[Reviews - 65]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 1409 times

- Text Size +




Author's Chapter Notes:
Nod to Mr. Bosch, who lent me his special ed. classroom this year.
In fourth grade, Willow’s earth sciences teacher, Mr. Bosch, handed out sheets of black poster board to the class. The assignment had been to draw the galaxy. Which Willow did with her customary tenacity, using swirls of silver glitter to represent 100 cagillion stars.

Then Willow looked around at the work of her classmates. To her astonished horror, every one of them had the scale all wrong. They crafted the swinging arms of the Milky Way in glitter just as she had, but added dollops of yellow paint for the sun. To add to the travesty, most of them placed a circle of blue and green to stand for the earth, but put it on the opposite side of the galaxy from their blobby sun.

Willow had been aghast. She went around the classroom, pointing out the error to her classmates, which earned her even more ridicule. They already considered her the biggest McSmarty Pants in Sunnydale Elementary School.

Willow finally implored to her teacher.

“Tell them they’re wrong,” she begged. On her galaxy model, she pointed to a fleck of gold almost lost amid the silvery ones. “This is our sun,” she told him. “And the earth, you can’t even see. That’s how big the galaxy is. That’s how small we are.”

Mr. Bosch looped his arm around her shoulder and gave her arm a firm squeeze. It was the only consolation he could supply. It was a gesture that said, I’m sorry you’re the only student in the school system that understands the concept of insignificance. You’re the only one who gets it. Everyone else is lost.

She remembered how it felt, that sudden draining rush of understanding. She felt the whole vortex of stars jostling around her in its mad dash to the enigmatic center, like water rushing down billions of gutters into one massive drain.

Willow crouched on the floor in the entry hall, feeling that same cyclone rush as she quietly swept up bits of variegated mosaic glass from the hand-made vase she and Kennedy had bought at the Edinburgh Arts Festival. Dawn’s explanation of Thellian’s plan rang in her ears. It made her feel the smallness of earth and its mobile of a solar system all over again. The insignificance of one tiny human being amid billions...

“Here. Let me,” Dawn said. She knelt beside Willow. She began to sort the shards of colorful glass from the plain clear glass of the windows.

“No, Dawn,” Willow said. “I got it. Really.”

Dawn paid no heed to Willow’s words. She continued to pick through the ruined glass.

Connor came from the basement with the broom and dustpan. When he saw the delicate nature of the work, however, he abandoned both and joined the girls on debris detail.

After a moment’s silence, he asked, “Are we searching for anything in particular? Contact lens, perhaps?”

Willow bounced the irregular shapes of glass in her palm. Her face bore an absent expression that had Dawn concerned. Willow said, “Kennedy found this at an antiques booth. It was exactly the kind of thing I love and she hates. I’m all about the color. She prefers black and white... brushed aluminum. All those ultra-modern accoutrements you find at IKEA. Those were more Kennedy’s speed.”

“It’s possible Amy was lying,” Dawn soothed. “It may not be true. You know those vampires. Not always known for one hundred percent forthcoming-ness.”

Willow caressed the fragments with the index finger of her other hand. “It is true,” Willow said flatly. “I feel it. You know how you feel things sometimes? Like sometimes you can feel the pull of the earth, and it’s almost like a memory?”

Dawn raised her hand to brush Willow’s bangs from her face.

Willow lifted her tear-free eyes. “They are too strong, Dawnie,” she said. “They’re too strong. I don’t think we can win.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Dawn said. Connor felt the steel beneath the words. “Don’t even say it.”

“She’s the Priestess. And she’s a vampire. Did you notice the crushing wave of icky badness? Someone’s juiced her up on the high level black stuff, then gave her an endless power supply.”

“You’re more powerful by a way lot. And she didn’t beat us,” Dawn said. “See? We’re all still here.”

“So she didn’t beat us. Not yet,” Willow said. “But how long do you think we have?”

Andrew stepped in over the threshold, his tennis shoes crunching on broken glass.

“Abercrombie and Fitch,” Andrew whispered. “What happened here? What the hell happened?”

~*~

The apartment building was on the swanker side of the Thames, facing the London Eye and a broad panoramic of the city. It was the kind of renovated brownstone that business folk clamored for these days, and this one had an enormous lofty penthouse with picture windows large enough to screen movies.

Buffy followed Angel to the elevator in silence. A doorman greeted them. He was a vampire. Buffy marked him as they passed. She suspected that this building housed many of his kindred. She began to consider ways of torching it to cinders.

The elevator door slid closed with a soft hum. The back wall bore a brassy mirror in which only her reflection shone.

“This is where Thellian’s staying?” Buffy asked. “’Cause it’s ritzy digs for a vampire.”

Angel faced forward, watching red numbers tick by on the LED panel. He said, “Thellian’s not like any vampire you’ve ever encountered.”

“He’s a murderous fiend,” Buffy said. “That’s exactly like every vampire I’ve ever encountered.”

Angel looked down at her. If her words stung him, as she hoped they had, he made no show of it.

“It isn’t like that,” he said.

“Then how is it?” Buffy asked, pressing harder. “How is it, Angel?”

Angel kept up his impervious demeanor. It unnerved her how un-flinchable he could be, how utterly calm and distant. She wanted to yell at him, to hit him, to smack his head and scream, “What is wrong with you?”

But she held her breath. He was about to deliver Thellian, whether that was his intention or not. Angel was about to witness a two-thousand-year-old vamp bite the dust.

The elevator came to an almost imperceptible halt. The doors slid open, revealing an elegant marbled corridor. The floor was like a shining pool of onyx. Indirect lighting diffused the air in a high-dollar department store fashion. The hall terminated into a set of dense iron wood doors. To which Angel had a key.

Buffy walked along with him, coming suddenly face to face with the idea that he had set her up.

She said, “Thellian’s been here all along.”

“He left Italy when you did,” Angel said.

“How long have you known?” Buffy asked. Her legs threatened to turn to rubber bands, but a surge of bright anger kept them from buckling beneath her.

Angel shrugged. He pressed his lips into a firm white line. He put the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door.

“After you,” he said. His voice was lifeless, his eyes impenetrable.

Buffy stepped into the room. Angel closed the door behind her. She heard it lock with a distinct click.

~*~

Dawn got quickly to her feet.

“You?” she said, instantly boiling over with anger. “Where have you been?”

“Well, I...” Andrew said.

“Did it occur to you that we might need you here? Hello? Mass destruction?” Dawn seethed.

“I conjured Nighna again, please don’t hit me,” Andrew said, cringing.

Connor stood up beside Dawn. Willow remained dazedly gazing at pottery shards.

“How could you even go near her after what she did to you?” Dawn asked.

“You conjure demons?” Connor asked.

Andrew ignored Connor. He poured all of his focused attention to Dawn. He said, “I can explain. Actually that would take, like, a really long time. I’ll highlight the key points. See, Nighna is a Kimaris. They were the keepers of the Circle before the Celtic Druids overtook it some time around the birth of Christ, give or take a century. She told me the Kimaris want the Circle back. If they can reverse the Druidic mojo, they’ll be Queens of the Demon Age. She also said there was this weapon. It’s a ceremonial dagger...”

“The D’Ganti Blade?” Connor asked.

Andrew sneered. He cast a suspicious eye in Connor’s direction. “How do you...?”

“Angel has it,” Willow said. She wheeled slowly on Connor, like a coma patient waking up from a dreary sleep. “Your postcard...”

“I sent that weeks ago,” Connor said urgently.

“Kennedy!” Willow said miserably. “She set it up at our house in Westbury. She must have meant for me to find it, but I only did just last night. She... I mean, I haven’t been home...”

“But Angel can’t have the blade,” Andrew cut in. Then his face blanched. “Unless...” he trailed off.

“Unless what?” Dawn said. “You can’t just say unless and leave it. Not when there are demonic weapons concerned.”

Andrew’s mind was racing. “I cast this locate spell to find the dagger, but it failed. It took me to this hotel, and some vampires jumped me, and Harmony was with one of them, and then Spike turned up all Captain Picard to rescue me...”

“Was it the Royal London Hotel?” Connor interrupted.

“I think so, yeah,” Andrew said. He had a sick look on his face.

“My Dad’s,” Connor said.

“Well, but Spike’s immortal now, right?” Dawn said. “No reason for concern.”

Andrew shook his head. “Nighna said the dagger was forged to kill supernaturals, specifically Slayers.”

“So there may be a need for worry,” Connor said.

“No need for worry. Fenestration is my forte. I’ll have those windows fixed in no time,” Xander said. He came in from the kitchen, where he and Maya had made an attempt to soothe the traumatized mini-Slayers. Maya had made hot chocolate, which MK drank. Anjelica still sat motionless and rabbit-eyed in the kitchen chair.

Willow took Xander’s hand, squeezed it. She opened the palm of her other hand to display the varied grains of glass from her vase.

“Kennedy...” she said.

“I know, Wil,” Xander answered. He closed Willow’s hand around the fragments. “We’ll find her.”

“Kennedy’s dead,” Andrew blurted. Willow’s body jolted as though she’d been struck by lightning.

“Andrew,” Dawn shouted.

“Do you know for certain?” Xander asked. “And if so, how?”

Andrew nodded. “Nighna said she and the other Slayers were led to an ambush. She said Giles is at the hospital...”

Xander and Willow exchanged a look of agony.

“It’s true,” Willow sobbed.

“Maybe it’s not,” Dawn said, urgently.

“Probably not the best time to interject,” Connor said. “But Spike may be in danger.”

This seemed to sober Willow considerably. “We need a plan,” she said. She drew a stabling breath. “Xander, get to the hospital. Tell Buffy what’s going on.”

“All right. Good,” Xander said. “Liking the plan.”

“Connor, you and I will go to the Royal London. We’ll look for Spike and Angel,” Willow said.

Connor was nodding. Xander was not.

“Not so keen on this part of the plan,” Xander said. “Spike can handle himself. And what if the Priestess returns?”

Dawn glared. “I’ll handle the Priestess,” she said. “Besides, it’s daylight and she’s a vamp. I doubt she’ll be showing her skanky Dark Side ass till sundown. Plus, now that Andrew’s decided to show up, he can translate the demon segments of the Circle that I haven’t been able to figure out.”

“I’ll go with,” Maya said. She nodded to Xander. “You said Buffy told us not to go out alone, so...”

Xander watched her, trying to size her up. “Yeah,” he said. “I can swing by Gatwick on the way home, so we can send you on your way home.”

“We’ll worry about that another time, if there is another time,” Maya said. Her eyes were level. Her voice, clear. “Get your coat. There’s a draft. Oh, and you drive. My license expired.”

When they all had gone, Dawn and Andrew stood on opposite sides of the splintered door, facing each other.

“So,” Dawn said.

Andrew shuffled, uncomfortably. “So,” he said.

MK came in. “So what do we do now?” she asked, tentatively.

Dawn sighed. She conjured up strength from somewhere around her ankles. “We clean up this mess, for one. Then you’ll translate. And we’ll wait for Buffy.”

~*~

Thellian watched the sun rise over the nervous landscape of London from his picture window. He did not spectacularly combust.

Buffy walked in, carefully measuring each step. Thellian did not turn, though he certainly knew she was there. He waited, his hands clasped behind his back, as she approached.

Buffy crammed her hands in her coat pockets. She had one stake. But one was enough. She closed her fingers around it.

“Miss Summers,” Thellian said. His voice was like warm brandied pears. “It is nice to put a face to the legend.”

Buffy faltered. Then she saw her reflection in the smoky glass of the window.

“Have you ever noticed how all cities look the same from a certain height?” Thellian asked. “From space, for instance, London must look a lot like Rome or New York. It’s extraordinary.”

“I’m not big on geography,” Buffy said.

Thellian turned. He leaned against the window. “You see, most humans are like that. They fail to see the intricacies of the world around them. Many would laud written language or the personal computer as the single greatest human accomplishment, but I for one would disagree. It’s the cities. They’re almost like living creatures,” he said. “Here. Have a look.”

Buffy remained where she was. She cocked her head to the side. She was the model of self-possession.

Thellian lifted his shoulders. “Very well. To business then. No doubt Angel apprised you of the situation.”

“You mean you really plan to take over the world with your evil vampire spawn,” Buffy said. “How lame is that?”

Thellian moved forward. He kept his eyes on hers. They were intensely green, like polished emeralds, like a whirlpool of seawater that threatened to drown. She could feel the serenity of centuries behind them. What Angel had said was true. Thellian really was unlike any vampire she had met.

“Evil,” he said. “Evil is such a relative term.”

“No,” Buffy said. “Evil is evil.”

“You should know,” he said. “You bed down with one of history’s most sinister. William the Bloody. You ruined him, you know. Such wasted potential in that one.”

“He has a soul,” Buffy said. “Ergo, not evil. Not anymore.”

Thellian chuckled, lightly. “You believe it’s a soul that makes a person evil or good? Look down at that city, Miss Summers. From here you can’t tell it, but you know. In your heart, you know. Humans commit acts of atrocity every day. They murder and rape and destroy and take what is not theirs. The visit such horrors on each other, on themselves. On their children. Yet every one of them has a soul.”

Buffy closed her eyes to keep in her sudden tears. She recalled with burning clarity Boadicea’s daughters, raped by Roman soldiers. She saw Boadicea herself, strung up and tortured. All of them brutalized by ordinary men.

Thellian came to rest on the opposite side of Buffy, close enough for striking range. She gripped the stake so hard splinters dug into her palm.

“Only a person with a soul can truly suffer, Miss Summers,” Thellian said. His voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Only a man with a soul can know grief and loss. It takes a soul, you see, for one to become truly twisted.”

Buffy opened her eyes. Sunlight poured from the clouds in bands of copper light, splitting night from morning. Busses and cars thronged the already crowded streets. The crosswalks were clogged with people – businessmen and women, school children, tourists. When the lights changed, they burst forth like beads from a broken necklace, and none of them were safe. None.

Her hands in her pockets had crept protectively toward her belly, but she stopped herself. She was in the lair of the Beast. It would not do to expose any weakness.

“I knew your Christ,” Thellian said. He took up his pacing again. It was clear that he had planned for this meeting. He might have rehearsed exactly what he would say. That was the thing with villains. They loved to talk. “I met him. I had been a vampire for near six centuries, and yet his wife washed my feet with her hair...”

“And that makes you, what?” Buffy interrupted, “The Holy Roman vampire?”

Thellian grinned. “He welcomed me, Miss Summers. He understood what I must do, well before I knew it myself. Then, three hundred years ago, I had a vision. A vision, from Christ. Grant them mercy, he said.”

“You’re crazy,” Buffy told him.

Thellian came to a brisk halt. “Humanity has squandered its chances, Miss Summers. What do vampires care if you bomb each other to dust? What do we care if you poison the air or lay waste to your cities?” He gestured toward the window at Exhibit A, “And seas that run with blood? Call it our Utopian paradise.”

Buffy’s heart beat at a gallop. Her breathing raced to keep up. “You’re the predator. You need us,” she said.

“As McDonald’s needs cows for Quarter Pounders,” Thellian said. His eyes twinkled as though he had known exactly what she would say.

“And once you’ve consumed every drop of human blood? What then?” Buffy said.

Thellian pressed his palms together. “There are other worlds,” he said.

Buffy shook her head, still disbelieving. “It’s genocide,” she said.

“No,” Thellian answered. “It’s evolution.”

Buffy clenched her teeth. “Yeah? Evolve this,” she said. She wheeled backward, stake perfectly aimed for Thellian’s heart.

But her attack glanced off. She staggered forward, completing her revolution. Thellian gripped her wrist and wrung her arm the wrong way around.

“Body armor,” he said into her ear. He wrenched the stake from her hand. “Adaptation, Miss Summers. I have outlived hundreds of your kind. With the help of your blood, we will outlive you all.”





You must login (register) to review.