1. Welcome (back) to Cleveland

It was late when she arrived, a dark, slouched figure climbing up off the frigid, windswept streets, nodding curtly to Dawn at the front door. The house was an old, remodeled Cleveland double, two and a half stories with a broad, shallow porch and low roof supported by stubby columns. A half-level stone facade wrapped around its base, and the plain wood siding was painted an ash grey color with white trim. Faith kicked the snow off her boots as she tromped over the threshold, closing the heavy, red door behind her. A wood fire flickered in the front room, where a small, familiar body lay asleep, curled up at the far end of an oversized sectional couch. Blonde hair spilled out beneath a purple quilt. A movie played quietly on the television. Light and color flashed from the screen, illuminating the furniture, the pictures on the walls, built-in bookshelves crammed with grotty, yellowing tomes, ceramic urns, and jars of dried herbs. The floors were original hardwood, made of wide oak planks that creaked underfoot, and the rooms were lined, top and bottom, with elegant, white moulding. Even the square, paned windows along the front of the house held an antiquated appeal. It was a nice place.

Willow materialized behind Dawn as Faith dropped her duffle bag in the entryway.

“You’re here.”

Brown eyes flicked to the redhead. “Yeah. You rang.”

“Yes, but you’re actually here,” Willow said again, with more emphasis.

The slayer turned away and began to pull off her boots. “No shit.”

“We didn’t think that you would come,” Giles admitted, emerging from the kitchen in a wooly grey bathrobe.

Faith tugged off her beanie and brushed a lock of hair out of her sunburned face. “If you didn’t think I would come, why bother asking?”

"They're desperate," Dawn said drily, examining her nails.

"We're not desperate," Willow flushed. She turned to Faith. "We're not desperate."

Dawn shrugged and wandered over to the living room, taking up watch beside her sister on the couch. She was taller, and lankier than she had been in Sunnydale. Her face had lost most of its roundness and innocence. Dawn pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. Buffy did not stir.

"How is she?" Faith asked. Her voice and expression were flat, her dark eyes, unreadable.

Giles shook his head and beckoned them into the kitchen. Willow seated herself at the table across from Faith, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. The circles beneath her eyes were heavy and dark. Her bright red hair was limp. Even her skin was pale. Giles busied himself making tea, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the stove. Nobody spoke. He returned to the table several minutes later carrying three porcelain mugs and a plate of gingersnaps. Faith waited until everyone had fixed their drinks with the preferred amounts of milk and sugar before daring to speak again.

"How is she?"

"Not well," the watcher admitted, and Willow bowed her head. "She's sick and exhausted, and completely discouraged."

Faith chewed her lip. "Worse than Sunnydale?"

"Yes," he sighed. “About that bad.”

"Guys," the brunette glanced sharply between them, "what the fuck is going on?"

With a heavy sigh, Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "Kennedy found the entrance to a tunnel on patrol one night about three weeks ago. It was located under a dumpster behind a bar that is rather notorious for attracting demonic customers. None of us had any idea where it led or who had built it, so Buffy took a team with her to gather intelligence." He paused.

"What did they find?"

"The tunnels led to a super portal."

"Where?"

"In a cavern under Monroe Cemetery."

"And?"

Willow glanced furtively at Giles, who seemed either unwilling or unable to speak, before venturing a quiet response. "Buffy turned up three days later in the hospital with some cuts and bruises. The others never made it home."

Faith was accustomed to casualties and death, but the grief-stricken expression on the witch’s face unnerved her. She twisted a lock of dark hair between her fingers and sat in silence with the others for a moment.

"All we know is what Buffy could tell us," Willow continued at last. "They were taken and used for rituals...to open the portal."  

"By who?"

"We don't know for sure. Buffy called him ‘the dreamcatcher’, but she doesn’t remember very much."

“Is he a vampire…? Or…?”

"The dreamcatcher is a man, and I am very much hoping that Buffy found something other than what I’m thinking she did."

“Ominous, G. Go on.”

Giles clasped his hands and sighed. "I’ve read about a man called the dreamcatcher before. He was a murderer being held for trial in London in the mid 18th century. A cult of warlocks took him before he could be hanged and performed a ritual similar to the one that created the first slayer. They were hoping to imbue him with the spirit of a hell god. They wanted to fashion him into a creature they called the 'anti-slayer'. Naturally, of course, the ritual didn't work. The man's soul rejected the hell god's essence, and they were left with an immensely powerful, psychologically fractured abomination that answered to no one and killed indiscriminately. They imprisoned him in a hell dimension, and well, if Buffy’s memory is to be trusted, it seems that the vampires who captured the slayers used the girls’ blood to summon him through the portal."

“How did Buffy escape?”

“Sheer luck, really. The vampire cultists had saved her as a meal for their new master, anticipating that he would be hungry when he emerged from the portal. Evidently, this dreamcatcher fellow can feed on human flesh. However, when the dreamcatcher came through the portal he flew into a rage and began attacking the vampire cultists. It is common for demons trapped in hell dimensions to develop feral, animalistic qualities.”

“Sure.”

Giles straightened his spectacles and cleared his throat. “In the middle of all the chaos, the cavern wall, to which Buffy was shackled, cracked. She was able to rip the chains free and escape through the tunnels unnoticed amidst all the commotion, but she was delirious when she reached the surface, and wandered into the middle of a busy street, where she was nearly struck by a passing car.”

“And that’s how she ended up in the hospital.”

“Yes.”

Faith chewed on her lip for a moment. "Did this...dreamcatcher guy, have a name?"

"Christopher Abbott. Although, after centuries of torture in a hell dimension, I'm not sure that he would answer to it anymore."

"Hm." The slayer frowned. "I guess I expected something that sounded a little more evil."

"The name ‘Faith’ doesn’t exactly register on the chart of evilness, either,” Willow said snidely, glowering from across the table.

Faith curled her lip contemptuously. "Tell me, Red, on a scale of one to ten, how satisfying is it to skin people alive?"

Willow glowered and fell silent.

“Moving on,” Faith clasped her hands, “do we know what kinds of plans these assholes have for the thriving metropolis of Cleveland?”

Giles offered her a wan smile. “To put these people out of their misery, perhaps.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“I advise you not to stop in east Cleveland for any reason.”

“That includes traffic signs,” Willow supplied seriously.

“Okay,” Faith drawled, “so, in other words, we have a group of cultist vampire on the loose, and no idea why they’re here or what they’re up to, except that they are capable of taking out several slayers at a time. And all of this without considering the impact that a psychotic hell god trapped in an 18th century murderer's body will have on the fight. Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Giles shook his head wearily, looking for all the world like he need a long vacation, “that just about covers it.”

“Hm, great,” Faith grumbled. She leaned back in the creaky wooden chair and crossed her arms. "Where's Kennedy?”

"Out on patrol." He checked his watch. "She'll be back in an hour."

"Who else is stationed here besides Ken and Buffy?"

"Just us. None of the other girls survived the initial attack, and we haven’t sent for reinforcements."

"There's another witch staying with us," Willow interjected. "She's helping me out with the magic stuff, but it's too risky to keep young, inexperienced slayers around. This dreamcatcher guy likes to play with his food."

“Has he caught any more girls?”

“Just civilians,” the watcher corrected, stroking the short, silver beard growing in around his chin. “The Cleveland PD are completely perplexed by the sudden rash of brutal murders that have taken place across the city. Bodies eviscerated, discarded haphazardly, with no apparent motive. They’re trying to keep it under wraps, but a team of FBI agents arrived in town yesterday. The commissioner isn’t taking any chances.”

Fantastic.” Faith grimaced. “Everyone from here to Cincinnati will be a blind panic by next week.”

“We have no reason to expect otherwise.”

A thoughtful expression appeared on her face. “So… what am I doing here?”

The watcher adjusted his glasses. “Beg your pardon?”

“I know I’m a veteran, G, but why not call Vi or Rhona? They’re both in New York. I had to catch a 16 hour flight from Singapore just to get here.”

“Oh, I see. Well, none of the other cells can spare a veteran at the moment, and you had just finished up another assignment, so you seemed like the most obvious choice.”

“Sure, yeah…”

Faith drummed her fingers on the table and glanced around the room. She got the distinct impression that they were keeping something from her, something important, but she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject tactfully. Everybody in the house seemed brittle, like they were made of glass, like the First was back in town again, and she was back in Joyce’s old home on Revello Drive, trying not to step on Buffy’s toes while did whatever she could to hold them all together.

Light flickering from the television in the living room caught her eye, reminding her of something the watcher had mentioned on the phone. “What exactly is wrong with Buffy?”

Giles and Willow exchanged nervous glances.

"We don't know," the watcher said at last. "Slayers aren't technically supposed to get sick."

"Which is to say, we've never heard of one getting sick," Willow added, "but that doesn't mean they can't. Our experience with slayer physiology is kind of limited."

"It's not mystical?"

"We ruled that out pretty early on. The doctors diagnosed her with pneumonia. I think she actually has pneumonia."

The slayer shrugged. “Okay, well, shit. I guess stranger things have happened.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Nothing phases you, does it?”

Her eyes flicked back to the exasperated witch, narrowing imperceptibly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like, do you actually give a shit about anything?”

“Some things,” the brunette growled.

Willow gestured around at the room. “I ask because you seem like you could honestly care less whether you’re working for a snake demon or helping us out, so long as you ‘get some and get gone’, or whatever the hell you say.”

“Harsh words, Red,” Faith leaned forward over the table. “None of the others wanted to come, did they? No one else wants to deal with stressed out, stick-up-her-ass Buffy, but you knew I would get on a plane, no questions asked. That’s why I’m here, right?”

The irked glare on Willow’s face as good as answered the question.

Giles stood suddenly and began collecting their mugs. “You must be exhausted, Faith.”

“God, yes.” She cracked her neck.

“We’ve set up a cot for you in the study. I’ll give you the tour.”

Faith retrieved her bag from the entryway and cast a long, appraising look at Buffy, curled up on the couch next to her sister, before turning to follow the watcher down the hall.