# The Darkest Spark
## Chapter 7: "Band Candy"
---
### Part One: The Fundraiser
The candy bars arrived on a Monday morning.
Sunnydale High had a tradition of student fundraisers—selling chocolate to raise money for band uniforms, new equipment, field trips, all the mundane necessities of public education that the school budget couldn't cover. Principal Snyder, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that this year's fundraiser would be mandatory. Every student would sell a minimum of twenty bars, or face "consequences."
The consequences were never specified. With Snyder, they rarely needed to be.
"This is humiliating," Buffy said, staring at the box of chocolate bars that had been thrust into her hands during homeroom. "I fight demons. I've saved the world. And now I'm supposed to go door-to-door selling candy like a Girl Scout?"
"Girl Scouts sell cookies," Willow corrected helpfully. "These are chocolate bars. Totally different product category."
"Not helping, Will."
"I thought I was helping. Was that not helpful?"
Faith sauntered up to them in the hallway, her own box of candy bars tucked under her arm with the casual indifference of someone who had no intention of selling a single one.
"Check it out, B. We're candy pushers now." She tore open one of the bars and took a bite. "Not bad, actually. Milky Way knockoff. Kind of addictive."
"You're supposed to *sell* those, not eat them."
"I'm quality testing. Very important step in the sales process." Faith took another bite. "Besides, Stiles said he'd buy my whole box if I brought it to him. Apparently, he has 'a use' for them."
Buffy frowned. "What kind of use?"
"Didn't ask. Don't care. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks."
Xander appeared, carrying his own box with the enthusiasm of someone who had already calculated exactly how many he could eat before anyone noticed. "Did someone say Stiles? Is he here? Because I have questions about the whole 'freezing Council operatives like statues' thing, and I feel like we glossed over that pretty quickly."
"He's not here," Buffy said. "He's at the manor with Derek. Something about 'pack bonding exercises.'"
"Pack bonding exercises?"
"I didn't ask for details."
"Probably wise," Xander agreed. "So, these candy bars. Anyone else notice they smell kind of weird? Like, not bad weird, but... *off* weird?"
Willow leaned in and sniffed her box. "I don't smell anything."
"Maybe it's just me. My nose has been sensitive lately. Probably allergies." Xander shrugged and tucked his box under his arm. "Anyway, I'm going to go fail at selling these to people who definitely don't want them. Capitalism, ho!"
He wandered off. Faith finished her candy bar and reached for another.
"Seriously," Buffy said, "stop eating the merchandise."
"Make me, B."
Buffy considered it. Then she sighed and walked away. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
---
### Part Two: The Manor
Stiles was, in fact, conducting pack bonding exercises.
They were not what anyone would expect.
"This is stupid," Derek said, staring at the PlayStation controller in his hands with the expression of a man confronting an alien artifact. "I don't understand why we're doing this."
"We're doing this because you've been cooped up in this house for a week, and you need to do something that isn't brooding or training." Stiles was sprawled on the couch beside him, his own controller held with the easy familiarity of someone who had spent many hours of his pre-death life engaged in exactly this activity. "Also, because I'm going to destroy you at Mario Kart, and I want to enjoy the victory."
"I've never played this game."
"That's why it's going to be funny."
Derek glared at him. It was his default expression—the Hale Death Glare, perfected over years of dealing with annoying teenagers and supernatural crises. On anyone else, it would have been intimidating. On Derek, in sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt, sitting on a couch holding a game controller, it was almost adorable.
"I hate you," Derek said.
"No, you don't. You love me. I'm your alpha now."
"You're not an alpha. You're not even a werewolf."
"I'm the Dark One. I'm whatever I want to be." Stiles started the game. "Now pay attention. You're Princess Peach."
"Why am I Princess Peach?"
"Because I'm Toad, and Toad always wins."
"That doesn't—"
"Less talking, more racing."
They played for twenty minutes. Stiles won every race. Derek's frustration grew with each loss, his growls becoming increasingly wolf-like as the competitive instincts that were hardwired into every werewolf kicked in.
By the sixth race, Derek had learned the controls. By the tenth, he was keeping pace. By the fifteenth, he was strategically deploying items with a ruthlessness that made Stiles genuinely concerned.
"You're a fast learner," Stiles admitted after Derek's first victory.
"I'm an alpha. We adapt."
"Former alpha. You don't have a pack anymore."
Derek's expression flickered—pain, quickly suppressed. "I have you."
"Yeah." Stiles set down his controller and looked at Derek properly. "You do. For what it's worth—which is a lot, by the way—you're not alone anymore. I know it doesn't feel real yet. I know you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something bad to happen, for me to turn out to be just another person who hurts you. But I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
Derek was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "The last person who promised me that was Laura. And she died."
"I'm harder to kill than Laura."
"Everyone thinks that until they're dead."
"Everyone isn't me." Stiles's eyes flashed gold. "I'm the Dark One, Derek. I've died once already, and I came back stronger. I have unlimited power with no price. I can unmake reality with a thought. The only things that can threaten me are beings that don't exist in this dimension, and even then, I like my odds." He paused. "I know you don't trust easily. I know you've been hurt too many times to believe in promises. But I'm going to keep making them anyway. And eventually, you're going to realize that I mean every word."
Derek looked at him. The guarded expression was still there—would probably always be there, to some extent—but beneath it was something softer. Something that might have been hope.
"One more race," Derek said. "And this time, I'm being Toad."
Stiles smiled. "Deal."
---
### Part Three: The Symptoms
The first signs appeared around noon.
Willow noticed that her mother, who had stopped by the school to drop off her forgotten lunch, was acting strange. Sheila Rosenberg was normally a reserved, professional woman—a psychiatrist who spoke in measured tones and rarely showed emotion. Today, she was giggling at something Principal Snyder said and twirling her hair around her finger.
"Mom?" Willow said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm *fine*, Willow. God, you're such a worrier. Live a little!" Sheila laughed—actually laughed, a bright, carefree sound that Willow had never heard from her—and wandered off to chat with one of the other parents.
Willow stared after her, deeply unsettled.
Across town, Joyce Summers was having a similar experience.
She'd eaten two of the candy bars that Buffy had brought home—just to be supportive, to help with the sales—and now she felt *amazing*. Light and free and unburdened by all the responsibilities that had been weighing her down. The gallery could run itself for a day. The bills could wait. Life was too short to spend it worrying about things that didn't matter.
She put on a record—something from her college days, loud and rebellious—and started dancing in the living room.
When Buffy came home from school that afternoon, she found her mother jumping on the couch.
"Mom? What are you—"
"Buffy! You're home!" Joyce bounced off the couch and grabbed Buffy's hands. "We should go out! Do something fun! When's the last time we did something fun together?"
"Mom, are you feeling okay?"
"I feel *great*. Better than great. I feel like I'm eighteen again." Joyce's eyes were bright, almost manic. "We should get tattoos. I always wanted a tattoo. Maybe a little rose on my ankle, or—"
"Okay, you're officially freaking me out." Buffy extracted her hands and took a step back. "Did you eat something weird? Drink something? Take any medication that might—"
"I had some of those candy bars you brought home. The chocolate ones. They're delicious, by the way. I ate like four of them."
Buffy's blood went cold.
The candy bars. The ones that Xander said smelled weird. The ones that Faith had been eating all morning. The ones that had been distributed to every student in school for mandatory sales.
"Mom, I need you to stay here. Don't leave the house. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?"
"To figure out what the hell is happening."
---
### Part Four: The Library
The library was in chaos.
Giles was sitting on the main table, strumming an acoustic guitar and singing what appeared to be a punk rock song from the 1970s. His tweed jacket had been discarded, his shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was sticking up in ways that suggested he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.
"Giles!" Buffy shouted over the music. "What are you doing?"
"Playing guitar, obviously." Giles didn't look up. "Did you know I used to be in a band? Before all this Watcher nonsense? I was *good*. I was called Ripper. Everyone loved Ripper."
"Giles, something's wrong. The adults are all acting like—"
"Like we're finally having fun for once in our miserable lives?" Giles set down the guitar and hopped off the table. He was grinning—actually grinning, an expression Buffy had never seen on his face. "About bloody time, if you ask me. All those years of responsibility and duty and doing the right thing. Do you know how *exhausting* it is? Being the grown-up all the time?"
"You're the grown-up because you're *actually* a grown-up."
"Age is just a number, Buffy. A meaningless construct. I feel sixteen again. I feel *alive*." He grabbed her hands and spun her in a circle. "Dance with me!"
"Giles, stop. *Stop.*" Buffy pulled free and held up her hands. "The candy bars. The ones we're selling for the fundraiser. Did you eat any?"
"Just one. Or two. Maybe three." He shrugged. "They're quite good. Chocolatey."
"They're doing something to the adults. Making them act like teenagers. Mom is at home talking about getting tattoos."
"Good for her! Joyce needs to loosen up. She's far too uptight."
"Giles, listen to me. This isn't normal. Something is in that candy—some kind of spell or drug or—"
"Buffy." Giles took her face in his hands, and for a moment, his expression was almost serious. "I know you're worried. I know this seems wrong to you. But has it occurred to you that maybe—just maybe—we deserve a break? That maybe the adults of this world have spent so long being responsible that we've forgotten how to live?"
"This isn't living. This is a magical influence that's removing your inhibitions and making you act like a completely different person."
"Is that so bad? The 'different person' seems a lot happier than the original."
Buffy stared at him. This was worse than she'd thought. Whatever was in that candy, it wasn't just making adults act young—it was *convincing* them that this was who they really were. Who they wanted to be.
The library doors burst open, and Faith stumbled in.
"B! We got a problem." She was out of breath, her eyes wide. "I just saw Snyder skateboarding down the hall. *Skateboarding*. And laughing. He was *laughing*, Buffy."
"Snyder?"
"Like a little kid. And there are parents everywhere—at the Bronze, at the mall, at the park—all of them acting completely insane. It's like every adult in Sunnydale suddenly turned into a teenager."
Buffy's mind raced. Every adult. The candy bars. The mandatory fundraiser that had ensured every household in Sunnydale would have access to the candy.
This wasn't an accident. This was a plan.
"We need to find out who made that candy," Buffy said. "And we need to do it fast, before—"
"Before what?" Giles had retrieved his guitar and was tuning it absently. "Before we all have too much fun? Before we realize that life doesn't have to be an endless parade of duty and sacrifice?"
"Before something takes advantage of the fact that every adult in town is incapacitated." Buffy grabbed Faith's arm. "Come on. We're going to the factory."
"What factory?"
"The one that made the candy. There has to be a return address or a manufacturer's label or *something*."
"And if there isn't?"
Buffy's expression hardened. "Then we call Stiles."
---
### Part Five: The Factory
The candy had been manufactured at a facility on the edge of town—a nondescript warehouse that had been rented three weeks ago by a company called "Milkbar Confections." According to the business records Willow had pulled up before she'd gotten distracted by Giles's impromptu concert, the company didn't exist before last month.
Fake company. Short-term rental. Mass-produced candy with magical properties.
Someone had put a lot of effort into this plan.
Buffy and Faith approached the warehouse carefully, stakes in hand, all Slayer senses on high alert. The building looked abandoned—no lights, no vehicles, no signs of activity—but Buffy had learned long ago that appearances in Sunnydale were usually deceiving.
"I don't like this," Faith muttered. "Feels like a trap."
"Probably is a trap."
"So why are we walking into it?"
"Because it's the only lead we have, and every adult in town is currently useless." Buffy pushed open the warehouse door. "Besides, we've walked into worse traps."
"That's not exactly comforting, B."
Inside, the warehouse was exactly what Buffy had expected: industrial equipment, conveyor belts, boxes of candy bars stacked to the ceiling. And in the center of it all, standing beside a ritual circle drawn in what appeared to be chocolate sauce, was a man she didn't recognize.
He was middle-aged, wearing an expensive suit, with the kind of smile that politicians practiced in mirrors. Everything about him radiated "trustworthy authority figure," which in Buffy's experience meant he was probably evil.
"Ah," the man said pleasantly. "The Slayers. I was wondering when you'd show up."
"Who are you?" Buffy demanded. "And what's in the candy?"
"My name is Ethan Rayne. And the candy contains a very clever little spell—my own design, actually. It regresses adults to their teenage mentalities while leaving their bodies unchanged. Quite useful for creating chaos."
"Chaos for what purpose?"
Ethan's smile widened. "To keep the grown-ups distracted while my employer completes his real objective."
"Which is?"
"The dedication of infants to the demon Lurconis." Ethan spread his hands. "Sunnydale's tribute to one of the old powers. Every twenty years, the town must offer a sacrifice—and this year, with all the adults out of commission, collecting the babies will be much simpler."
Buffy's blood turned to ice. *Babies. They're going to sacrifice babies.*
"Where?" she demanded. "Where is this happening?"
"The hospital, of course. The maternity ward. So many fresh little souls, all in one convenient location."
Faith was already moving. "B, go. I'll handle him."
"Faith—"
"Go! Save the kids! I've got this asshole."
Buffy hesitated for half a second. Then she turned and ran.
---
### Part Six: The Call
Buffy was halfway to the hospital when she realized she couldn't do this alone.
The maternity ward. Multiple babies. Unknown number of enemies. Adults incapacitated across the entire town. Even with Slayer speed and strength, she couldn't protect every child while fighting whoever was coming to collect them.
She needed backup.
She needed Stiles.
The payphone on Third Street was still working—a minor miracle in a town where supernatural activity regularly destroyed infrastructure. She shoved in a quarter and dialed the number she'd memorized despite herself.
It rang once.
"Buffy." Stiles's voice was calm, unsurprised. "I felt something shift about an hour ago. Magical disturbance, chaos signature. What's happening?"
"The candy bars—they're enchanted. Every adult who ate them is acting like a teenager. And there's a demon called Lurconis that's going to sacrifice babies at the hospital. I need help."
A pause. Then: "I'll be there in thirty seconds."
The line went dead.
Buffy hung up and started running again.
She was still two blocks from the hospital when the air beside her rippled, and Stiles appeared mid-stride, matching her pace as if he'd always been there.
"Derek?" she asked without breaking stride.
"At the manor. Guarding it in case this is a diversion." His eyes were scanning the streets, processing information faster than any human could. "Tell me about Lurconis."
"I don't know much. Ethan said it's an 'old power.' The town has to pay tribute every twenty years."
"Lurconis is a serpent demon. Feeds on the flesh of infants. Pre-Columbian origin, brought here by colonizers who thought appeasing local spirits would protect their settlements." Stiles's voice was clinical, detached. "It's been sleeping beneath Sunnydale for centuries. The tributes keep it dormant."
"And if we stop the tribute?"
"It wakes up. Big snake. Very hungry. Very angry."
"So we're stuck either way."
"Not necessarily." Stiles's eyes flickered gold. "I can deal with Lurconis. But I need to know where the ritual is happening—not the hospital, that's just the collection point. The actual dedication ceremony has to be performed at a specific location. Somewhere connected to the earth. Underground."
"The sewer tunnels?"
"Possibly. Or—" He stopped running. His expression shifted. "The foundry. Sunnydale's old steel foundry. It has underground chambers that connect to the natural cave system. That's where Lurconis would be sleeping."
"Then we split up. You go to the foundry, I go to the hospital."
"No. We go together." Stiles grabbed her arm. "I'm not letting you face this alone."
"Stiles, there are babies—"
"And they'll still be there in the sixty seconds it takes me to drop you at the hospital and get to the foundry." His grip tightened. "I know you don't trust me completely. I know you're still figuring out what we are to each other. But *this*—protecting you, fighting beside you—this is what I'm for. Let me do my job."
Buffy looked at him. His eyes were gold, fierce, utterly certain.
"Fine," she said. "But if any babies die because we took a detour—"
"They won't."
He pulled her against him, and the world dissolved into smoke.
---
### Part Seven: The Hospital
They materialized in the maternity ward to find chaos.
Nurses were running through the halls, not away from danger but toward the exit, giggling and calling to each other like teenagers cutting class. Parents who had come to visit their newborns were making out in corners, completely oblivious to the fact that their children were being carried off by figures in dark robes.
"Go," Stiles said, shoving Buffy toward the nearest robed figure. "Stop them. I'll be back before you miss me."
He dissolved into smoke and vanished.
Buffy didn't waste time being annoyed. She charged the nearest kidnapper, stake in hand, and drove it into his back before he could react.
He dusted.
Vampire. Of course they were using vampires—who else would be willing to collect infants for a demon tribute?
She pulled the baby from his dissolving arms and thrust it at a passing nurse. "Take this child. Put it somewhere safe. *Now*."
The nurse blinked, confused—still under the candy's influence—but something in Buffy's tone cut through the fog. She took the baby and ran.
Buffy turned to the next vampire.
There were six of them in total, each carrying at least one infant, each heading for the fire exit that led to the basement and, presumably, the tunnels beneath. Buffy moved like lightning, intercepting them one by one, dusting vampires and rescuing babies with a brutal efficiency that would have impressed even Giles.
If Giles hadn't been currently playing guitar in the library.
By the time she reached the fire exit, five vampires were dust and all the babies had been recovered. The nurses—still acting like teenagers but responding to Buffy's authority—had gathered the infants in the break room and were, remarkably, doing a decent job of protecting them.
"One more," Buffy muttered, checking the hallway. "One more vampire, and then—"
The fire exit door burst open, and she found herself face-to-face with not a vampire but a man.
Mayor Richard Wilkins III.
He looked exactly as he always did in his public appearances: clean-cut, friendly, the picture of wholesome small-town governance. He was smiling.
"Miss Summers," he said pleasantly. "I was hoping we'd have a chance to chat."
"You're behind this. The candy. The tribute."
"Guilty as charged! Though I prefer to think of it as civic responsibility. Lurconis has been good to Sunnydale for a very long time. Keeping him happy is just... good governance."
"You were going to sacrifice *babies*."
"A few. Hardly the whole nursery." Wilkins stepped closer, his smile never wavering. "You have to understand, Miss Summers—I've been Mayor of this town for over a hundred years. I've seen Slayers come and go. I've maintained the balance between the human and demon populations with a delicate hand. And I've kept Lurconis dormant, which, believe me, is no small feat."
"By feeding him children."
"Every twenty years. A small price for civic peace." He tilted his head, studying her. "But tonight's tribute has been... interrupted. Thanks to you and your new friend. Speaking of which—where *is* the Dark One? I was hoping to meet him."
"He's dealing with your snake."
Wilkins's smile flickered. For just a moment, something cold and ancient showed through the friendly facade.
"That's unfortunate," he said quietly. "Lurconis doesn't like to be disturbed."
"Then I guess your snake's having a bad night."
Buffy lunged.
Wilkins moved faster than any human should have been able to move—fast enough to dodge her stake, fast enough to catch her wrist, fast enough to twist her around and pin her against the wall with terrifying ease.
"I'm not what I appear to be, Miss Summers," he said, his voice still pleasant even as he crushed her wrist in his grip. "I haven't been human for a very long time. And while I have no desire to kill a Slayer—it creates so much paperwork—I will do what's necessary to protect my interests."
"Let. Go."
"In a moment. I just want you to understand something." He leaned closer, and his eyes—his normal, friendly, mayoral eyes—flickered with something dark. "Sunnydale is my town. I built it. I maintain it. I control what happens here. Your Dark One friend may be powerful, but he's new. Temporary. I've been here since the beginning, and I'll be here long after he's forgotten."
"You don't know anything about him."
"I know enough. I know he's building a power base. I know he's claimed the Slayers as his own. I know he has plans." Wilkins smiled. "I also know that plans can change. That alliances can shift. That in this town, survival means flexibility."
He released her wrist and stepped back.
"This isn't over, Miss Summers. Tonight was a setback, not a defeat. Lurconis will sleep a while longer, and when it's time for the next tribute, I'll be better prepared." He straightened his tie. "In the meantime, please tell your Dark One that I'd like to arrange a meeting. Leader to leader. I think we could have a very productive conversation."
He turned and walked away, disappearing through the fire exit as if he hadn't just threatened her and admitted to serial child sacrifice.
Buffy stared after him, her wrist throbbing, her mind racing.
The Mayor. The *Mayor* was the one behind all of this. And he wasn't human—hadn't been human for "a very long time."
She needed to tell Stiles.
She needed to tell everyone.
---
### Part Eight: The Foundry
Three miles away, Stiles was descending into darkness.
The old Sunnydale foundry had been abandoned for decades—a relic of the town's industrial past, left to rust and decay while the Hellmouth pulsed beneath it like a diseased heart. The underground chambers were exactly where Stiles had expected to find them: deep, dark, and filled with the kind of primal energy that made his Dark One senses sing.
Lurconis was waiting.
The serpent demon was massive—easily fifty feet long, with scales the color of dried blood and eyes that burned with ancient, hungry intelligence. It was coiled in the center of the largest chamber, its body wrapped around a stone altar that was stained with the remnants of countless tributes over countless years.
It was also very, very annoyed.
"WHO DISTURBS MY SLUMBER?" The voice was like grinding stones, reverberating through the chamber with physical force. "WHERE IS MY TRIBUTE?"
"There won't be a tribute," Stiles said calmly. "Not tonight. Not ever again."
The serpent's eyes focused on him—twin points of red fire that evaluated and dismissed him in an instant.
"YOU ARE SMALL. INSIGNIFICANT. WHAT ARE YOU TO DENY ME WHAT IS OWED?"
"I'm the Dark One. And you're a nuisance that I'm about to remove."
Lurconis laughed. It was an ugly sound, like metal scraping against stone.
"THE DARK ONE. I HAVE HEARD THIS TITLE BEFORE, IN THE OLD WORLD. A MORTAL WHO BARGAINED FOR POWER AND BECAME SOMETHING MORE." The serpent's head lowered, bringing its massive jaws within feet of Stiles's face. "BUT I AM NOT OF THE OLD WORLD. I WAS ANCIENT WHEN YOUR POWERS WERE YOUNG. I WILL CONSUME YOU AND ADD YOUR ESSENCE TO MY OWN."
"You're welcome to try."
Lurconis struck.
The serpent's head shot forward with the speed of a lightning bolt, jaws opening wide enough to swallow a car whole. It was fast—faster than anything of its size had any right to be—and driven by millennia of predatory instinct.
It was not fast enough.
Stiles raised his hand, and Lurconis stopped. Mid-strike, jaws extended, the serpent demon froze in place as if someone had pressed pause on reality.
"Here's the thing about ancient beings," Stiles said conversationally, walking around the frozen serpent. "You're always so confident. So certain that age equals power. And sometimes it does. But sometimes..." He reached out and touched the serpent's scales. They were cold, ancient, thrumming with demonic energy. "Sometimes you meet something that doesn't play by your rules."
His eyes blazed gold.
"I am the Dark One. I have no limits. No price. No rules. I am magic given form, darkness given will, and power given purpose. And my purpose, right now, is to make sure you never threaten another child in this town."
He raised his other hand.
Lurconis's eyes widened—the first sign of fear the ancient creature had shown.
"WAIT. WE CAN NEGOTIATE. I WILL REDUCE MY TRIBUTE. I WILL—"
"You'll do nothing. Because you're done."
Stiles closed both hands into fists.
Lurconis screamed.
It was a sound that shook the foundations of the foundry, that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the stone walls, that would give nightmares to anyone unfortunate enough to hear it. The serpent's massive body began to glow—not with light, but with *unlight*, a darkness that consumed rather than illuminated.
Stiles was unmaking it. Molecule by molecule, just as he'd done with Kakistos. Erasing an ancient demon from existence with the casual effort of crumpling a piece of paper.
"Please," Lurconis gasped, its voice smaller now, weaker. "I have existed for ten thousand years. I am—"
"You *were*."
The darkness consumed the serpent completely.
When it cleared, there was nothing left but the empty chamber and the blood-stained altar.
Stiles stood alone in the silence, his eyes fading from gold to amber.
"One less demon in the world," he murmured. "Only about a million more to go."
He dissolved into smoke and went to find Buffy.
---
### Part Nine: The Aftermath
The candy's effects wore off around 3 AM.
Adults across Sunnydale woke up with pounding headaches, vague memories of deeply embarrassing behavior, and no idea how they'd ended up wherever they'd ended up. Giles found himself on the library floor, surrounded by empty candy wrappers and his own guitar, with no memory of anything past noon. Joyce woke up on the roof of the Summers house, wearing a shirt she didn't recognize and a temporary tattoo of a unicorn on her ankle.
The less said about Snyder's skateboarding adventure, the better.
Buffy and Faith had spent the hours after the hospital confrontation cleaning up—staking the remaining vampires, ensuring all the babies were safely returned to their families, and trying to piece together the full scope of what had happened.
The Mayor. The tribute. Lurconis. The candy.
It was a lot to process.
"So the Mayor is evil," Faith summarized, lying on the couch in the Summers living room while Buffy paced. "Like, actually evil. Demon-summoning, child-sacrificing, secretly-immortal evil."
"That's the summary, yes."
"And he wants to meet with Stiles."
"He said 'leader to leader.' Like they're equals or something."
"Are they?"
Buffy stopped pacing. "I don't know. Stiles killed Lurconis tonight. Just... ended it. A demon that had been around for ten thousand years, and he erased it like it was nothing."
"So Stiles is stronger."
"Probably. But the Mayor has been here for a hundred years. He knows the town, knows the power structures, knows how to survive. Stiles is new. He's still figuring things out."
The front door opened, and Stiles walked in.
He looked tired—or as tired as an immortal vampire with unlimited power could look. His clothes were dusty, his hair was disheveled, and there was something ancient and weary in his eyes.
"Lurconis is dead," he said without preamble. "The tribute system is over. Sunnydale won't be sacrificing babies to a snake demon anymore."
"Thank God," Faith said.
"Thank me. God had nothing to do with it." He crossed to the couch and sat down, and for a moment, he looked almost human—exhausted, drained, needing rest that his body technically didn't require. "Buffy. Tell me about the Mayor."
She told him everything—the confrontation at the hospital, the Mayor's admission that he wasn't human, his claim to have built and controlled Sunnydale for over a hundred years, his desire for a meeting.
Stiles listened in silence. When she finished, his expression was thoughtful.
"Richard Wilkins III," he murmured. "Though I doubt that's his real name. A hundred years in charge of a Hellmouth town... he's either incredibly powerful or incredibly connected. Possibly both."
"He said you were 'temporary,'" Buffy added. "That he'd been here since the beginning and would be here long after you're forgotten."
"He's wrong about that. But he's not wrong about being dangerous." Stiles's eyes flickered gold for a moment. "I've been so focused on establishing my presence here, on building the pack, on dealing with immediate threats, that I didn't look closely enough at the existing power structures. The Mayor has been invisible because he wanted to be invisible. And now he's revealed himself."
"Why? Why show his hand now?"
"Because I'm disrupting his plans. The tribute system, the careful balance he's maintained—I'm threatening all of it just by existing. He can't ignore me anymore, so he's trying to figure out if I can be managed. Controlled. Incorporated into his system."
"Can you?"
Stiles looked at her. His smile was cold.
"No. I can't be controlled by anyone—not Quentin Travers, not Mayor Wilkins, not anything in this world or any other. But I'm curious about what he thinks he can offer me. So I'll take the meeting."
"Stiles—"
"Not alone. You and Faith will be there. And Derek, if he's recovered enough." He reached out and took Buffy's hand. "I told you I was building a family. Part of that is protecting you. The other part is showing you everything—including the politics. Including the negotiations. Including the moments where I have to decide whether to destroy someone or make a deal with them."
"And which one is this going to be?"
"I don't know yet. It depends on what the Mayor wants and what he's willing to give up to get it." Stiles squeezed her hand. "But whatever happens, I'm not going to sacrifice what I'm building. Not for him. Not for anyone."
Faith sat up on the couch. "So we're doing this? Taking a meeting with the evil Mayor of Hellmouth Town?"
"We're doing this. But first—" Stiles stood. "We're going to get some rest. It's been a long night, and tomorrow is going to be longer."
"Where are we resting?" Buffy asked.
"Crawford Street. All of us. The manor is warded against pretty much everything, and I'd rather have everyone in one place until we know more about what the Mayor is planning."
"I need to tell my mom—"
"Your mom is currently passed out on your roof, recovering from magical chocolate poisoning. She'll sleep until noon at least. You can leave a note."
Buffy wanted to argue. Wanted to insist on her independence, on maintaining the boundaries between her life and Stiles's. But she was exhausted, and the thought of being alone in her house while the Mayor's threat hung over them was less appealing than she wanted to admit.
"Fine," she said. "One night. And then we figure out what to do about Wilkins."
"That's all I'm asking."
He took her hand in one of his, Faith's in the other, and the three of them dissolved into smoke.
---
### Part Ten: The Manor
Derek was waiting for them when they arrived.
He was standing in the living room, tense and alert, clearly having spent the entire night on edge waiting for news. When Stiles appeared with both Slayers in tow, some of the tension drained from his shoulders.
"You're all okay."
"We're all okay. Lurconis is dead. The Mayor is evil. The candy wore off." Stiles released the Slayers' hands and collapsed onto the couch. "Standard Sunnydale night, really."
"The Mayor?" Derek's eyes narrowed. "The human Mayor?"
"Not human. Not even close. He's been running this town for a century, apparently. Making deals with demons, maintaining 'balance,' sacrificing babies every twenty years to keep a giant snake happy." Stiles closed his eyes. "He wants to meet with me. Leader to leader."
"That sounds like a trap."
"It's definitely a trap. But it's also an opportunity. The Mayor knows things I don't—about the Hellmouth, about the power dynamics of this town, about the threats I haven't even discovered yet. If I can get information out of him..."
"And if he tries to kill you?"
Stiles opened his eyes. Gold flickered in their depths.
"Then I kill him first. Simple."
Derek studied him for a moment. Then he nodded and sat down in the armchair.
"I'll be ready when you need me."
"I know you will."
Faith had already claimed one end of the couch, kicking off her boots and stretching out like a cat. Buffy stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to position herself.
"There's a bedroom upstairs," Stiles said, watching her. "Second door on the left. It's yours if you want it."
"My own room?"
"Your own room. This is your home now, Buffy. Or it can be, if you let it."
She looked around the manor—at the warm lighting, the comfortable furniture, the three people who were watching her with various expressions of concern and hope. Faith, sprawled on the couch, more relaxed than Buffy had ever seen her. Derek, guarded but present, choosing to be part of this despite his fears. Stiles, exhausted and powerful and utterly focused on her, waiting for her to decide.
"One night," she said again.
"One night," he agreed.
She went upstairs.
The room was exactly what she would have chosen for herself—soft colors, comfortable bed, a window that looked out over the garden. There were clothes in the closet, toiletries in the attached bathroom, even a stack of books on the nightstand that matched her tastes exactly.
He'd prepared this for her. Probably weeks ago. Probably since the beginning.
She should have been creeped out. Instead, she felt—
*Wanted. Anticipated. Known.*
She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Below her, she could hear the murmur of voices—Stiles and Derek, talking quietly about something she couldn't make out. Faith's occasional laugh. The sounds of people who belonged to each other, settling in for the night.
*Family,* Buffy thought. *This is what he meant by family.*
She closed her eyes.
For the first time in months, she slept without dreaming.
---
### Part Eleven: The Morning
Buffy woke to the smell of coffee.
Real coffee, not the instant garbage that most people in Sunnydale seemed to subsist on. Rich and dark and impossibly good. She followed her nose downstairs to find Stiles in the kitchen, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking almost aggressively domestic.
"Morning," he said, pouring her a cup without asking. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in weeks." She accepted the coffee and took a sip. It was perfect. Of course it was perfect. "You're cooking."
"Pancakes. I figured everyone could use a real breakfast after last night."
"You don't eat."
"I don't need to eat. There's a difference. Besides—" He flipped a pancake with practiced ease. "I like cooking. It's normal. Grounding. Reminds me that I used to be human."
Buffy sat at the kitchen island and watched him work. In the morning light, without the weight of crisis pressing down on them, he looked younger. More like the seventeen-year-old he'd been when he died.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"What were you like? Before. Before you died, before the Dark One, before any of this."
Stiles was quiet for a moment. His hands kept moving—pouring batter, checking heat—but his expression had gone distant.
"I was annoying," he said finally. "Hyperactive. Talked too much, thought too fast, couldn't sit still to save my life. I had ADHD—attention deficit hyperactivity disorder—and I learned to use it as a strength instead of a weakness. I was the research guy. The plan guy. The one who figured things out while everyone else was punching things."
"That sounds... different from what you are now."
"I'm still the plan guy. Still figure things out. But the rest..." He shrugged. "The Dark One's memories are always there. Centuries of darkness, pressing against my thoughts. Sometimes I lose myself in them. Sometimes I forget who I was and only remember who they were. It's a constant effort to stay *Stiles* instead of just becoming another Dark One."
"Is that why you're building a family? To help you stay... you?"
"Partly." He finished the pancakes and slid them onto a plate. "And partly because I was lonely even before I died. My mom died when I was ten. My dad loved me, but he was the sheriff—always working, always gone. My best friend was a werewolf who was constantly dealing with his own drama. I had people around me, but I never felt like I really *belonged* anywhere."
"And now?"
Stiles met her eyes. "Now I'm building a place where I belong. Where we all belong. A pack. A family. Whatever you want to call it." He pushed the plate toward her. "Eat your pancakes before they get cold."
She ate.
Faith appeared twenty minutes later, drawn by the smell of food. Derek followed shortly after, looking more rested than Buffy had seen him since he arrived. They gathered around the kitchen island, eating pancakes and drinking coffee, and for a few minutes, they were just four people sharing a meal.
It felt normal. It felt *good*.
Then Stiles's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted—the warm, domestic Stiles disappearing behind the Dark One's cold focus.
"The Mayor," he said. "He wants to meet tonight. Eight o'clock. His office at City Hall."
"That's fast," Faith said.
"He's eager. Which means he's either confident or desperate." Stiles set down his phone. "Either way, we need to be ready."
"Ready for what?" Derek asked.
"For anything." Stiles looked around the table—at his pack, his family, the people he'd gathered around him in this strange new world. "The Mayor is dangerous. Old. Connected. He's survived for a century by being smarter and more adaptable than everyone around him. We're not going to underestimate him."
"And if he tries something?"
Stiles's eyes flickered gold.
"Then we show him exactly what happens when you threaten the Dark One's family."
---
**END OF CHAPTER 7**
---
*Next: Chapter 8 — "The Meeting." Stiles faces Mayor Wilkins. Politics are discussed. Threats are exchanged. And the true scope of the Mayor's plans begins to reveal itself.*