifted, a shade warmer. “You’re doing the right thing, Tara. But you have to understand: once you cross this line, there’s no way back.”

“I know,” Tara said. “We all do.”

There was a brief, almost human smile from Deety, then she straightened her spine. “You’ll have clearance to bring everyone in. Upload the entry codes using the secondary protocol—I’ll send you a blank key. If anything changes, I’ll ping you on the hour.”

Tara nodded. “Thank you, Commander.”

Deety gave a crisp salute, then the screen dissolved, leaving only the afterimage of her face burned against the dark.

Tara powered down the laptop, her hands suddenly shaking. She swept the salt and chalk into a paper cup, then broke the circle, careful not to let even a grain fall outside the bedspread.

She stared at the Ouroborus Ring, watched the last trace of blue fade from its surface, then turned toward the window. The blinds were open, and beyond them, the moon hung huge and yellow over the street. Tara closed the curtains, double-checked the locks, and crawled beneath the covers.

She lay awake for a long time, waiting for the adrenaline to ebb. When it finally did, she dreamt of circles within circles, the lines of fate and family tightening around them all.

#

Chase Manor

Living Room

Tuesday, November 11th, 1997

Before Dinner

The Chases’ living room always had the ambiance of a hotel suite: climate-controlled, anonymous, no memory of prior occupation. In the dimming five o’clock light, the vases of white orchids and the glass coffee table caught reflections of three forms sunk deep in designer armchairs, two of them not quite at home, and one—Cordelia—settled in as if she’d conquered the kingdom and installed herself as Empress of All She Surveyed. The fire in the marble hearth was staged for effect, little more than a cosmetic flicker, and the only visible evidence that November’s chill had breached the mansion’s perimeter was the patch of condensation on the inside of the bay windows.

Xander had the armchair nearest the fire, Cordelia the loveseat, and Tara, as usual, occupied a dining-room chair dragged in from the next room—she held a manila folder on her knees like a lapdog. Xander and Cordelia had waited while Tara put up another privacy shield, although Cordelia was having a hard time staying quiet until Tara nodded in satisfaction.

Cordelia had been sipping a mug of something expensive and chocolatey, dressed in casual princess mode: hair twisted up with a gold clip, cable-knit sweater dress the color of a caramel macaron, UGG boots the kind that telegraphed she’d never worn them outside. “Well?” She gave Tara a look, half impatience, half encouragement. “Is it good news, or are we getting forcibly enrolled in Boondock Elementary?”

“Definitely good news,” Tara said, and the quiet warmth of her smile lit up the impersonal space more than the fireplace ever could. “Deety gave us approval, she’s even fast-tracked the meeting request. We’re approved for group transfer—the only question is, do we make the trip before or after the Boston vacation?”

Cordelia exhaled audibly and set her mug down, sloshing expensive cocoa on the coaster. “For real? Not even a single question?”

“Not a one,” Tara smiled, “Deety was concerned about the increased surveillance, whether it’s,” and she held out three fingers, “or somebody else, they most likely don’t have our best interests in mind.”

Xander snorted, “In other words, just a typical Tuesday in Sunnydale, right?”

He shifted, knees smacking the coffee table with a muted thud that set the Jules Verne hardcover vibrating. “So we’re a go. Do we get to pick the exact when and where, or—?”

Tara peeled open the folder with the slow, careful neatness that made every action of hers look like a small olive branch to the gods of chaos. She slid out a single page, the sheet covered with her handwriting, saying, “We should be as specific as possible, but we’ll need to be somewhere that Gay Deceiver’s appearance won’t be noticed, that means somewhere outside of town. Frankly, I’m thinking a real trip to Mount Shasta would be ideal, it’s far enough away from Sunnydale, and there is a feeling of ‘beneficial magic’ all around the mountain, and especially in the caverns.”

With the beginnings of a plan, the three of them started breaking the plan into smaller tasks, letting their training take over, leaving room to improvise when things go sideways, just in case. After taking a break to enjoy the meal that Consuela had prepared and left on the warming tray, the trio turned their attention back to their school assignments. Mission planning was not considered a valid reason not to have their homework satisfactorily completed.

End Chapter Twenty *