Buffy's eyes lowered. How could she ever explain to him how important it had seemed to experience that long-ago life Angel had lived, to be a normal young woman, the sort of woman Angel might have loved, to share some secret part of him she'd probably never know.

And yet Buffy realized it had gone even deeper than that. It had also been a longing to understand who Angel truly was, to gain some special insight into the human he once had been. And to bring herself closer-now,today -to Angel's heart.

Slowly she raised her eyes again. He was watching her so intently, she felt drawn into the dark depths of his stare.

"I-I just wanted to be a real girl, for once," her voice was barely a whisper. "The kind of fancy girl you liked when you were my age."

For me,Angel thought to himself,you almost sacrificed yourself for me.

To Buffy's surprise he laughed softly and shook his head.

"What?" Buffy asked, slightly hurt by his reaction.

"I hated the girls back then," he admitted. "Especially the noblewomen."

Buffy's look was dubious. "You did?"

"They were just incredibly dull. Simpering morons, the lot of them. I always wished I could meet someone . . . exciting."

A soft, lazy smile crept over his lips. He leaned toward Buffy.

"Interesting," he added.

"Really." A warm glow of pleasure spread through her. Her heartbeat began to quicken.

"Interesting-like how?"

Angel's smile widened. He knew she was baiting him, and he was all too willing to play along.

"You know how," he scolded her.

He leaned in closer. Their lips were almost touching, and Buffy could feel the faint stirring of his breath against her cheek.

"Still," she sighed innocently, "I've had a hard day, and you should tell me."

"I should," Angel teased.

"Oh, definitely . . ."

And as Angel's lips closed over hers, Buffy surrendered to his long, deep, passionate kiss.

On the morning after Halloween, Giles stood alone inside Ethan's Costume Shop.

It was as if the place had never even existed.

Empty display cases, stripped shelves, overturned mannequins-not a single thing remained anywhere to suggest that a businesss had recently thrived within these walls.

Giles walked slowly around the room, his face pensive. His footsteps echoed ghostly upon the floor.

And then something caught his attention.

There-just across from him-a small rectangular card was propped on a vacant counter.

Giles went over and picked it up.

He stared down at the handwriting, at the three words slashed in bold, black letters.

BE SEEING YOU.

There was no expression on his face now as he finally looked up.

But his eyes were thoughtful-and hard, and cold.

THE SECOND.

CHRONICLE: WHAT'S MY.

LINE? PARTS 1 AND 2.

PROLOGUE.

With Halloween over, Buffy tried to resume her life with a fresh sense of purpose.

Once again Sunnydale had been saved from certain tragedy, and in the process she'd discovered that shemuch preferred being herself rather than some helpless female. In the days that followed, she clung to the reassurances Angel had given her-the way he'd touched her that night, the truth in his eyes, the desire in his kisses. She wanted so much to believe that their love could transcend all the obstacles facing them, and that her own life could be just as fulfilling as that of any other young woman her age.

Yet, deep down, Buffy still wasn't convinced.

It was Sunnydale High's Career Fair that brought everything back again, those painful reminders that she was-and always would be-different.

She was sitting with Xander in the lounge that day, staring glumly down at her test form. Banners hung from the walls, reminding students that Career Fair Starts Tomorrow, and at a table across the room, the school guidance counselor sat sagely behind another sign which read, Vocational Aptitude Tests.

As Buffy lifted her eyes, she saw Willow come in and grab a test, then walk over to join them.

"Are you a people person or do you prefer keeping your own company?" Xander read solemnly from his test. He paused, his brow furrowing. "What if I'm a people person who keeps his own company by default?"

"So, mark 'none of the above,'" Buffy said.

"Thereis no box for none of the above. That would introduce too many variables into their mushroom-head, number-crunching little world."

Willow beamed Xander a smile. "I'm sensing bitterness."

"It's just, these people can't tell from one multiple choice test what we're supposed to do for the rest of our lives," Xander grumbled. "It's ridiculous."

Willow's eyes widened. "I'm kind of curious to find out what sort of career I could have."

"And suck all the spontaneity out of being young and stupid? I'd rather live in the dark."

"We won't be young forever," Willow reminded him.

"I'll always be stupid," Xander shot back. And then, when nobody commented, he added, "Okay, let's not allrush to disagree . . ."

The three glanced up at the sound of Cordelia's voice. She was heading straight toward them, test form in hand, flanked by her usual group of Cordelia wannabes.

"'I aspire to help my fellow man,'" she read aloud. "Check."

She stopped, making a decisive mark on her paper. And then she cocked her head and frowned.

"I mean, as long as he's not, like, smelly or dirty or something gross," she clarified.

"Cordelia Chase," Xander sighed, "always ready to offer a helping hand to the rich and pretty."

Cordelia regarded him with a frosty smile. "Which, lucky me, excludes youtwice!"

She moved off again, her Cordettes tittering as they followed. Xander leveled an impassive stare at her back.

"Is murderalways a crime?" he asked hopefully.

Buffy glanced down the list of questions in front of her. Then she looked up with a frown.

"Do I like shrubs?"

"That's between you and your God," Xander said.

"What'd you put?" Buffy asked Willow, craning her neck to see.

"I came down on the side of shrubs."

"Go shrubs," Buffy agreed, settling back in her seat.

"Okay." Then she put down her pencil, her frown deepening. "I shouldn't even be bothering with this.

It's all moot-ville for me. No matter what my aptitude test says-I already know my deal."

"Yep," Xander nodded. "High risk, sub-minimum wage . . ."

Buffy held her pencil in front of him. "Pointy wooden things."

"So why are you even taking the test?" Willow asked.

"It's Principal Snyder's 'hoop' of the week," Buffy said wryly. "He's not happy unless I'm jumping.

Believe me, I wouldn't be here otherwise-"

"You're not even a teensy weensy bit curious about what kind of career you could have had?" Willow broke in gently. "I mean, if you weren't already the Slayer and all."

"Do the wordssealed andfate ring any bells for you, Will?" Buffy snapped. "Why go there?"

She stopped, shocked at her outburst. Willow's face looked positively stung.

"You know," Xander informed her, "with that kind of attitude you could have had a bright future as an employee of the DMV."

Buffy nodded, wilting beneath his glare. "I'm sorry. It's just, unless hell freezes over and every vamp in Sunnydale puts in for early retirement, I'd say my future is pretty much a nonissue."

The question of Drusilla's future lay heavily on Spike's mind-it was practically all he could think about these long, tortured nights.

Now, while Drusilla stood at one end of the dining table laying out her beloved Tarot cards, Spike paced anxiously at the other end, a Latin/English dictionary clutched in his hand. He'd instructed Dalton to join them this evening. Of all Spike's followers, Dalton was the one best educated, the one most learned, the only true scholar in the bunch. So as Spike continued to pace, Dalton pored carefully over a large manuscript spread out on the table in front of him.

"Read it again," Spike ordered.

Dalton hesitated, adjusting the spectacles upon his hideous vampire nose. "I'm not sure . . . it could be Deprimere ille bubula linter."

Spike flipped quickly through the dictionary. He stopped at one page, then read slowly, "Debase the beef . . . canoe."

Dalton kept his eyes on the table. Spike slammed him in the head with the book.

"Why does that strike me asnot right?" Spike demanded.

Drusilla turned to him, humming. In her delicate white gown and black lace shawl, she looked even paler than usual. Swaying softly, she held out her arms to him, opened them wide . . .

"Spike? Come dance."

Instantly Spike bristled. "Give us some peace, would you? Can't you see I'm working?"

The second the words were out, he regretted them. He saw the look on Drusilla's face, the hurt and betrayal in her wide, strange eyes. Her bottom lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry, kitten." Spike went to her, tender now, remorseful. "It's just, this manuscript is supposed to hold your cure. But it reads like jibberish."

Still wounded, Drusilla turned away from him. Spike followed, desperate to appease her.

"I'm frazzed is all," he told her. "I never had the Latin. Even Dalton here, the big brain, even he can't make heads or tails of it."

It was almost too much to bear, seeing her like this, knowing he'd hurt her-and especially in her fragile condition. He looked at her pleadingly, but once more she turned away from him.

"I-I need to change Miss Edith . . ."

And then Spike saw her falter. Suddenly weak, Drusilla tried to grab the table, and Spike rushed to her side.

She was hardly more than a ghost. As Spike gently guided her to a chair, her shawl came loose, revealing dark, ugly bruises along the translucent skin of her arms.

Spike looked away. He could feel the desperation rising inside of him-the utter helplessness so foreign to his nature-and he knelt down at Drusilla's side.

"Forgive me." Spike's voice trembled, dangerously close to tears. "You know I can't stand seeing you like this." And then his voice grew angry with frustration. "And we're running out of time. It's that bloody Slayer. Whenever I turn around she's mucking up the works-"