Thellian perched The Histories in his fingers, reading aloud for Morna while they waited for Lalaine to finish dressing.
“Hence,” he read, “At this place there stood upon the shore a temple, which still exists, dedicated to Heracles. If a slave runs away from his master, and taking sanctuary at this shrine gives himself up to the god, and receives certain sacred marks upon his person, whosoever his master may be, he cannot lay hand on him.”
Morna cooed at him from the chaise. Across the room, Lalaine snuffed the candles with bare fingers. She wore a dress of translucent gold silk that flowed and rustled around her like wrapping paper.
“You know she understands nothing of what you just read,” Lalaine said. She glided across the marble tiles to scan the page over his shoulder.
“Matters not,” Thellian said. He smoothed Morna’s brittle hair from her forehead. “It’s all in the tone. Besides, I believe she comprehends more than we know. You are breathtaking.”
“Of course she does,” Lalaine clucked. “And you have no breath to take. But thank you, anyway.” Morna flapped her fingers excitedly, humming to herself like a dove.
Thellian snapped the book closed. “Daylight’s almost gone. Shall we?”
“Hmm,” Lalaine said. “Celebration.” She savored the word, drawing out each syllable. She folded herself into his lap, pouring her arms around him.
“Our first phase is complete, Lalaine,” Thellian said. His eyes glinted like a falcon’s. “The world has already changed. Angel is days away from breaking. Once he understands his part in the Circle, he will take care of anyone who wishes to oppose us. All we need do now is wait.”
“To delegation,” she said. She tilted her head. The curtain of her hair parted, flowing on either side of the perfect slender column of her neck.
Thellian dragged his tongue over the cold flesh, breathing in the funeral flower scent of her skin.
“I’ll drink to that,” Thellian said.
~*~
So I will opt for the big
white limo.
Vanity fairgrounds
and rebel angels,
Who can't be trusted with
feathers so hollow.
Your heaven's inventions:
steel-eyed vampires of love.
Go, or Go Ahead
Rufus Wainwright
Scaffolding masked the facade of the Royal London Hotel. The courtyard, which had a month ago possessed only a dumped sofa the color of rotten guacamole and three dust-choked chinaberry trees, now boasted an arbor adorned with white twinkle lights, a winding walkway paved with imported river stones and a gurgling fountain stocked with yellow koi.
Buffy pushed through the double doors, then froze. These were the same splintery side doors through which they had bundled Angel when they found him, but the ruined husk of hotel was gone. It its place was an exquisite grand ballroom. A double staircase of white marble dominated the far end of the room. Where the skylight had been, a gold and crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling. On her right, the front desk and cocktail bar swept in an elegant curve along the wall. A stage slept behind ruby velvet curtains to the left. She imagined she could hear a nostalgic tune played on the piano, just soft enough to underscore the high-brow conversations of future patrons in the bar.
Buffy drifted through the lobby, drinking in the ivory and marble, the white damask upholstered chairs, luscious red roses swimming in sparkling cut glass bowls. The decor sang the subtle symphony of Angel’s style – a bizarre blend of Japanese-meets-Victorian-meets-Manhattan. She sensed him in every fabric swatch and carpet sample.
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Angel said.
Buffy turned slowly, seeking his form in the shadows. She never cared much for his hiding games.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Angel,” she said. “All this, and you still have time to save the world?”
Angel moved from the darkened space under the stairs. “It’s a pet project. I’m draining every possible Wolfram & Hart resource to restore the place. You should see the upstairs. Opulence the likes of which the Russians would envy,” he said. He tucked one hand casually in his pocket. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Buffy glanced away. She could smell the roses. Their saccharine scent made her stomach turn.
“Angel, you said on the phone,” she began.
“I know I did,” Angel said. He took five steps in her direction, then came to a stop. She kept a watchful eye on him. Something about his movements felt calculated, like he had mapped out his side of the conversation in advance.
“You have information about Thellian?” she asked. Straight cut through to business always served her well.
Angel frowned darkly. She had seen that look before.
“Do not start, Angel,” she said. “I am only here because you said you needed help.”
“I guess you’re done then?” he said, turning the declaration into a question.
“Done?”
“Baking. Cookie Buffy,” Angel said. He chuckled. “You’re done.”
“I guess I better be,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Buffy said. She fidgeted with the leather lapel of her coat. “Look. Angel. What is it?”
Angel gave her a lopsided grin. “I just want to know about you,” he said. He swallowed. “How you are.”
“I’m fine,” Buffy said, not concealing her impatience. “You called because...”
Angel interrupted, “What do you see in him?”
Buffy made a derisive sound. “You mean apart from his unswerving devotion?”
“Yeah. Apart from that,” he said. The humor bled from his face.
“Well, it helps that he’s a bad ass,” Buffy said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Angel said. He advanced swiftly down the steps into the waiting area where she stood. She held her ground, but shifted uncomfortably as he approached.
“It means he’s there with me. Every day. Fighting by my side. He’s there, Angel.”
Angel’s brow furrowed. “Don’t do that, Buffy,” he said. “You asked me to leave.”
She rounded on him. “Not the first time. You left, and it killed me.”
“But the second time, when you were battling the First. You were the one who told me to go,” Angel countered.
Adrenaline pumped in her blood, quickening her anger. “You think I didn’t try with him?” Buffy said. “You think I didn’t push him away? But he kept coming back. Stronger. Not even death...”
“Well pardon my surprise, Buffy,” Angel spat. “I didn’t get that the way to your heart was to become co-dependent Stalker Boy.”
“Would you stop?” Buffy said, half-turning to go.
“You’re settling,” Angel said, changing his course.
“Settling?” Buffy said. She faced him again.
“That’s right.”
“You make it sound like a packet of bran flakes. Contents may settle. It isn’t like that,” she said.
“Ah, but it is,” Angel said, tone suddenly acetic. “Emphasis on the flakes.”
Buffy set her jaw. “That is enough,” she said.
“I would say it is,” Angel said.
Buffy gestured around the ballroom. “You know, I don’t think I need a lecture on settling from Mr. Better Crypts and Coffins.”
“You love me,” Angel said.
A stab of pain struck her heart. “I do,” she said. “Doesn’t mean we get to be together.”
“It should,” he said. He hazarded another step in her direction.
“We can’t,” Buffy said, quietly. “You know we can’t.”
“I think we should try,” Angel said.
Buffy retreated. “You choose now to try? You come in with this ‘him or me’ edict and expect me to react how?” she said. Her throat closed around the words, choking her.
“Do you love him?” Angel said.
Buffy said, “It is none of your concern. But you asked, so I’m telling,” Buffy said. Her cheeks flushed. She felt stronger with every word she spoke. “His pulse quickens when I touch him,” she said.
“Buffy…” Angel said.
“No. No, let me. He cheats at soccer. He secretly likes Joni Mitchell. He knows about the fish in peanuts,” Buffy laughed. “And if you give him a chance – half a chance – he’ll surprise you. Every time. What I have with him, it’s solid and real. I can trust it. Why would you want to take that from me?”
“It’s Spike,” Angel said, biting out the name.
“It’s not,” Buffy said. “Spike died in LA. This is William. This is what he may have been, had he never met you.”
“He slept with Harmony,” Angel mumbled, flippantly.
Buffy held up her hands. “You know what? I’m sick of this. You really don’t change, do you?” She turned again to leave, then whirled on him. “I did not come to rehash our breakups and unsettled scores. You know what we’re up against. You know how dangerous it is for us to meet you. You told me you needed help.”
Angel’s eyes clouded. “I do need help.”
“Help with what?” Buffy said, impatience percolating.
“I’m slipping, Buffy,” Angel said. He sunk both his hands into his pockets. “I need... I need to know that there’s a place for me in your life. That there can be something for us beyond the epic struggle. Please, say that we can have something.”
Buffy winced. “I... can’t,” she said.
“Why not?” Angel seized her arms. He pulled her tightly to him. “Tell me why.”
Buffy felt herself slipping into the force of his embrace. It was an involuntary motion, like a comet drawn into a black hole. She fought back, but he held her still.
“You have a monster inside you, Angel. Something within that hates me enough to kill me,” Buffy whispered. “Hatred is what we have, and it will destroy us both. When I kissed you, it felt like the world was ending.”
“Save me,” he said. She felt the cold firmness of his mouth brush against her lips.
Buffy pulled away. “I’m trying,” she said. “Come with me. Leave this place. Maybe Willow can...”
“Not her,” Angel said, voice etched with bitterness. “It’s you, Buffy.”
“It can’t be me,” Buffy said. “Please. Angel.”
Angel encircled her once more, dragging her in with his terrible gravity. She sagged against the strength of his arms.
“Please... don’t,” she said.
Angel opened his eyes. He released her. He stared into her face for a long, long time.
“Go,” he said, turning aside to let her leave.
Buffy felt a catch unclasp within her heart at the utterance of that one syllable.
She left Angel behind in his stately castle. Buffy felt at first a numb devastation – a winter’s grieving for summer days lost. But with every step that brought her nearer to home, she felt a dawning sureness. Soon, she was running with the bracing wind combing tangles into her hair. Buffy knew, and understood: Her strength had returned.
~*~
William hammered on the pansy purple front door of a High Street brownstone. After a few moments of door abuse, he heard the flat’s lone inhabitant complaining to himself in an absurd and slightly slurred fake Jewish accent.
“A klog is mir,” he said, twisting a series of deadbolts and unlatching locks. “Hold the cannoli. Any schmendrik out this late needs a few extra lochs in the kup.”
The unsliding of bolts ceased, followed by a prolonged silence. Presumably caused when the tenant finally took a peek through the peeper.
William tapped his boot on the sidewalk.
At last, the door swung inward.
Lorne, properly swizzled, toasted William with his fishbowl martini glass.
“I was wondering when you’d pop by,” Lorne said, sanguine lips uncharacteristically unsmiling.
William plowed past Lorne into the Austin Powers Shag Palace. Chartreuse and aquamarine carpet. Plasma screen TV the size of a helicopter pad. Fuzzy red couch upholstered in what looked like Muppet skin. And of course, black lights and neon-glow lava lamps. It was a like a Lorne suit had been dissolved in LSD then sprayed onto the walls. William had to admit it was hard to stay nervous in Elmo’s World.
“Guess you’re relishing the whole ‘not needing an invite’ these days,” Lorne said. He swirled the octane blue liquid in his glass. “Drink?”
“Piss it,” William said, shrugging. “Why the hell not?”
Lorne slunk into the kitchen. Through the cut-away bar, he called back, “Shaken. Stirred. What’s your modus operandi?”
“I’m a straight up sort these days,” William said.
“Nyeh,” Lorne answered. He poured four fingers of Jack Daniel’s into a magenta tumbler, then mixed himself another Margarita.
“I had reservations about coming here, after seeing you at Triumvirate,” William admitted.
“Figured as much,” Lorne said, forcing a lilt of lightness into his voice. “Not a card carrier of the club myself, but I am safe there.”
“Yeah? How’s that?” William asked. He ambled over to Lorne’s aquarium. It was appropriately stocked with clown fish.
“Nighna owes me a plethora of favors. And it’s never a good plan to be on the bad side of a Kimaris demon. It’s like the old saying goes, No one can out Kimaris a Kimaris, except a Kimaris.”
William stared blankly into the kitchen. Lorne, feeling the tension of a failed joke around his neck, kept up with the merry drink making.
“You know why I’m here,” William said, raising his voice a notch over the noise of the blender.
Lorne poured his drink, giving himself time, giving Spike time. Before leaving the kitchen, he closed his eyes and whispered a pseudo-prayer Tao de Ching meditation. It didn’t pack the spiritual punch of tequila, so he downed half his drink before heading back in.
“I do know why you’re here,” Lorne said. He passed the whiskey to William.
“I need to know what you saw, when I sang for you,” William said. He turned the glass absently in his fingers. “I need to know if she’s okay. In the end.”
Lorne pressed his mouth into a thin, red line. “You might want to finish that,” Lorne said, inclining his head toward the drink.
“Won’t matter if I do,” William said. But he drained the glass, wincing at the initial fire. “So.”
“So,” Lorne echoed. “Look, Spike, my empathic hoodoo is by no means infallible...”
“Let’s not mince. You saw something. I want to know,” William said.
Lorne shrugged. He took another sip. “It’s Angel,” he said. “He’s going to betray you.”
William had braced himself, but he eased up a bit. “Not exactly a monumental surprise there,” he said.
“That’s not the worst of the tsibiles and sausage,” Lorne said. “When it happens. When he does it. You have to let him.”
“Come again?” William said, deliberately obtuse.
“It’s the only way the others will know,” Lorne said. “They only way Buffy will know that...”
“That Angel’s not playing for our side,” William said. William chuckled. He stalked across the room, pacing a tight circle like a caged cat. “So, what then? I’m to wait around for Angel to act and when he does, make sure I present a target?”
“That’s the can of kidney beans,” Lorne said. He grimaced.
“Just happens to be polar opposite of my fighting style,” William said. He came to a halt. “You would know that, of course.”
Lorne kept a steady eye. “I hear what you’re saying, Spike,” he said, sounding forlorn. “But I’m not in this with Angel. I’m beholden to none since our last outing included me killing Lindsay.”
William was dumbstruck. “You did that?” he asked, feeling a sudden shift in his appraisal of Lorne.
“Pulled a gun. Pulled the trigger. So I’m out,” Lorne said. “Wicca Red’s the one who brought me back into the fold. I didn’t want to hear your soulful rendition of Buckley’s Hallelujah.”
“It’s Leonard Cohen,” William declared.
“Whatever,” Lorne said. “I heard you sing it. I got the full, techni-color picture complete with stereo-surround. Angel’s passed the point of no return. You’ll be in his way soon, if you aren’t already.”
“Well, fine,” William said. “I’m the Energizer Bunny these days. Obviously without the floppy ears and fluffy tail, but principally unkillable.”
“He finds a way,” Lorne deadpanned.
William crossed to the Muppet skin sofa. He dropped to it, heavily, all the strength leeched from his legs. He bent forward, covering his head with his arms.
Lorne hesitated, not sure what to say or do. Finally, he said, “Hey, Big Guy. Let me get you another drink.”
“Won’t help,” William said, his voice hoarse and nasally. “Part of the deluxe ‘holy vessel’ package. Imbibing spirits produces no effect.”
William raised his head. Lorne came over to sit beside him.
“I bloody well don’t know which is worse,” William said. He sighed. “Being forever on the outside meant I never knew what I was missing. But I had a clue – the barest shred – I knew it was beyond me. Forever beyond.”
William shook his head. He grew very still and contemplative. It was a side of Spike that Fred had witnessed, but one Lorne had never seen. Kinda made him ansty-dancy. “Now I’m in it. Part of something larger, you know? I have it within my grasp, what I know I have always wanted. It’s worse knowing I don’t get to see it through. It’s the perfect irony. The fitting end. It’s what I deserve, of course. After all I’ve done.”
William clenched his eyes shut. He sprung from the couch. “No. I have more than I’ve deserved,” he said. Pacing again, limbs trembling, he went on. “If this last bit's been some Jacob’s Ladder epilogue to my life, so be it. It’s worth it. It’s worth it for her and for...”
He halted, then whirled. Lorne watched him with a look of sad-clown sympathy.
“How much did you see?” William said, alarmed.
“It’s safe with me,” Lorne said. “That secret you’re keeping. You’re right to keep it. Lock it up. Build a fortress. Dig a mote. Hell, hire dragons. But keep it secret.”
“It’s important,” William realized.
“Right-o, muchacho,” Lorne said. He swilled the last of his margarita. “Big picture important.”
William felt a growing, deepening mournful ache in his chest. It was the kind of pain he used to assuage with hard liquor and bloodshed. At least he still had the patrol to look forward to. Plenty of vampires in need of solid thrashing.
It wasn’t enough.
Lorne extracted himself from the sofa. It seemed to take him a long time to do so. He raised his glass to William and said, “To life.”
“Drink to that,” William agreed.
Lorne clinked the edge of the martini bowl to William’s tumbler. When he did, William peered into both glasses. They were empty. He never put much weight in bad omens, but drinking to life from an empty cup felt like the worst kind of luck.
~*~
Maya watched as Xander made up the sofa bed in the seldom used front parlor with mix-matched sheets from the linen closet.
“You really don’t have to do that,” she insisted. “I can easily sleep on the couch myself. I’m a compact. Travel-sized for convenience.”
“Wouldn’t have it,” Xander said, trying and failing at the hospital corner tuckage. “You are the guest, and the guest gets the bed. Just like the Farmer in the Dell takes the wife and the cheese stands alone. It’s part of an ancient custom with which we never argue. Goes hand-in-hand with the tradition of guest towels and special glycerin soaps for company.”
“You have soap you can see through?” Maya chirped. “I love those.”
Xander grinned. He billowed the top sheet, letting it flutter over the bed.
“There,” he said, “I’m all set for a fold-a-bed night’s sleep. It’ll seem like camping.”
“You can pretend the lumps are tree roots,” Maya offered.
“No,” Xander said, waving his hand dismissively. “No lumps. Don’t be silly.”
Maya edged onto the sofa’s cool Naugahyde arm.
“So this house is really big,” she said. “And you all really do live here.”
“Yes, and yes. It used to be a convalescent home,” Xander told her. “Before that, it was some well-to-do family’s London address. And before that, big field full of sheep.”
Maya laughed. It was a tinkling sound, like ice in a glass of sweet tea. “Don’t you love it when places have layers of stories in it? Like, think about peeling back the corner of the wallpaper in a place like this. What’s underneath? And what’s under that?”
She was gripping the edge of the braided rug with her big toe as she spoke. The action, combined with the downy sway in her voice, drove him to the other side of distraction.
“I come from a place with six miles of topsoil,” she told him. “Six miles straight down, nothing but layered sediment. Geologist’s dream come true. I was wondering - could I use your phone?”
“Phone,” Xander said. He watched her petite ankle pivot to the side. “You have tiny little feet,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Maya said.
“Phone,” Xander said again, realizing with embarrassment that she had intended her words to convey actual meaning. “Of course. Maya, you don’t even need to ask.”
She edged from the sofa, wringing her hands. “It’s just. Overseas calls. I didn’t want to presume.”
Halfway across the room, she paused. “I daydreamed this moment a thousand times in my head,” she mused, softly.
“This moment here?” Xander said, confused.
“Calling my Mom. Hearing her voice. It was five years in July. Do you think they have the same phone number?” Maya asked.
“Well, yeah. If they knew you were missing, they wouldn’t change it just in case you had a chance to send them a message,” Xander said.
“They didn’t know I was missing,” Maya said. “I sent an email a day with a full status quo report of my fabulous life with Freddie. Only it wasn’t me. It was him. So, they have no idea. What if my Mom has forgotten my voice?”
“She wouldn’t,” Dawn said, from the doorway. She held bundles of folded clothes in her arms.
Xander started. “Hey, Dawnie! Way to scare a guy skinless,” he said.
Maya didn’t want to come across as too needy, but she felt herself blinking back tears. She said, “You think she’ll know who I am if I call, right?”
“Moms don’t forget,” Dawn said. “All the little kids at Pizza Palace, you know? There can be a hundred Moms bumping around with a hundred kids, but they always know if it’s their kid who’s skinned a knee or gotten lost in the ball pen. She’ll know you, Maya.”
Maya looked reassured. “What time is it in Houston, anyway?”
Xander did the mental calculation. “It’s like 4 p.m.-ish ’round about Texas way,” he said.
“Perfect,” Maya said. She did a little stompy-foot jig reminiscent of the Snoopy dance. Xander thought he might fall over. “Where’s the phone?” she asked.
Xander grinned. “In the hall near the kitchen,” he said. As she capered from the room, he said, “Dial direct.”
When she was gone, Dawn pressed the stack of clothes onto him. “These are Buffy’s. She’s about Maya size,” Dawn said. “Have you heard from Andrew?”
Xander scratched his ear. “He’s upstairs, isn’t he?”
“What? No, he can’t be,” she said. “I mean, he would have said something to someone. Checked in with one of us?”
Xander shrugged. “I don’t know, Dawnie. I think I heard him banging around upstairs earlier. What’s up?”
Frustrated, Dawn tugged down the hem of her hoodie. “I need the Damas journal. Willow and I have gone through all the lines of text around the Circle twice each. We have to find the key to decode it. I think it might be in that book. And I think he has it.”
At that moment, a muffled crash thunked on the floor directly above them. Andrew’s bedroom.
“I don’t believe it,” Dawn said, eyes slitting like a cat’s. “He is home. I am so gonna thrash him.” she said. She stalked from the room, fists clenched on her hips.
Xander watched her pound upstairs, smiling to himself. He was glad he wasn’t on the business end of that wrath.
~*~
Dawn burst through Andrew’s door without knocking.
“All right. Where’s the Damas journal? Please do not say Giles has it...” she said. Then tread on something lumpy on the floor.
Andrew was sprawled on the carpet with an empty bottle under his arm, incessantly humming the main theme to “The A Team.” She nearly tripped over his body.
“What?” she exclaimed. “Andrew?”
He scrambled wildly to crouch behind his twin bed. “You are not supposed to be here,” he slurred. “I’m not hiding. I’m just... hiding. Please don’t turn me into a lamp.”
Dawn stepped forward. “You’re drunk,” she said, incredulous.
“No I’m not,” Andrew said, miserably. “I’m not drunk. It’s the alcohol talking.”
Dawn rounded the bed. Seeing him kneeling all mouse-like and terrified sort of bled the anger right out of her.
“Come on,” she said. “Get up.” She took the bottle from him. Sniffed it. Gagged.
“I got it from Giles’ office,” Andrew explained. “It was in a locking cabinet. I have a key. I have a key.” He wheezed a drawn-out, buzzing laugh.
“Wonderful, Andrew. Drunk on stolen booze. Really, way to go,” she said. “Get up.”
“I don’t wanna,” he said. “Up and me, not in agreement.”
Dawn got under his shoulder and hefted him. He drooled like a salted slug.
“What are you doing?” he whimpered.
“Intervening.”
Andrew dragged his feet. “No. I need this,” he said.
“Why?” Dawn asked. She was stronger than he was, but the alcohol had given him a kind of slipperiness that made him difficult to hang on to.
“Character development,” he said.
“Oh, shut up,” Dawn said. She dragged him into the bathroom. She smelled the sharp bleach scent of his shower curtain, which he washed faithfully every Tuesday, his self-declared whites day. She turned on the cold water of the en suite shower. Andrew began to flop about like a catfish caught on a trot line.
“Stop it,” Dawn shouted.
She gripped his wrist and shoved him fully clad into the icy spray.
Andrew wailed. He flapped and clawed. He tried to bite. She slapped him, knocking his glasses askew. He attempted to right them, slipped and fell, dragging her in with him.
“Damn it,” Dawn said. The ice water felt like stinging nettles on her face.
Andrew leaned against the tile wall.
“No fair,” he said.
“No fair? We don’t have time for shower frolic,” Dawn said. She shut off the showerhead, then got to her soggy feet. She held out a hand to help Andrew up. Clearly, he couldn’t make it on his own.
But Andrew remained stubbornly on the tile floor. “Everyone else has had their various addictions,” he sulked. “You’re nipping my budding alcoholism before it can shrub out.”
“That’s what friends are supposed to do,” she said. She waved her hand in his face. “Road block you before you do something stupid.”
“Too late,” Andrew admitted.
“What do you mean?” Dawn said. She eyed him suspiciously. “What did you do?”
Andrew tucked his chin to his chest. “Why am I so... the way I am?” he moaned.
Dawn shrugged. “You’re Andrew. Now get up,” she said.
He lingered a few seconds more, drunkenly considering.
“The Damas book,” Dawn said again, putting more force behind it. “We need it. And we need you. Whatever this is about, it can wait.”
“It... can’t,” he sobbed.
“Get up,” Dawn said. Losing her temper now.
Andrew reluctantly put his hands in hers. She heaved him to his bare feet. He swayed, crutching against her for balance.
“Better?” she asked.
Andrew smacked his lips. “I think...” he said.
“Good,” Dawn said. “The book. Do you have it? If so, where?”
His eyes rolled back. He tumbled forward. Dawn steadied him, but it was a close call. An inch either way, they might have had a reenactment of Hitchcock’s blood-down-the-drain scene from Psycho.
“Right. Okay. To bed you go,” Dawn said.
Dawn dragged Andrew’s limp body to the bed and slung him into it. She was going to leave him there to sour like day-old laundry, but took pity. She peeled his ripe smelling turtleneck over his head. When she did, she spied the curious mark on his wrist.
Dawn twisted Andrew’s wrist, examining the mark. She tried to smear the ink just as he had done earlier. It was more than a mere drawing; it was a demon’s brand. Not just any demon, she knew.
Dawn recognized the symbol from her research. It was Kimaris.
“Oh God,” Dawn breathed. “What did you do?”
~*~
Just seeing Angel felt like a betrayal.
Buffy sneaked into the Flat, hoping to skirt possible unsettling questions from the others. To her relief, the place seemed quiet. Everyone was otherwise occupied, doing productive things.
Not as though she hadn’t done her fair share of those, Buffy thought. Then laughed at herself. Productive. Funny as in 'Ha, ha. So not funny,’ she thought.
Upstairs, Buffy slowly stripped off her clothes. She ran the shower as hot as she could stand it, then sat on the tub’s edge, the steam building around her like banks of fog. She breathed it in, feeling the warmth of it spread across her skin.
She eased into the tub, letting the water drum down on her. Sitting with the shower running was a comfort thing, something her Mom let her do when she had a fever or a case of the blue weepies.
The water raining over her had a way of coaxing out her most stubbornly oppressed feelings, where she could confront them in a safe and comfortable setting.
The most resounding emotion was guilt. Not just at taking the risk to see Angel, but at the fact that William seemed more conscientious of certain facts than she did. It shamed her to realize that he understood it all better than she did.
Buffy could not look at that part of her body. She hadn’t in days, not since the little magic wand pronounced them prospective parents. Certain words lodged in her throat when she tried to whisper them to herself. Words like child, womb, conceive, mother.
Buffy combed her fingers through her hair. Water coursed down her face in a mimicry of tears. She had become huddled and impermeable again. Keeping them out. Hiding. Retreating. It was not her way, but...
What she said to him earlier reverberated in her mind. She had not thought that far ahead. In fact, she had refused to. Why want what’s impossible?
The answer swam up to her: It’s what humans do. Humans always wish for impossible things.
And with that, another truth broke in her like the last levee holding back the flood. Something inside her was not hers alone. Part of it – the child – belonged to him.
It was real. She had told Angel as much. What she had with William was real, and solid. He would stay, and they would hang on to hope with all they had.
With that epiphany came the real waterworks. Buffy hugged her knees to her chest and let it all wash over her.
~*~
Kennedy stretched her thigh muscles for a ten-count. She jogged in place, swinging her arms, puffing out her breath in what Willow called her Rocky warm-up. She had slept five hours. Plenty of re-coup time for her, fit as she was. Anticipation of the night’s raiding party had her hard-wired.
She and the girls planned to take down the last big vampire nest on the north side of town. These weren’t the average street-thug prowlers, either. They were London elite – vampire aristocracy. Angel had arranged the whole thing.
Since that first fight with Angel, she and the Slayers had been sweeping the city, clearing cemeteries, warehouses, abandoned buildings. She and Angel shared the same vision: dust them all and let Hell sort them out. London was on its way to being vamp-free well ahead of her projected schedule.
Kennedy smiled to herself. She rolled her shoulders. Loosened neck muscles. Threw a few right-hooks. Still shadowboxing, she turned to find Willow watching her.
“Yo, Adrian,” Kennedy said, faking a bad Sly accent.
Willow’s face was like stone.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Kennedy said, arching her brow. “So don’t say it, okay?”
“You need to leave,” Willow said.
“You’re asking me to leave?” Kennedy balked.
“No, I’m telling you.” Willow remained stoic and poised. “I’ll get my things from the Westbury house this week, but you need to go.”
Kennedy’s face blazed. “Because of Buffy,” she said. “You want me to go because I said some rough things to your friend and she couldn’t take it.”
Willow’s body seemed to hum with rage. “She shouldn’t have to. We’re on the same side, Kennedy. The saying goes ‘divided we fall.’ Get it?”
“I get it,” Kennedy said. She stepped up to Willow, standing toe to toe, their noses almost touching.
Willow refused to budge. She could feel Kennedy’s warm breath on her lips. “You’re choosing her over me,” Kennedy said.
“I am,” Willow said.
“Fine,” Kennedy said, backing off. She raised her hands. Willow read the hurt in Kennedy’s eyes despite her best efforts to hide it. “That’s fine. I’ll go.”
At the door, Kennedy turned back. “But I’m not leaving the girls,” she said. “They need a leader. They follow me. And if Buffy doesn’t like it, she and I can sort it out over a few rounds. You can tell her that.”
Willow said nothing. She kept her mind and body calm by mentally reciting her meditations. Otherwise, she would have rattled apart like an old jalopy on a country road.
Kennedy hesitated in the doorway. “You were better in Rio,” she said, in the sullen tone of a child who hadn’t gotten everything she wanted for her birthday.
“Yeah?” Willow said. “You were better in Sunnydale.”
Kennedy stalked from the room. Willow waited until she heard the front door slam before she let herself relax.
She felt guilty, but not for throwing her out. Kennedy was gone, and all Willow felt was relief.
~*~
Luxe kept a sparse existence since he attached himself to Wolfram & Hart. His single occupancy room at the Park International Hotel on Cromwell contained his one travel-worn suitcase, a laptop computer and a cage that housed a cantankerous redwing blackbird named Francis. The room’s furnishings boasted a TV-set mounted to the dresser and faux watercolors by an artist named Lennox.
He had just showered and committed himself to a night of debauched television viewing, when he heard tapping on the door.
He knew who it was.
Luxe got up from the bed. He crossed to the door and opened it without checking the viewer.
Nighna swept in wearing red with a matching smug grin on her dark lips.
“Guess what I just found out,” she said, her voice smooth as chocolate mousse.
Luxe grinned. He returned to his spot on the bed and resumed his recline. “I don’t know, Nighna. Entertain me.”
“The Slayers know about the Circle,” Nighna said. She beamed.
Luxe laced his fingers behind his head. “I already know that,” he told her.
Nighna simmered. “Ah,” she said. “They know about it. But they have no idea what it does.”
Luxe shrugged. “That’s inconsequential, Nighna.”
She edged onto the dresser, blocking his view of the 9 o’clock news report, which he had been watching on mute.
“I have a mind to take what I know about the Circle to the Slayers,” Nighna said. “What kind of edge do you think they would have then, if they knew?”
Luxe waved a hand, cutting his eyes to her in a way that suggested that she was bluffing in the most ludicrous fashion. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “What could you possibly gain?”
Nighna crossed her legs at the ankles. “Nothing from them,” she said. “Something from you.”
Luxe raised up on his elbows, arching his brows. “You snared the boy, didn’t you? Your little wannabe Watcher.”
“Yes,” Nighna said. “He fell for the same tricks that bested you in Venice.”
Luxe lay back down. “I pray for his soul,” he muttered.
“Speaking of,” Nighna said. She slid from the dresser and straddled him in one Olympic gymnast moment.
Surprised though he was, Luxe kept his frigid French exterior. “You are using the Circle as a bargaining chip? Pretty pathetic, Nighna. What side are you on tonight?”
“Fine talk from you, Mr. Hedging All Bets,” Nighna said. She tightened the muscles in her thighs around his hips. “You’re playing both sides.”
“No,” Luxe said, catching her wrists. “You want a return of the Demon Age. I say our kind has squandered their time here squabbling amongst their clans, and for what? They lack foresight, my love. Just as you do.”
Nighna bent her forehead to meet his. She kissed the ridge of his brow. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” she said.
A second later, the window blew in with a deafening crash. Glass rained down like splintery confetti. Nighna and Luxe had zero reaction time before the rush of black taffeta swirled into the room. Francis was an explosion of feathers inside the confines of his cage. Nighna raised her eyes. The girl at the center of the gothic-dress-gone-bad turned her inky eyes to them. She tossed a man, whom she had been lugging like a sack of old clothes, into the corner.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.
Nighna swung her legs over Luxe’s prone body. “Oh, look sweetheart,” she said, drawing herself to full height. “It’s the Wicked Witch of the West. Too dramatic to use the stairs?”
The Priestess flicked her snarled black hair over her shoulders. “You must be the ex. I’ve heard so very little about you.”
Nighna took a step forward. “Is that what he told you we are? Ex-es?” she looked back over her shoulder at Luxe and licked her lips. “Naughty darling. It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Nighna returned her attention to The Priestess, obviously taking great pleasure in the moment. “May I say a word about the veins: Disgusting. All this supposed power, yet you can’t control what it’s done to your complexion.”
Sparks of static crackled at The Priestess’s fingertips. Nighna cocked her head to the side.
The disheveled man in the corner stirred. His body seemed to unroll like a sleeping bag.
Luxe sat up. “Who is this man, mon choux?” he asked.
“None other than Rupert Giles,” The Priestess said. She glanced quickly from Nighna to Giles, then back again.
Luxe snapped, “You were supposed to...”
“I know it,” The Priestess growled. “Witch Bitch cast a protection spell.”
Nighna giggled.
“I can unwrite it,” The Priestess said. “Until then I’ll keep him drained and unconscious.”
“Hmmm,” Nighna said. “And how will that fit in with Thellian’s plan?”
“She knows of Thellian’s plans?” The Priestess asked. Nighna thought she saw the dark wisp of a forked tongue lick out over her lips. Unattractive.
Luxe stepped around Nighna to get in between them. “She knows nothing,” he said, quietly. If he hoped Nighna would stand silently by and let him talk to this flashy yet insecure new plaything, he should have known better.
“I know more than you wish,” Nighna purred. She looked deliberately from Luxe to the blackbird, and then squarely into the obsidian pools of The Priestess’s eyes. “I could share such secrets, little cabbage. I could show you how to bring this man to his knees. I’m part of this. However it ends. Welcome to our little corner of Hell, Priestess.”
~*~
Andrew sat up abruptly, then wished he had not. Pain stabbed between his eyes. The same pain seemed connected to his stomach in a way that made him feel as though he had swallowed a gallon of liquid detergent.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m gonna be sick,” he moaned.
“Don’t you dare,” Dawn said. She grabbed his trash bin, just in case.
He was sick. Surprisingly, Dawn didn’t flee to the next room. Instead, she passed a damp cloth to him.
“Want some water?” she asked.
He dabbed his mouth. “No,” he said, weakly. He set the bin aside.
“You need water. I just read online that the headache you get from over-indulgence in alcohol is caused by dehydration,” Dawn said. “You should have water. I could go get it...”
“I slept with Nighna,” Andrew said. His stomach hemmed and hawed. The look on Dawn’s face only made it worse.
“What? How?”
“I conjured her,” he said. He swallowed. His throat felt like powdered cheese.
“Why? Why would you do that?” When he didn’t answer, Dawn decided to prod him, “Andrew,” she said. “What happened?”
“She tortured me,” Andrew said.
Dawn shook her head. “Oh...” she said.
“I see stuff in flashes,” Andrew said. “I think she made me watch Seventh Heaven.”
Dawn took Andrew by his bare shoulders and gave him a rough shake. “What did you tell her?”
“I think I could use that water now,” Andrew whined, pitiably.
Dawn backed away from him. “Does she know about the Circle?
“I think she already knew,” Andrew said. He couldn’t look at Dawn.
Dawn shook him again. He felt the acid in his stomach begin to stage a second revolt.
“What do you mean, you think?” she yelled at him.
“Please stop with the shaking,” Andrew said. “I’m like Han Solo waking up from carbonite. Everything’s too bright and all damp. And I’m gonna be sick again.”
Dawn shoved him back. “Fine. Be sick. How could you do this? And you better not say it’s about that stupid wristwatch or I, myself, will personally kick your ass before I tell Buffy what you’ve done.”
Andrew took the Scooby watch from his pocket. Dawn slapped his face so hard he toppled from the end of his bed. The watch jangled across the floor. Andrew sprung back up, suddenly very sober.
“Hey, that really hurt,” Andrew said. He pressed his fingers to the already-raised Dawn fingerprints on his face.
“What does the mark mean?” Dawn said through her teeth.
“I don’t know,” Andrew said. Tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
She clamped her hand over his wrist. He responded by kissing her hard on the mouth.
Dawn reeled back, astonished. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “No,” she said, voice trembling. “No, Andrew. Why did you do that? Never do that.”
Andrew hovered in a state of shock. He put his hands on the top of his head like a surrendering fugitive.
“God, Dawn. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m... sorry.”
Dawn retreated backward until she bumped against the door. She felt behind her to work the knob, then let herself out. She ran down the hall, slamming the door to her suite behind her. A wave of strange shaky queasiness washed over her. Dawn went to Buffy’s door, but heard the shower running.
What did she plan to say, anyway? Hey Buffy, we’ve got all this important end of the world stuff going on, but Andrew just kissed me and now things are really weird.
Dawn went into her room. She sat on her bed. Oh yeah. Things were really weird now.
~*~
Kennedy positioned the girls around the warehouse at various points of entry. They were on the leeward side of docktown not commonly associated with the upper crust of anything. Tonight was special, though. Tonight, a cadre of walking cadavers held a small celebration inside. Through the milky windows, Kennedy could see paper lanterns and tables trimmed with... she was pretty sure they were human pieces.
She signaled to Renee, letting her know that she was in position. Renee in turn passed the cue down to Carmen, then Jessica, Gwen, and Althea. Renee returned a thumbs-up sign, indicating they were all in place. Kennedy felt an excitement akin to arousal. There were roughly 30 supervamps inside. Five to one. She liked those odds.
Kennedy was ready. She leapt to her feet. The girls followed. On three, she signaled, holding up her fingers. One... two... three...
Kennedy kicked in the door. The others crashed in around the building, scattering glass and shreds of corrugated tin.
Both groups, Slayers and vampires, took a long, astounded moment’s pause. It gave Kennedy a handful of seconds to scan the room.
It was an art exhibition. Not the typical oil-on-canvas or even mixed media kind one found in civilized society. Here, the art was people – living humans grotesquely arranged in various states of torture and dismemberment. The table settings she had glimpsed were the appendages removed from the art objects scattered about the room. It reeked of rotting flesh and coagulating blood. The people, the “artwork” dangled from hooks and stakes, writhing limply and whimpering for mercy.
Angel had said nothing about this. The girls had had their share of stakeouts, but they were not prepared for what they witnessed. Gwen’s knees buckled. Several of the vampire patrons smiled. Kennedy wasted no time. She kicked the nearest vamp in the head.
The fight felt like a speed blur. It was all body parts, some dust, then more body parts. Just when it was getting kickin’, the six Slayers found themselves back to back in a circle facing the remaining eighteen vampires. And the vampires suddenly sported Tasers.
Kennedy scraped a tendril of sweaty hair from her eyes. “What is this?” she said.
One of the tuxedoed vampires stepped forward from the circle. He raised a white-gloved hand. Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors parted behind him, grating with a shrill, ear-bleeding keen. Three silhouetted figures stepped through, lighted from behind by very dramatic spotlights.
The doors groaned closed again, cutting off the light. This allowed the Slayers a clear view of a polished looking blond man flanked by two girls in party clothes.
The girl in gold held Kennedy transfixed. The gossamer folds of her dress revealed every perfect curve of her adolescent body. An ocean of auburn curls cascaded to her waist, seeming to diffuse the light around her. She laced her arm around the man’s elbow.
“Darling,” she said, her voice like caramel. “It’s been so long since we attended a good massacre.”
“Kennedy,” Renee whispered. “Who are they?”
Kennedy held her breath. The man walked forward, passing between two of the hideous exhibits. The smaller girl danced beneath pieces, her slipper feet rasping in the dust.
“It’s Thellian,” Kennedy said.
Thellian grinned. “Angel said you were a quick one,” he said.
Kennedy spat on the ground at the vampire’s feet.
Thellian clicked his tongue, disapproving. He smoothed a gloved finger over Lalaine’s hand and she released his arm.
“None of that, now,” Thellian said, walking closer, breaking through the circle of Taser-wielding vampires. He came to rest in front of Kennedy. “You’re setting a poor example for your girls. I’m surprised, though,” he said. He glanced at the others. “The real leader is missing.”
“I’m in charge,” Kennedy said. She sounded less than confident.
Thellian tapped Kennedy’s chest with the silver tip of his posh, decorative cane. “You’re doing a bang up job, dear. I see you see things clearly.”
“It’s an ambush,” Kennedy said. She swung at Thellian. He caught her fist.
“No one has dared hit me for a thousand years,” he said. He closed his hand around hers, listening to the bones snap like dry kindling. Kennedy ground her teeth to remain standing.
“Morna,” Thellian called. The smaller girl swanned in, arms outstretched, pretending to fly. “Choose one,” he told her.
The girl wove among them, circling, chanting in a throaty, inhuman voice, “duck, duck, duck.”
“You think we aren’t gonna fight?” Kennedy said, adding force to her voice. “Think we aren’t gonna take you down like the punk you are?”
Thellian shrugged, disinterested. He turned his back and joined the girl in gold.
Kennedy attacked the tuxedo vamp, leading with her off hand. He and two others casually zapped her with their Tasers. Carmen flung her last remaining stake at the vampire. It bounced off his back like a Lincoln Log.
Morna, circling, weaving, in and out of the Slayers’ circle, finally placed her hands on Althea’s shoulders. She cringed at the Morna’s touch, but remained perfectly still.
“There’s the goose,” Lalaine said. “Well done, Morna, my darling little dove.”
Thellian spun around like Fred Astaire. He pointed at the Slayers with his cane. “Take them apart,” he said.
Kennedy heard the rustling crack of the eighteen stun guns building up a charge. She heard the fight, but could only see the blurred struggling. The last thing she remembered was Althea’s headless body crashing to the ground beside her.
~*~
Angel lapped up the darkness. There were shadows aplenty in his garden patch, and he indulged himself in a good wallow. He held the key, turning and turning and turning it in his hand.
So his conversation had not gone exactly as planned. Buffy had not been the savior he sought. Angel had managed to spare her from Thellian’s party. That bought him some self-satisfaction.
Yet he felt empty. He was a hollowed out husk. He was a lonely, static buffoon. His progeny was more adaptable than he was, and that bit Angel where it hurt.
That place was the mark on his chest, the ever-present reminder of his netherworldly obligations. The brand itched and burned pretty much constantly these days. It was only going to get worse, and Angel didn’t think he could hang on much longer.
Angel turned the key. Despite its rugged, gnarly appearance, it refracted the light in mesmerizing ways. The weight of it, so familiar, seemed to comfort him. Angel fathomed in an epiphany flash that it was not a hunk of clunky earth as he had thought. It was primal. It was part of the earth. Volcanic stone forged...
Angel stood quickly. He shifted the weight of the key from his palm to his fingers. He possessed another item forged from the same stone – the D’Ganti Blade. Without knowing how he knew, Angel concluded that the Blade had once been held in a vault beneath the city. The pathways and tunnels to the vault collated in his brain. He knew exactly where he needed to go.
Something in that vault belonged to him. Something that would make all the difference in the world.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
***Additional Warning: This chapter contains some brutal content. It's also the longest chapter in the story. ***