She was recalling another time, a long-ago time . . .

And she was savoring the memories.

"My mother ate lemons," Drusilla murmured. "Raw."

The room was soft with candlelight. Angel lay at the foot of the bed, his hands bound to the bedposts, his bare chest exposed.

He watched as Drusilla drifted over to him. As she knelt before him on the rug.

She ran her hands slowly along his chest. The heat they'd once shared was still there-scorching and intense-fanned even hotter by all those lost, lonely centuries between them.

Drusilla felt it seeping into her fingertips, into the most secret places of her heart.

And now she took her time playing with it . . .

Just to watch him squirm.

"She said she loved the way they made her mouth tingle," Drusilla went on quietly.

She lifted the bottle of holy water. She dribbled a bit on his chest. The liquid hissed as it burned into Angel's skin. His jaw clenched in pain, but he didn't cry out.

Drusilla smiled at him, her ravaged mind drifting. "Little Anne, her favorite was custard, brandied pears .

Again she tilted the bottle. More holy water poured out and Angel writhed in silent torment. Part of him welcomed this misery-knewhe deserved it-and part of him longed to beg for release. For this was a torment not only of torture, but also of remorse, for what he had done to her.

"Dru-" he moaned, but she sternly cut him off.

"Shhhhh."

He turned his head away. For one brief instant he could see her through a flowing haze of time-that innocent Drusilla of long-ago gazing up at him with wide, beautiful, trusting eyes. And he remembered the adoration he'd seen there, the fear and confusion, and then, when it was finally done, only the emptiness he'd left her.

Angel choked on the bitter taste of the past.

Drusilla waited till he'd grown still.

"And pomegranates," she whispered. "They used to make her face and fingers all red-"

And still she tilted the bottle over his chest, and still she watched the holy water trickle out.

Angel closed his eyes and ground his teeth together. This time he nearly cried out.

"Remember little fingers?" Drusilla taunted him. "Little hands? Do you?"

Her voice had grown hard and cold. She was waiting for his answer.

"If Icould," Angel gasped, "I-"

"Bite your tongue," Drusilla snapped at him. "They used to eat. Cake. And eggs. And honey." She paused, her voice changing to sweetness. "Until you came and ripped their throats out-"

Another dose of water. Angel's hands knotted into fists. He arched his back, trying to twist away.

But gazing down upon his face, Drusilla suddenly saw something she'd never seen there before.

The sorrow. Regret. The endless pain of remembering . . .

Her face began to soften. For a brief instant she looked completely vulnerable, genuinely lost.

"You remember?" she asked him gently.

Angel managed a nod. "Yes."

"You remember that kind of hungry?"

"Yes."

Drusilla smiled. "You used to feed me."

She wasn't talking about food now, and Angel knew it. Uncomfortably, he looked away.

"You think you don't have it in you now," Drusilla purred, leaning close to him. "But you do. I canfeel it."

Without warning she doused him with holy water.

Angel threw back his head and screamed in unbearable agony.

"I can almost taste it," Drusilla whispered.

And she slowly licked her lips.

CHAPTER 20.

There was still so much to be done.

Night had fallen beneath a full moon, and somewhere in Sunnydale a macabre ritual was about to take place.

"There are forty-three churches in Sunnydale?" Giles watched over Willow's shoulder as she scrolled through the computer. "That seems a bit excessive."

"It's the extra evil vibe from the Hellmouth," Willow explained. "Makes people pray harder."

"Check and see if any of them are closed or abandoned."

Willow obligingly did so. As Giles carried a large book over to where Xander and Cordelia were sitting, he couldn't help noticing how tense they both looked. Their chairs were pulled together side by side at the table, yet they seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact. Both sat ramrod straight. As they diligently searched through a volume of demon pictures, Giles could only wonder at their odd behavior.

"We got demons," Xander told him. "We got monsters. But no Bug Dude or Police Lady."

Giles handed over the book he was holding. "You should have better luck with this. There's a section devoted entirely to the Order of Taraka."

Xander began leafing through the pages.

In Giles's office, Kendra was gazing quizically out at the others. Then she glanced over at Buffy, who was in the process of checking and rechecking her weapons. Buffy's face was tight and drawn-she was clearly in a silent panic about Angel.

"And those two," Kendra said, indicating Xander and Cordelia. "Theyalso know you are the Slayer?"

Buffy kept her attention on her battle gear. "Yup."

"Did anyone explain to you what 'secret identity' means?" Kendra challenged, lifting an eyebrow.

"Nope." Buffy stayed focused. "Must be in the Handbook. Right after the chapter on personality removal."

Kendra ignored her. She picked up a crossbow and inspected it closely.

"Careful with that thing," Buffy warned.

"Please. I am an expert in all weapons-"

Without warning the crossbow went off in Kendra's hand, firing an arrow straight into Giles's lamp, which toppled. Startled, Kendra tried to recover herself.

"Is everything all right?" Giles called.

"It's okay," Buffy called back. "Kendra killed the bad lamp."

Kendra shot her a look. "Sorry. This trigger mechanism is different." She paused, then added in a more conciliatory tone, "Perhaps when this is over, you can show me how to work it."

Buffy sighed. "When this is over, I'm thinking of pineapple pizza and teen videofest-possibly something from the Ringwald oeuvre."

"I'm not allowed to watch television," Kendra told her. "My Watcher says it promotes intellectual laziness."

Buffy stared at her. "And he says it like that's a bad thing?"

They both turned as Xander yelled to Giles. "Here we go," Xander said excitedly, pointing to his book.

"I am the Bug Man, coo-coo coo-chu."

It was indeed an ancient drawing of the creature now known as Mr. Pfister. Round-faced, meek, not even very scary looking. But a magnified detail of the drawing showed every squiggle of his wormy composition.

Xander made a face. He ran a finger down the page and added, "Okay. Okay. He can only be killed when he's in his disassembled state."

Cordelia looked up at him. He leaned over, addressing her as if she were a three-year-old.

"Disassembled," he pronounced each syllable slowly. "That means when he's broken down into all his buggy parts-"

Cordelia snatched the book from him. "I know what it means, dork-head."

"Dork-head?" Xander tried to grab the book back. "You slash me with your words."

Their tension was almost palpable. Willow and Giles stared at them, and then at each other, completely in the dark.

Kendra looked over at Buffy. "Your life is very different than mine."

"You mean the part where I ocasionallyhave one? Yeah, I guess it is."

"The things you do and have," Kendra tried to explain, "I was taught distract from my calling-friends, school, even family."

"What do you mean-even family?"

Kendra moved slowly about the room, her face grave. "My parents-they sent me to my Watcher when I was very young."

"How young?" Buffy asked.

"I don't remember them, actually. I've seen pictures, but that's how seriously the calling is taken by my people. My mother and father gave me to my Watcher because they believed that they were doing the right thing for me-and for theworld." Kendra paused. "You see?"

"Oh. I'm-"

At a loss, Buffy stared back at her. As Kendra read the shock and sympathy in her eyes, she shut down tight.

"Please," she said firmly. "I don't feel sorry for myself. Why should you?"

And I thoughtIhad it bad!Buffy thought a moment before she spoke. "It just sounds very lonely."

"Emotions are weakness, Buffy," Kendra said, though not unkindly. "You shouldn't entertain them."

Buffy looked surprised. "What? Kendra, my emotions give me power. They're total assets."

"Maybe," Kendra replied dubiously. "For you. But I prefer to keep an even mind."

She picked up a dagger and began to polish it. For a long while Buffy watched her. And then Buffy shrugged.

"Huh. I guess that explains it."

Kendra glanced up quickly. "Explains what?"

"When we were fighting." Buffy shrugged again. "You're amazing. Your technique. It's flawless. Better than mine-"

"I know."

Buffy bristled, but managed to keep her cool. "Still," she sighed, "I would have kicked your butt in the end. And you know why? No imagination."

Kendra frowned. She was polishing the knife a little more intensely now.

"Really?" Kendra's tone was level. "You think so?"