It’s sometimes surprising how places bounce back from catastrophes. The earthquake that shook the southwest coast of England registered 2.4 on the Richter scale, but for an area unaccustomed to such things, it had taken everyone by surprise. However, having weathered the thing that went bump in the night, every person who met on their front walks to collect their morning papers greeted each other with chipper conversation and sunshiny smiles.
Giles met half a dozen of his neighbors in this manner as he came up from the corner toward the Flat. They all had something to say about it having been ‘quite the thing’ and ‘wouldn’t it be one for the records.’ Giles nodded to them as he hurried briskly along with a leather satchel full of books and papers tucked beneath his arm. The neighbors would not have noticed the way his hair stood up in spiky patches, nor would they have seen the dust and bits of grass ground into his tweed coat. They would not have guessed that he spent the night in the bottom of a very dark, disagreeably damp hole in the ground less than one-quarter kilometer from the epicenter of their novel little earthquake.
When Giles entered the Flat, Dawn peered out of the kitchen. Upon seeing him, she bounded into the entry hall to tackle him with a hug.
“You’re okay,” she said.
He winced slightly. “Is everyone all right?”
“All good here. But you? Are you?”
“Fine. Thanks.” He grimaced. “You’re not in school.”
“Closed on count of earthquake. Just like old times, huh?” she said.
“Painfully,” he said. “Where are the others?”
Dawn hooked her arm in his. She led him to the kitchen.
“Perhaps,” she said, pulling out a chair. “Here, sit.”
“I’d rather stand. What is it?”
“Okay. Buffy and Spike went out this morning to find Angel,” Dawn said. She smiled.
“Angel?”
“Yeah-huh,” she said.
Giles sat down, took off his glasses, began to scrub. “He’s alive,” he said.
“So to speak,” Dawn answered.
Giles replaced his glasses. He said, “Right. Dawn. Gather the others. Meet me in the library. I’ve found something, and I think it’s important.”
~*~
Xander came into the library with a speculative look on his face. Whenever Giles spread out a plethora of scrolls - then scattered same scrolls with various relics and runes - it invariably meant Bad. If the scrolls contained pictographs of any kind, as these scrolls most certainly did, the pictographs depicted Certain Doom, and it was best for him to run straight away to the nearest hardware store for duct tape, plastic tarps and plywood.
Dawn stood beside Xander, but she looked all Alias cool with her arms loose at her sides and her chin out at a dignified tilt. She had her scholar on.
Then Andrew came in, all huffy. He said, “This is the library? I thought this was the dining room.”
“It’s the place with all the books. Even I know that,” Xander said.
Giles finished unfurling the final scroll on the table. He stood back, ready to connect the dots for them in old-school Watcher fashion.
“What are we looking at?” Dawn asked. She scanned the texts. “Sumerian?”
Giles looked impressed. Then, back to business, he said, “Yes. It details an ancient Kabalistic rite for the creation of a – a golem. A kind of mystical construct.”
“Oh!” Andrew said. “Does it want the Precious?”
They all ignored him. Pointedly.
Giles continued. “There are legends of these types of constructs throughout the world, throughout recorded time. In most cases, they are crafted from earth and enchanted with the distilled essence of a life force to create a willing servant.”
Giles waited.
“In this case, Spike,” Xander said.
Giles nodded.
“Well, okay,” Dawn said. “Someone makes a golem of Spike and sends him our way. Why?”
Giles rifled through some of the pages. He drew out a stack of photocopies.
“In this particular text, it states that a golem is produced for a specific purpose. In the past, they were designed for laboring, for doing tasks that normal people felt was beneath them or distasteful.”
Dawn tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’ve read something about that. Sorcerers used them for menial tasks like grave-robbing or letting blood.”
“Always with the letting of the blood,” Xander said.
“But Spike...” Andrew said. “He’s been here four days already.”
“He could be out robbing graves even as we speak,” Xander said. “Or digging ours.”
Giles said, “This one was created for specific tasks. If I’m right, this is a construct of exceptional cunning. And I believe it has been sent here to watch us. To gather information.”
“It’s a sorcerer’s snitch?” Xander asked.
“Precisely. But there is more, I’m afraid. A golem is produced for a specific task, but more importantly, from a specific desire,” Giles said.
Dawn looked up, cool exterior finally rippled. “Buffy?” she said.
“It has preyed upon her affections and memories to give it form,” Giles said. “It was her – longing, for lack of a more palatable word – for Spike that gave the spell’s caster a mold.”
Dawn thought for a moment. Then, she said, “So it could’ve taken any form she desired? Like Angel, or Mom?”
“Your mother, yes,” Giles said. “But not Angel. As you’ve already said, Angel is here, in the city. A golem isn’t able to take the form of someone who resides in this plane of existence. The life force must be drawn from someone who is no longer on this plane.”
“So Spike is dead and gone,” Xander said. “Otherwise this thing couldn’t exist?”
“How do we kill it?” Dawn asked. Her voice had gone glacial.
Giles took off his glasses again. “It can’t be killed. According to my reading, it’s virtually invulnerable. It can only be disenchanted...”
“Then how do we disenchant it?” Dawn interrupted. “If this thing is preying on Buffy’s feelings, we have to stop it. You’ve seen her with it.”
“She’s thinking she’s been able to hang on to something,” Xander said. He tucked his hands in his pockets.
“Yes,” Giles said. “The sooner, the better. But here is the unpleasant catch. The only way to trace the spell is to disenchant the golem. And the only one who can do that is the object of the enchantment.”
“Buffy,” Dawn said.
“Spike’s the Precious,” Andrew said, his eyes widening.
Giles replaced his glasses. “The difficult part will be convincing Buffy. And she’s the only one who can break the spell.”
They all stood silent, staring at the scrolls strewn over the tabletop. Dawn sighed and sat down.
“It just seemed so perfect,” Dawn said. She skimmed the edge of a scroll, then dragged it forward for closer inspection. She looked back at Giles.
“How old are these?” she asked. “And where did you find them?”
Giles started to answer when Xander’s cell phone rang.
Xander picked up. “Oh, hey Willow,” he said. “Yeah, we’re fine as hamsters. Giles, too. All right. One o’clock. Gatwick. Flight 2026. I’ll be there. And hey, Will... be careful.”
~*~
Connor waited by the door for Buffy at the ruined Royal London Hotel. William stood in the center of the grand hall, toying with the sunlight through his fingers while Angel watched from his crippled throne – a legless, moldy wing-backed chair.
“Spike,” Angel said.
William ignored him.
“I saw a flicker there. Earlier. You actually looked afraid,” Angel said.
William ran his hand, palm up, under the sun’s dappling light. He looked back at Angel and smirked. “Here for a purpose, mate,” he said.
“You saying all things happen for a reason, Spike? Because that sounds real idealistic, even for you.”
William tsked. “I was never an idealist.”
“You were. Once,” Angel said. “How’d you do it?”
William clenched his fist. “Brood more, Angelus. Talk less.”
There were remnants of anger like splinters of glass that William still felt toward Angel. He had discarded them, or tried to, but Angel was doing his best to bring them out. God, he wished that Buffy and the Scoobies would just hurry...
Yet Angel kept speaking. “All that fancy talk,” he said, “higher callings and being fate’s bitch. It’s a smoke screen. Gotta be. You were never a leader, Spike. You don’t even know what you are.”
William swooped on Angel and heaved him to his feet.
“What am I?” he growled.
And Angel was laughing.
“Someone’s coming!” Connor called from the next room.
William and Angel sprung apart, but stood glowering at each other.
Connor came in seconds later, with Buffy beside him.
“You boys playing nice?” she asked.
No one spoke. Buffy crossed the distance to stand between them.
The word ‘tense’ didn’t cover it. More like, ‘volcanic pressure cooker.’
“Guess not,” she said.
William straightened his shoulders, smoothed his coat.
“He okay?” Buffy asked William.
“He’ll live. But...” He took her a few steps aside and quietly said. “Something’s not right. He needs strong medicine. Willow strong, I s'pect. And blood, of course.”
Buffy looked over William’s shoulder to get a better look at Angel. She saw how waxy pale and drawn he looked. Though his eyes were lost in the gloom, he watched her. She could feel him, staring right into her. It was a little unsettling. She drew her attention back to William and to the problems at hand. Those, she could handle.
“What do we know?” she asked.
Connor came around to join them. “Mystical fire,” he said, sounding almost proud. “Dragon.”
Buffy said, “Come again?”
“A Khurasch dragon,” Connor said.
“You took on a dragon?” Buffy said.
“Well, yeah,” Angel said.
William crossed his arms, trying to give an unimpressed impression.
“Way to go with the supernatural sunburn, Saint George,” she said. She turned to William. “Willow won’t be back till later this afternoon, but I don’t think it’s safe here.”
Behind them, Angel sulked. “I was trying to save the world,” he grumbled. “How was I to know they’d have a Khurasch dragon...”
“The shimmery warriors might make a reappearance,” William said.
“Right,” Buffy said. “And this place doesn’t look so stable-like. We should call Xander. Have him bring the car. And blankets...”
Angel continued to lament. He said, “Here I was in an alley swarming with 40,000 legions, face to face with a dragon and no backup.”
William turned abruptly. “No backup? I had a hatchet between my shoulder blades.”
He blinked. Then staggered backward. “The Circle of the Black Thorn,” he said, breathlessly. “We fought them.” He looked at Angel. “We survived?”
Angel paused. Buffy looked from one to the other. Connor watched the whole scene with protracted interest.
Buffy grazed her hand down William’s arm. William looked to her, then nodded. Angel watched this exchange with growing anguish. Such a simple thing, that subtle touch, the reassurance held in one small moment. It left Angel feeling cold and hollowed-out.
William’s brow furrowed. “Illyria? Gunn?” he said.
“Gunn fell early on. You saw him. It was pretty much over before he...” Angel dropped his gaze. “Good man. Charles Gunn. Illyria was still fighting when I went down. And you, I figured you for dust until last night. The only way out was the sewer grate. Unless you...”
William was shaking his head. “No. No, something’s not right here. Illyria...”
“Was still fighting,” Angel said.
“Who’s Illyria?” Buffy said.
William was frustrated now. “Blue girl. Made us look like wind-up dolls. But, how did I...?”
Angel shrugged, an action that seemed to cause him no meager amount of pain. He said, “There was a flash, like being face-to-face with a supernova.”
“Mystical fire,” Connor put in.
“I crawled underground. Made my way to Connor,” Angel said.
An idea dawned in William’s eyes. “She incinerated us,” he said.
“What?” Angel said. “Impossible. She wouldn’t.”
William laughed. “She did. Us. Them. Alley flambé. She bloody roasted us, get it? She offed herself to end it once she thought we were safe.”
“We don’t know that. Can’t know it,” Angel said.
“I do,” William said. He lowered his head. “I don’t know how, but I do.”
An uncomfortable silence passed between them. Not having known Illyria, Buffy couldn’t understand the gravity of William's words. Nor could she understand Angel’s skepticism over Illyria’s proposed sacrifice. What Buffy did know was that the tension in the room was like a noose on her neck slowly tightening. She needed action. She needed air. And later, there would be need for ice cream.
Buffy took out her cell phone and left them. For a few moments, Connor, Angel and William heard only the muffled sound of her talking to Xander.
She returned to the circle. “All right,” she said. “Xander’s on his way. Giles is back. And with Willow and Kennedy returning in a few hours, the Flat is going to be packed in New York City transit fashion.”
“Where has the summer gone?” William said.
“Yeah,” she said.
At that point, it seemed they’d all run dry of things to say. William, no fan of idle chat, trailed away from them, giving them space, giving himself space. He slipped away to stand by the door. Behind him, he heard Buffy strike up a conversation with Angel. He clenched his teeth, cursing to himself. He twitched aside the heavy curtain over the window just enough to look out on the street.
In a brief, indulgent fantasy, he envisioned himself tearing back the curtain to spectacularly broil Angel in sunlight where he sat.
Connor stepped up. “Any sign of him?”
The boy’s stealth surprised him, but William played it all James Dean. “No sign. Do wish they’d hurry along.”
Connor leaned against the wall. “You know, I didn’t figure you the type to run,” he said. “Dad – he’s pretty hurt. Doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“He knows,” William said.
“We were tracking her. Last night,” Connor volunteered.
William studied Connor closely. “Because phones are just so passé,” he said.
“Tried the phone,” Connor said. “Tried finding the house, but...” he shrugged.
“So you followed random vampires in hopes of crossing paths with a Slayer?” William said.
“It was Dad’s idea,” Connor answered.
“Not one of his more brilliant plans,” William said, returning to gaze out of the window. “Guess the whole ‘bathed in mystical fire’ thing baked his brains a bit.”
Connor laughed. He said, “He doesn’t think so clearly when she’s involved.”
William arched his brows.
“Maybe he’s not the only one,” Connor said. He raised his eyes to the curtain where William’s hand rested.
“I’d be there to stop you,” Connor said. “Don’t even think...”
William started to balk, but just shook his head. He looked back over his shoulder to Buffy and Angel, talking companionably. He seemed to shrink just a smidge. “No cause for concern, mate. Besides,” William said. “I think I’ve lost my edge.”
Connor put his back against the door. “I don’t think you have,” he said.
William just kept his eye on the road. This cursed, condemned husk of hotel held nothing but memories and ghosts for him, and for Angel. He was ready to be rid of it.
As he watched, a boxy black car pulled up to the curb. Xander got out, arms bundled with blankets.
“He’s here,” Connor called.
Buffy got up. She gripped Angel’s hand, then crossed the room. William watched her move through the light at the room’s center, then back into the murk.
Xander came in, quickly closing the door behind him.
“Hey, Buff. How’s it going with the no longer evil dead, the freakishly back from the dead, and,” he looked at Connor, and said, “Skippy here?”
“Angel’s in pretty bad shape,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen him this bad since...”
“Hell,” William said. Buffy looked at him then as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“Yeah,” she said. She put her head down.
“Well,” Xander said. “I brought the Holocaust cloak if you guys want to get him in the car. ’Cause as fun as hanging out in condemned buildings with dead guys may be...”
Connor took the cloak and went to help Angel.
“Maybe I should walk back,” William said. “Seems a bit crowded for the Volvo. Plus, baking vampire flesh: none too savory.”
“Yeah,” Buffy said. “Maybe I’ll walk back, too.”
William actually bit his tongue in shock.
“No,” Xander said, too quickly. To compensate, he added, “Maybe we should stick together in case the Seven Shimmering Samurai decide to make a comeback.”
Buffy hesitated. William gave Xander a scrutinizing look.
“He’s right, Will,” Buffy said. “Those mirage-y demon fighters might still be out there.”
She looked back at Angel. The way he walked, lurching alongside Connor like Quasimodo, made her want to laugh and cry all at once. And she suppressed the urge to whisper ‘sanctuary’ under her breath, which was clearly inappropriate and insanely juvenile.
“All right,” William growled, so that only she could hear. “But you get shotgun.”
“What? Wait,” Buffy said. “Whatever.”
Connor and Angel waited by the door.
“Okay guys,” Xander said. “On the count of three, let’s run out like it’s a Chinese fire drill.”
~*~
On an ordinary day, the people at street level by the old Royal London Hotel would have remarked upon the mad group who ran out of the crumbled building and leapt into a parked car. They would have said how peculiar it was that one of them was practically carried along wrapped in heavy black wool blankets. And didn’t it seem strange how that one sort of smoked like sausages in a fryer?
But it was not an ordinary day in London. They had just weathered a minor cataclysm. Never mind that in California, car crashes scored higher marks on the Richter scale. The tube was down all over London. Traffic clogged the roads into and out of town. Cable and phone lines were not restored. The power grid was still spotty. But crews all over town labored to put things right.
And everyone was right nice about it, too.
So no one bothered much about the straggly group who bolted from The Royal London.
Buffy just thought London was swell.
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