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Author's Chapter Notes:
The quotes in this chapter are directly taken from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. This is a product of reading too many Raymond Chandler novels and wondering how Joss Whedon's characters and mythology would react in the real world. So if my wording seems to read like a 1940's pulp novel, blame Philip Marlowe.

Oh yeah, new thing, I'm in the middle of a Bob Dylan obsession. So all chapter titles will be a Dylan song. Idea came from a fic called 'Blonde on Blonde' somewhere in this archive.
“Hello? Is anyone out there?” Richard Stiles yelled out into the sky.

He chuckled quietly to himself; the whole night sky was spread out in front of him with all its infinite possibilities, there was bound to be life out there somewhere. He grabbed another beer from the six-pack abandoned next to him on the dew soak grass. It had been a hell of a day and he deserved this little moment to himself, even if his dad would kill him if he staggered home drunk. His mind wondered back to earlier in the evening. Melinda Cross could drop dead for all he cared, even if she had the cutest smile in the whole of Sunnydale High after the complete and utter humiliation she had inflected on him at the Bronze. Richard was dreading Monday morning at school, everyone will be talking about him and that was definitely gonna cause a crash in his popularity rating.

Richard downed the next beer in one before idly tossing the can in the vague direction of a trashcan. It hadn’t even been his idea to go to the Bronze this evening, Richard would have been happy enough just staying home and watching football with his dad. A nice, normal, humiliation free evening; was that too much to ask for? But when Mark Webster called and suggested they go see some wannabe Dandy Warhol’s band at the Bronze, Richard figured what could go wrong.

Richard shook his head in a vague attempt to think clearer, the air around him seemed to be heavy with humidity but he remembered the weatherman say it was gonna be a clear Californian day. Good weather for a game his dad had said. There was a weird smell; Richard hadn’t noticed that before, kinda like jasmine. Richard pushed himself up into a sitting position and scanned his surroundings, Weatherly Park was completely silent. The only thing Richard could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart and panicked gasps of his own breathing. Surely he should be able to hear something; the constant hum of traffic, the chirp of crickets or just the sound of people passing by. The sound of his heart beat seemed triple in speed, his chest felt tight and the smell of jasmine was so over powering it felt as if it was choking him.

“Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,”

A female voice, like raw silk, whispered somewhere behind Richard, feather-light footsteps tiptoed through the grass.

“And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon,”

Desperately Richard tried to twist his neck to see the owner of voice, but it was if he was paralyzed all he could see was the swish of black lace bejewelled with dew drops. The smell of jasmine was making him feel sick, and he didn’t hate Melinda Cross so much anymore. It seemed pretty certain to Richard he was going to die; it hurt to breathe like something was crushing his chest. He felt doziness descend on him, he struggled to stay awake, somewhere in his mind he realized that if he fell asleep death was certain. Richard wondered if Melinda Cross would miss him, as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again.”

Richard felt the sharp bite of steel along his throat, he hadn’t even realized she had moved behind him. Her raven black hair fallen across his face, tickling his nose, Richard stupidly worried that he was going to sneeze.

“This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she…“

Her voice raised in an almost manic pitch, as the blade cut deep into Richard Stiles’ throat. Hot blood spilled across her delicate fingers; absentmindedly she raised her fingers to her mouth and licked the blood off her fingers. She pulled a face, dropping the blade in the dew soaked grass, as dawn peaked in the sky line.



***



The sun shone high the sky; the weatherman was talking about record temperatures. It was going to be a long hot summer. Weatherly Park was swarming with police, the body of Richard Stiles had been found by a jogger about two hours ago. Detective Xander Harris suspected that this wasn’t exactly the best start of the day for the jogger or himself. Something about this murder had troubled him, when the first police officers had arrived at the scene they had commented on how quiet the park had seemed, even the jogger had mentioned it in his statement. There was also the look the boy had in his eyes, Richard Stiles had a violent death but there wasn’t a hint of fear in his eyes, no sign of a struggle and the CSI guy’s had yet to find anything useful. That’s why he had put in the call to Buffy Summers, the paranormal divisions on call detective.

The paranormal division had been formed just over three years ago, after the government had been forced to admit that demons, vampires, magic and most paranormal things we real. Amongst most cops being stuck in the paranormal division meant they’d messed up somewhere along the line but Buffy Summers had transferred there. She was the star detective and Xander knew that once a case caught her attention, you would get results whether you like what they were or not.

“Well he’s certainly been murdered.” Xander said, pulling his shades down and peered at the body of Richard Stiles. The bloody knife still clutched in his cold fingers, three empty beer cans were scattered around the body.

“I can see that.” Buffy Summers sighed; it had been a long night and even longer day before that. She was tired and need a shower; Buffy wanted nothing more to curl up in her bed. “Why have you called me in?”

“Well, you are in paranormal division.” Xander grinned and pushed his shades back up.

“I’m well aware of that, Xander, but yet we come back to the fact it is just a dead body. Nothing homicide can’t deal with.” Buffy, tilted her head to the side. “Is it me or do they seem to get younger?”

“Nah, we’re just getting older.”

Xander pulled on a pair of gloves; he leaned over the body and moved Richard’s head revealing the other side of his cheek. Someone had carved a symbol into his cheek, it looked vaguely Celtic.

“They reckon this was done post-mortem.” He stood up straight and looked Buffy in the eye. “What do you reckon? Us homicide detectives might need your help?”

Buffy looked at the body of the young man sprawled on the grass, his eyes glassy and blank, staring off into the distance. He couldn’t be much old than her sister, he probably had gone to school with Dawn. She looked away, Xander knew she wasn’t going to refuse this case or pass it on to another detective.

“I’ll buy you a doughnut.” Xander tilted his head to get a proper look at Buffy’s face, a smile playing across his face. He had her hooked and he knew it.

“A Krispy Kreme, not the cheap stuff you eat at the station.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Summers.”





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