Buffy is dead (not that that means a whole lot in the Buffyverse)

"My God," said Buffy. "I really am dead."

"No, you're not," said Drusilla.

"But I see dead people."

"I see them too," said Drusilla.

"And the last thing I remember is you trying to **** me to ****."

"Well, not to ****," said Drusilla.

"Really?"

"No, I just broke your neck."

"Oh, God! Wait! If I'm dead, why are you here?"

Drusilla shrugged. "I suppose I got dusted by your Watcher or some other Slayer. There was some girl from Boston who was supposed to be pretty good. Maybe it was her."

"You mean you don't know how you died?" asked Buffy.

"Hey, you don't know how you died," said Drusilla. "Consider it a blessing. Now you get to spend eternity in my arms."

Buffy repressed a shiver. Surely Drusilla was lying. There had to be some way out of here. A spell. A ritual. Something.

After all, Buffy had killed a lot of vampires during her days as a Slayer. Suppose they were all down here?

Suppose they were, she thought. You have Drusilla as a protector and you're no small threat as a fighter yourself. What vampire is going to want to mess with you? After all, you killed the Master.

As for humans ...

It was difficult to think of any dead human who would want to take on both a Slayer and a vampire. Only another Slayer would do that. Or perhaps a --

"Ahem," said a posh British voice that seemed to be coming from behind her. "I always knew you lacked discipline, Ms. Summers, but I never expected to see you out of uniform, so to speak."

What the hell, thought Buffy.

She turned around to see an one-armed white woman in a posh business dress who smelled like smoke glaring down at her and Drusilla.

Before she could respond, Drusilla asked, "Who in bloody blazes are you?"

The woman smiled. "I'm sorry but I appear to have forgotten my manners. My name is Post. Gwendolyn Post." At this point, she started stroking the area where her missing arm used to be. "You might say I used to be Ms. Summers' Watcher. One of them, at least."