Chapter 3: Enter the Incantos
Previously: A young man emerges from the debris that was once Sunnydale. Four years later, he is known as Tierre, one of the most feared warriors in Hades and is the lieutenant of a vicious organization known as Scarlet. Scarlet attacks the Vashkans, a faery race, searching for a mythical artifact called the Balancer. Now the Vashkans are out for payback…
***
Buffy Summers was curled up on her couch, her legs tucked under her, a glass of cold iced tea in her hands. The phone was nestled between her cheek and the crook of her shoulder. The lights from the television screen played across her face. It may have been one of a million relaxing evenings wherein a young woman spent it chatting with a friend on the phone while watching T.V.
Ever since the activation of thousands of Slayers into power four years ago, Buffy has had several evenings where her biggest worry was whether or not to cook dinner or dine out with her sister Dawn. Dawn had gone away into college two years ago, and though Buffy would never admit it to her, she liked the comfort of living on her own. She knew Dawn liked her own freedom now, too.
Freedom―the one word that Buffy would never have associated with being the Slayer. But it was true, she was free. She wasn’t the only Slayer anymore. The world was no longer just her sole responsibility. Still, there were times when she wondered if even with the presence of Slayers in all of its countries, the world would ever really be safe.
Now was one of those times.
Buffy stared grimly at the news on T.V., her expression shattering the illusion of a relaxed evening, “How long has this been going on?”
Willow’s voice on the other end of the line sounded nervous, “Almost a week,” she said.
“A week?! My God, Wills, why didn’t anyone call to tell me?”
“Well, we didn’t think it would ever make it to America, Buffy. The killings have been centered here in England for the most part, and according to the demon grapevine, we were only dealing with one guy …”
“There you go,” Buffy cut in, “One guy, doing that much damage. Yeah, I mean, I know England is Slayer Central. But something this big warrants Big Guns.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Buffy. We really did try to get a hold of Faith, but she’s deep undercover. She has been for three weeks now.”
“I meant either you or … me, Willow.”
A pause, “You?”
Buffy forced a laugh, “Yeah, me, silly. Who else?”
“Well … but, aren’t you … I don’t know … busy?”
“Will, once a Slayer, always a Slayer,” Buffy winced. She wondered if Willow believed her, “And anyway, looks like I don’t have a choice now that this Jack the Demon Ripper has come to my town.”
“Be careful, Buffy,” Willow’s voice was soft, just the way she remembered, “Call us, and stay in touch. Don’t go into this alone.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“No. Thank you.”
They said their good-byes and hung up. Buffy turned her attention back to the telly, but the news was over and she lost interest in watching anything else. She got up and went to the kitchen where she tossed what remained of her drink down the drain. She washed her glass, her movements automatic, without much thought behind them.
Gang wars. The media had nearly caught the tail end of a demon fight―enough of a threat to alarm even the most stalwart of Slayers ―and they blamed it on gang wars. Big, sigh of relief … four years ago, the idea of letting the public know about Sunnydale, Slayers and vampires had been nobly appealing. As much as Buffy knew, the Scoobies―now known as the new Council of Watchers―still intended to do that, but they were taking it slow. Something as big as the truth is usually best revealed that way.
Buffy’s mind turned to the demon dilemma. Something was bugging them, and not in a nice way. It wasn’t unusual for different demon races and species to fight against each other; they were just like humans that way. But this was different. Buffy had been hearing rumors from her demon contacts of the sporadic street wars. A lot of demons were ending up dead. But the really strange part was the fact that the demons found were of different, warring races. According to Willow, it was either they ended up killing each other, or they had teamed up to fight something else, a different threat entirely. That theory came from the discovery that all the dead demons sported large slash wounds, the kind a really big and sharp sword can make. And that theory was supported by the little factoid that the demons, normally wary of exposure, were now getting more and more daring, actually risking being seen by panicky humans. Witness their brush with the media.
It’s almost as if they’ve grown too desperate to care about exposure, the Slayer thought.
Her glass dried and put away, Buffy went through her house, turning off the lights and checking to make sure all the doors and windows were locked. Then she went upstairs, looking forward to the bubble bath she’d planned.
As she soaked in vanilla-scented goodness, Buffy’s mind ran over the gloriously mundane details of her life. Not that much to think about, really, everything was in perfect order. Even the little problems were predictable. Really, it was like she was living one of those ‘normal’ lives that were always being portrayed on the telly … telly? No, it should be T.V. or television, or, or, whatever. She never called it telly, not her. But someone did. Who was it again? Someone British.
Giles? No, Giles never watched tel… er, T.V.
Slowly, he came into focus in the dark blankness of her subconscious. Just an outline, at first, nothing that seemed tangible. Then a shadow, blurry, bleeding around the edges … walking towards her, coming nearer …
Color, filling him, making him real, the way he used to fill everything around her. The way that everything seemed just a little bit more intense, a little nearer, more touchable, painfully beautiful, whenever he was near.
Only he ever made things that way for her.
He was so close now. She could see him, everything about him, just the way she remembered.
Tall, slender … black hugging his lean frame, the coat that hid most of his beauty from her view. And yet that coat only made him more beautiful, but then again, everything seemed to do that. Not even madness had tarnished that truth.
Beneath that coat, beneath the expanse of cotton and denim the color of the night, she knew every inch of his perfect, alabaster skin; the taut, wiry muscles that were long and graceful, even as he had the strength to crush the life out of her with one vise-like grip.
Or one, infinitely tender embrace.
Upwards, ever upwards, to the elegant column of his neck. She was eager now, as she always was, to see his face. It was a … masterpiece… no, that was too tame a word to describe him, but her vocabulary had always been limited, especially when it came to him. And hadn’t that always hurt them both?
The proud chin, the sculpted jaw, the chiseled cheekbones … the slight hollow of his cheeks where she had felt she could rest her thumb forever the one time she actually gave in to the desire to cup his face, just to touch him. His lips, both sensual and cruel, pillow-soft, pink. Delicate, unlike the rest of him. His taste should’ve been just a memory, the unique, incomparable feel of him against her, except that it wasn’t. And it probably never will be.
His eyes. No one else had eyes like those, an ever-changing shade of blue that made her feel as if she were drowning or flying, or freezing … or burning. All that he was, heart, mind and soul had been in those eyes. What she wanted most of all, was to feel those silken strands of hair the color of the palest gold, sifting through her fingers. She wanted…
No. No more wanting. Just look at him now, while you can, while he’s still here.
He raised his hand, and she raised hers. She knew what she should do, and she would
have given anything right then to feel his long fingers lace with hers. Just like they had in that one, final, farewell.
But they never will. It was that one time, they had that one time, and now they could never touch again.
He was fading, he was going away … Not yet, wait, not yet … not ready … never will be. Come back.
“Spike …” tears. In her voice. In her eyes. In her heart.
And in his. She’d made him cry again.
“Buffy …” his voice, a fading whisper …
Gone.
~*~*~*~
Buffy woke up with a startled sob, heart pounding painfully inside her chest, breath trapped in her throat. Her buttocks slid along the cool, slippery porcelain of her bathtub, and her arms flailed out, hands grabbing hold of the tub’s sides to keep her from going under. Water with the remains of vanilla-scented suds splashed onto the tiles.
It’s okay, you’re fine. At least you didn’t drown.
But she wasn’t fine. Buffy quickly finished her bath and stood up, grabbing her bathrobe and wrapping a fluffy lime green towel around her hair, all the while acutely aware that her body was trembling and her knees were on the verge of quitting their jobs. She had the dream again, The Dream. The one that came like a thief in the night, only to disappear as soon as she opened her eyes. The one that came just when she thought it was gone forever.
She could never remember it, this dream. It stayed in the deepest, darkest, most secret place inside her, untouched by the light of her conscious self. The more she tried to remember it, to reach out and grasp it, the more it slipped past her fingers like wispy smoke.
And always, it left her feeling … bereft. As though she had lost something irreplaceable that she could never get back. An aching sense of loss would permeate her being then, so deep that she would sometimes wake up crying.
But this time was … different.
She had the vaguest memory of pale gold, and a blue so deep that it was like she had dived right into the heart of the Pacific. And the scent … the subtle mixed fragrance of leather, soap and clean male skin. And something else … something elemental.
“Spike …” Buffy murmured.
She gasped. Where did that come from?
She quickly dried off and got dressed even faster. Her movements were so brisk; sparks nearly flew from her fingers. That’s better. Movement was always of the good. Just keep moving … no thinking … no feeling …
She burrowed into the soft sanctuary of her bed, catching a glimpse of the clock radio. 11:15. Fours years ago, 11:15 would’ve been too early for her. She’d still be prowling around cemeteries around that time, looking for something undead to re-dead.
She didn’t do that anymore. Not that she was retired, but she was really more in the advisory capacity now. Besides, she had her own life to lead, a life she chose this time.
But even so, she couldn’t help but be concerned with the state of the world; if there were any apocalypses that needed to be averted, for example. So far, there hadn’t been any. Except for that one time when Willow swore she felt the Hellmouth breath. But that had turned out to be a false alarm, because nothing came out of the Hellmouth anymore. Not the one in Sunnydale, anyway. It was dead.
She tossed around in her big, comfy bed, worrying. Whatever was happening now, she had a feeling it was going to get serious. But surely, Willow and the others can handle it. They’ve done it before.
Buffy rolled onto her back and lay staring up at the ceiling. Oh, admit it, she chastised herself, You miss the action. You miss…your friends. She sighed. Sad as it was, the Scoobies had drifted apart. Or rather, she had. She’d chosen to live a normal life while the others had opted to stay and fight. They’ve supported her decision of course, but now … they just weren’t as close as they used to be.
But that was all about to change. Willow had said she would keep in touch. If they needed help with this new situation, Buffy would be more than willing to pitch in. That’d be a start.
Buffy smiled. She shouldn’t really worry too much. She had a busy day tomorrow. Buffy had followed in her mother’s footsteps and taken a flagging clothing business and turned it into an art gallery with the millions the Council ( namely Giles ) had signed over to her name. She’d nearly depleted her funds getting the gallery on its feet, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t about the money anyway. She loved what she did. Who knew she’d be so good at it?
Well, Mom did, she thought fondly, as her eyes started to close.
Mom and Spike, her mind whispered, just before sleep came and claimed her.
~*~*~*~
She was being followed.
Buffy knew this with a certainty that bordered on paranoia. Of course being a Slayer meant there’s always some nasty lurking in the bushes somewhere, watching her every move, just waiting for that one good day. Even more so now that there were so many of them, evil demons were just working overtime, hoping to thin the herd.
But this was different. It wasn’t as if she was catching moving shadows in her peripheral vision or anything as unsubtle as that. No, what she really had was a hunch.
Unfortunately, hunches weren’t the same as mind-reading and so Buffy didn’t know if whoever or whatever was out there spying on her and writing down the varying times in which she ate breakfast in a little black notebook was evil or just a crazy fan. Which she had―fans, that is. She hadn’t even known Slayers have already made it to the Net until the first Andrew-wannabe had jumped right in front of her in the grocery store, handing her his bio-data, complete with a recommendation from some equally geeky martial-arts instructor, and declared that he was ready to fight the good fight.
So, since she didn’t know if she was on someone’s hit list or not ( but most probably she was ) Buffy just went to work.
“God, don’t you ever get tired?”
Buffy looked up from an opened crate to smile at Hazel Randolf, her partner and one-woman army, “Hey, Hazel. How was the party last night?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still recovering.”
“Serves you right for looking for The One amidst all that champagne.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, winced, and headed for the back area to resurrect herself with caffeine. Buffy turned her attention back to the crate, retrieving an easel from it. It was a painting of an ancient church, one of a series of paintings that depicted the age-old edifices of a ghost town in Mexico. The series was called When She Lived.
“Nice,” Hazel said, coming to stand beside Buffy, a mug of coffee in hand, “Inego Vasquez might have something going for him after all aside from his Latino good looks.”
“I think he’s very talented,” Buffy said.
“Sure he is. And when he becomes famous, do you think he’ll remember the little art gallery that gave him his first start?” Hazel raised her brows, pretending to consider the question, “Hmmm … let’s see … the art gallery itself? Nah,” she grinned mischievously, “But the owner of the gallery …”
Buffy laughed, “Oh, please. Don’t you stop?”
“Whaat? It’s obvious the guy has a thing for you.”
“His exhibit is two weeks from now. We’re just working together, that’s all.”
Hazel took the painting from Buffy and walked towards the display area, “Honestly, Buffy, you need to go out a little.”
“I go out!” Buffy said defensively. When Hazel gave her a skeptical look, the blonde crossed her arms over her chest, “I do! I went out with Allan, didn’t I?”
“Allan’s my cousin. You did it out of pity.”
“He was nice. Oh, what about Barry Newcombe?”
“You mean your blind date that was so full of himself, you ended up wishing you could drown him?”
“I don’t think I put it quite like that.”
“Face it, Buffy. Your last serious relationship was with Dawn’s substitute professor. What was his name? Gary Lennox? Yeah, that’s the guy. He was hot, he was funny, he was smart … whatever happened to that, anyway?”
Buffy shrugged, “I don’t know. It kinda fizzled out, I guess.”
Hazel nodded sagely, “Yeah. Hate it when that happens. You think you found the right one and then, poof! Something happens to show you that you’re wrong.”
Buffy watched her friend arrange the first paintings they’ve gathered, “I’m gonna go open the other crates. By the way, Beth called, said she’s coming in late today. So for awhile, it’s just the two of us. Get as much caffeine in your system as you can.”
Leaving Hazel to her work, Buffy went back to the other crates and busied herself with discovering the other paintings of the eight-piece series. She tried to think of nothing but work, of how exciting it would be for Inego to finally show the world what he can do. But she inevitably found herself thinking about the young newcomer to the artistic scene more than his upcoming exhibit. He really was cute, and sweet. Plus, he had that whole artistic sensitivity going for him.
Buffy sighed. Great, now she was thinking of romantically exploiting one of those she represented. And the really sad part was that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t drum up the sufficient interest to keep a relationship going. Starting one was no problem, like with Gary. They’d hit it off pretty well and for the three months of dating that followed, Buffy had actually begun entertaining thoughts that he might be It. Even Dawn had gotten excited for her.
But then the relationship hit a plateau, and began to taper off. Buffy didn’t know what had happened. She and Gary had parted as friends, but up until now, she didn’t understand why they parted at all. Not that she carried a torch, or anything, she and Gary had liked each other very much, but they had never been in love with each other. After Gary, Buffy’s few dates were of the “Blah,” or “Eek!” variety.
Buffy sat on the floor, cross-legged, propping her elbow on a knee and supporting her chin with her fist, “Maybe I’m cursed,” she muttered to herself.
“Or maybe, you’re just waiting for the right one to come along,” someone said cheerfully.
Buffy looked up and brightened at Beth Wazowski, who was supposed to be her assistant, but was actually kind of a really nice boss. Beth was in her late twenties and a single-mother to her 6-year old daughter Kyla. She had the sunniest of dispositions and had unflagging optimism. Buffy had never known anyone quite like her.
“I should’ve known when you said you’d be late, you meant you’d come in 10 minutes after we opened,” Buffy teased.
“Uh-huh. Well, what’s this about being cursed?” Beth demanded in her motherly way that was at complete odds with her youthful appearance, “I’m sensing some really lovelorn vibes here.”
Buffy’s mouth dropped open, “Oh, God. Do I sound that bad?”
“’Fraid so,” Hazel said, marching forward and picking up another of the unpacked paintings, “You sound just like me when I was 26. Which is not that long ago, lemme tell ya,”
Beth shook her head fondly at Hazel, and at the same time, gently shut Buffy’s gaping mouth by tipping her chin up with a finger, “Don’t listen to her, honey. You’ll find Him.”
Hazel snorted, “Yeah. Who knows, he might just walk right through the door.”
Just then, the door to the gallery opened and a man walked in.
Hazel’s eyes bugged, “Whoah,” she muttered. Then, grinning, she added, “I wish Hugh Jackman would propose to me right this minute.”
Beth gave the other woman a playful nudge to the ribs with her elbow.
Oblivious to her friends’ antics, Buffy just stared at the newcomer. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular. Like a football player, only not so bulky. She reevaluated that. No, more like a basketball player, really, the likes of Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant in build. Black hair and eyes … she wasn’t close enough to see their color, but they appeared dark.
He was oddly handsome.
And he was oddly not human.
Buffy didn’t know what it was that tipped her off. Maybe it was the way he moved, the easy handling of limbs, his economy of motion. Or maybe it was the way his eyes sought her out directly without even pretending to be interested in the art displays that set her Slayer senses buzzing.
When Buffy didn’t move immediately to greet their guest, Beth took charge, exchanging the predictable pleasantries and asking if they could help him with anything.
“Yes. I would like to speak with Buffy Summers, please,” the flow of his words was smooth, revealing no accent. But his diction was too precise, meaning he was not a native speaker of English. Even the Brits slaughtered the mother tongue every now and then.
Ignoring Hazel’s go-get-‘em looks, Buffy said in a brisk, business-like tone of voice, “I’m Buffy Summers,” she said, “May I help you?”
His eyes were gray, she noted. Like pewter, “Yes,” he replied, and that one word was laden with meaning, “I do believe you may.”
~*~*~*~
He introduced himself to all of them as Sam Harker. Buffy believed that as much as she believed in the pot of gold at the bottom of a rainbow, but Hazel and Beth seemed perfectly willing to accept his alias. In fact, they seemed perfectly willing to do whatever he asked of them. Not that he asked for much. Coffee? Yes, please. Would you like to see some of our sculptures? Very much, thank you. Would Miss Summers please be so kind as to show me around?
They’d taken the hint. They left Buffy alone with him, Beth practically dragging Hazel away.
“Who are you?” Buffy demanded, as soon as the two women were gone, “Or should I say, what are you?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled in what may be amusement, “You greet all of your guests this way, Miss Summers?”
His eyes had a slant to them. Nothing too unusual, but enough to let Buffy know she was on the right track, “Don’t waste my time,” she said finally.
His demeanor changed, all traces of playfulness gone, “I am Seyhan D’Harken,” he said formally, “I am a Vashkan.”
“And that’s a …?”
“Let’s just say I’m the one receiving the … warm demon welcome.”
Buffy stiffened. Her first thought was of Beth and Hazel. Have they left the gallery, or where they just somewhere nearby?
“Don’t worry, Slayer Summers. I didn’t come here to fight you,” Selig said, and for someone whose power she could only guess at―but was certainly enough to spook hardened, war-mongering demons―his voice was oddly reassuring, “I came here to ask for your h … assistance.”
Buffy blinked, “Huh?”
“I can’t talk to you here. I didn’t realize there would be others present. Foolish of me, I suppose. Would you meet with me?”
Buffy was still staring at him like he was speaking in Greek.
Seyhan repeated his invite in a more patient voice, “You may choose the place of our meeting. You may even bring your sister Slayers if you wish.”
~*~*~*~
She had no idea what made her say yes, but Buffy soon found herself waiting for Seyhan D’Harken in a charming little al fresco restaurant facing the beach. She was alone, too. Although there were plenty of Slayers around San Francisco, Buffy hadn’t wanted to bring any of them. The only Slayers she would have considered bringing were those who had fought with her against the First, and they all had states and countries to look out for now. The newer Slayers tended to be too cocky and too brash. Seyhan had said he wanted to talk and she believed him. They wouldn’t be able to do that if a bunch of overeager teenaged girls would be swarming all over him, trying to practice their skills with a stake.
Still, it paid to be cautious, so she didn’t say anything when Seyhan showed up, looking around him, searching out any skulking Slayers.
“You didn’t bring any of your sisters with you,” he commented as he pulled out her chair for her.
“What makes you think I didn’t?” Buffy asked, trying to cover up the fact that his manners surprised her.
Seyhan looked at her closely. What was she saying? Were there others of her kind here? It was possible. She had chosen a very public meeting place. It faced a lovely beach. There were plenty of human females here. Yes, there could be Slayers lurking about.
She was cautious, this one. He respected that. But then again she was Buffy Summers, wasn’t she? The Slayer who had given power to all the other Slayers; the one who had led the war against the First Evil. She was the best.
He needed the best.
“There’s no need to fear me,” he said reassuringly, “You may call them forward if you wish.”
“Let’s not waste time,” she said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
A waiter came by. Buffy quickly ordered for both of them, ignoring Seyhan’s raised brows.
“I need your assistance,” he said, as soon as the waiter was gone.
“For what? Killing demons? I was already doing that―”
“It was a matter of self-defense,” Seyhan cut in, “Demons and faeries have a long and bloody history together. They tried to kill me. What was I supposed to do? Let them?”
Whether he was telling the truth or not, Buffy knew better than to start out with the assumption that demons were the innocent victims. Sure, they can be victimized, that’s happened before. But innocent? Very rare.
The waiter returned, set their orders on their table, caught Seyhan’s impatient glare, and bowed out very fast.
“That’s quite a way with people you’ve got,” Buffy said, “If demons don’t like you, why are you here? No offense, but faeries have always struck me as kind of … snobbish. You guys don’t mingle with humans or … well, demons.”
“I need you to help me find something. It’s called the Balancer.”
“And that’s a …?”
“A very powerful treasure of the Vashkan people.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“It’s here because the thieves who killed so many of mine just to take it from us are here,”
Buffy leaned back against her chair, her face set skeptically, “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m getting a lot of angry, I-want-revenge vibes from you, Seyhan. Or is it the I-want-the-object-of-unimaginable-power vibes?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Let me put it this way: If you want my help, you can start by being honest.”
“But I am!” Seyhan declared in exasperation, and Buffy was surprised at the sincerity of his frustration, “You can be certain that I have no other intentions towards the Balancer other than returning it to where it belongs. I have been its guardian for years. If I wanted to use its powers for my benefit, I would have,” he sighed, “But you’re right on one account. I do want revenge. If you were in my place, you would understand.”
“First, tell me what this Balancer does.”
“It’s a font of power. It has the ability to see the true latent power of any being. In the olden days, it was believed to have the ability to keep the balance between good and evil.”
Buffy snorted, “Balance, huh?”
“That was in the olden days,” Seyhan told her, “Now it’s been stolen. And I’m telling you, Slayer, unless we get it back this could mean a repeat of the First.”
Buffy scowled, “Now for the revenge part. What’s that all about?”
“What happened to my people was … horrible,” Seyhan grated out, as though the words themselves pained him coming out, “We were decimated. But my words aren’t enough. I will have to show you.” Seyhan raised a hand towards her.
“What are you doing?” Buffy demanded, jerking her head away.
“I’m going to show you,” and before she could make any further protest, Seyhan’s fingers grazed her temple.
And a vision unraveled before her mind’s eyes.
It was horrible. A war. Cries from children deafened her, while warriors younger than Buffy herself had been when she had been Called, charged forward with battle roars, furious and frightened, knowing that their parents were out fighting as well and wouldn’t be able to help them.
And Buffy saw Seyhan, dressed in the warrior garb of his people. Bleeding from several wounds, he had kept his people going, never once betraying the fear that lived in his heart.
He had known they were going to lose.
Buffy nearly cried when homes were set on fire with their owners still sleeping inside them. They, the Vashkans, were powerful. A warrior people and so they preferred to fight with hands and weapons rather than the ancient magick that they possessed but didn’t understand.
Buffy wished they didn’t fear their own powers. They really needed it at the time. Because their enemies had their own weapons, too, weapons that Buffy was surprised to see in a war like this one, which was so similar to her wars with the different harbingers of apocalypses.
Guns. Bombs.
The army that marched forward was the one that held these man-made weapons. But Buffy instinctively knew that the ones who held no bullets at all were the ones that were infinitely more dangerous.
She didn’t know how many of them there were, fewer than their small army, though, that’s for sure. Less than a dozen, even. But they were equal to the Vashkans as they fought the old-fashioned way. They wielded the more common weapons of the slaying trade; swords and machetes and the like. But they used them with more skill and ability than ordinary humans ever could.
They were extraordinary, almost supernatural. But Buffy knew what they really were.
She inhaled sharply when Seyhan finally let her go. Buffy’s eyes fluttered open as though just waking from a dream. She stared at the Vashkan in front of her in stunned understanding, “You’re attackers … “ she stammered, “They were … humans.”
Seyhan was pale. He had been forced to relive that tragedy once more, “If you still won’t believe us,” he said shakily, “I won’t blame you.”
Buffy surprised him. Shaking her head angrily, the Slayer said, “Oh, but I do believe you.”
Seyhan gaped at her, “You do?”
“Yes,” Buffy took a deep breath and straightened, “Because I think I recognized some of those murderers.”
~*~*~*~
“I still think we should have told Buffy about this,” Willow said to Xander, taking a sip of tea from her cup. She and Xander were enjoying afternoon tea together, an English custom that they had fallen in love with immediately, in a charming little tea shop. They were around so often, that they had a table now unofficially reserved in the pretty indoor garden.
“I thought you said she already knows,” Xander said, raising his brows.
“Yes, but we didn’t tell her. She had to find out in the late night news.”
“I’m surprised that she does want to know.”
“Xander, what are you saying? Of course she does. She’s the Slayer, isn’t she?”
“Sure, but doesn’t she have the ‘normal’ life she’s always dreamed of now? Why would she want to ruin that by getting involved in the Mission again?”
Willow stared at him, wide-eyed and Xander shut his mouth. He hadn’t realized until he heard himself speak just how resentful his words sounded.
“You begrudge Buffy the choices she’s made?” Willow asked softly. She looked sad and Xander felt like kicking himself.
“No, I don’t,” he said sincerely, “It’s just that it seemed like after all the major rebuilding’s been done she couldn’t wait to get away. And yeah she keeps in contact with us, but it feels like she’s so far away now. Like she’s changed.”
Willow smiled, “The life of the Slayer was given to Buffy against her will. We, on the other hand, chose to fight. When she got the chance to live the life she’s always wanted, she went for it. I respect that because it’s her choice. It’s not any lesser than our choice to continue the Mission. It’s just different,” she said, “And Buffy has just been really busy. You think it’s easy, building a life out of scratch? Not to mention trying to repair her relationship with her father.”
Xander held up both hands, “Okay, I surrender,” he said jokingly, “You’re right. It’s just that I miss her, that’s all.”
“Me too,” Willow tucked her hair behind her ear, “And she hasn’t changed, by the way. She’s still the same old, Give-Evil-Hell Buffy that we know and love. I won’t be surprised if she comes storming to England, demanding that we find these demon killers and put them back where they belong.”
“Yeah,” Xander leaned back in his chair, “Well that’s always something to look forward to,”
He let his gaze sweep about the little garden contentedly. It would be great to have Buffy back, even though it would be because of something that might turn into a potential world threat.
Speaking of threats … whoah, Nelly.
Xander’s eyes went round at the vision in front of him. Willow was saying something, but he wasn’t really paying her any attention.
Man, she was gorgeous. Tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed and slightly broad-shouldered. There was a certain grace to her walk, the kind he saw in athletes and … Slayers. But this one wasn’t a Slayer, Xander would have recognized her otherwise, or she him.
But wait a minute, if she didn’t recognize him, then why on earth was she heading their way?
“Uh … Will,” Xander said tentatively.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know that woman? The one heading over towards us?”
Frowning, Willow turned to look where Xander was looking. Her gaze was intercepted by two men. They were tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, with a kind of predatory grace to their movements.
And they, too, were walking towards her and Xander.
“Xander? I think it’s time we leave,” Willow rose from her seat nervously. Xander followed her, threading his arm through hers in an unconsciously protective gesture, even though Willow was far more powerful than all the humans inside the tea shop combined.
“Just keep walking, act casual …” Xander muttered under his breath.
“Willow Rosenberg?”
Shock made the two stop in their tracks, despite their desire to be far away from the dark trio. They stared at the woman. Xander gaped. She was even more beautiful up close. And she had an air of quiet dignity about her. The two men were the same way. Willow felt the absurd urge to curtsy in front of them.
“Y-yes?” the witch stuttered. She cleared her throat, “I mean, what is it?”
The woman smiled, “My name is Yesha Kavrois. These are my … friends, Selig D’Harken and Rumus Grifinker.”
Xander said, “Nice names. What’re you, Russian?”
“Vashkans,” the one called Rumus said, almost smugly.
“And we need to speak with you,” Selig said authoritatively.
~*~*~*~
Buffy glanced at Seyhan out of the corner of her eye, “This’ll only take a second,” she mouthed, as she whipped out her cell phone.
He nodded back at her stiffly. Despite his perfectly ordinary clothing, Lord Seyhan D’Harken―as he had finally clarified to her―still exuded an aura of otherwordly authority that had the people from the other tables sneaking looks at him. He was aware that he was the object of such rapt fascination, and he detested it.
Buffy fervently hoped someone would pick up on the other end. And then somebody did.
“Giles,” said the familiar, clipped British voice.
“Giles? It’s me, Buffy.”
Silence on the other end. Maybe he was wondering who the hell Buffy was.
And then, “Good Lord, Buffy …” he cleared his throat, “How … how have you been?”
“I’m doing fine …” she automatically replied, caught the look on Seyhan’s face as another waitress yet again asked if he would like a coffee refill, and barged on, “Listen, Giles … there’s something I really need to discuss with you guys. It has something to do with those demon massacres. There’s someone here who claims he did all those things but only as a matter of self-defense. He says he’s a Vashkan. That ring a bell? Or an alarm?”
Another pause. Buffy sighed, “I guess that would be an alarm then.”
“Buffy, I think it’s best if you would come here and bring the Vashkan with you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because there are some people here waiting for him. Don’t worry, they’re here to help. What do you say?”
“Right now?”
When Giles spoke again, it was with a touch of amusement, “Yes. I’ll secure your ticket for Willow-lines.”
~*~*~*~
If it wasn’t for the first class teleportation spell that transferred them from a discreet area in San Francisco and into the 4th floor chamber, also called the Meeting Room, of the former Watcher’s Academy-turned-New-Council-Headquarters, Seyhan would never have gone with Buffy. Now that he had her word that she would help him, he was impatient to get started. But one look at the mini-Intercontinental portal and he knew he was looking at real magickal power. He wanted to meet Buffy’s witch friend now.
The design of the room was almost identical to the original, with plenty of side tables and leather chairs that fit in with the dark-paneled walls. The polished mahogany table on the other side of the large room was round, not rectangular, like the first had been. Everyone had an equal place on the table. This had been Rupert Giles’ idea.
There were computer terminals in the room, too, unlike the first. There were more computers all over the campus. This was Willow Rosenberg’s most obvious contribution.
The three strangers sitting gathered around table were all tall and broad-shouldered, even the woman. They all had dark, wavy hair and intense dark eyes. One of them had more than just a passing resemblance to Seyhan.
His identity was revealed, after Seyhan entered the room through the portal with Buffy. He surged to his feet, eyes wide, “Seyhan!”
Seyhan looked dismayed, “Selig? What are you doing here?”
“We could ask you the same thing, you insolent child!” snapped the other one.
Seyhan flushed in anger, “Don’t call me a child, Rumus!” he shot back.
Buffy smirked, “I take it,” she muttered dryly, “They’re family?”
“Only one. And right now, I sorely wish it was her.”
‘Her’ rose gracefully from her seat and spoke in a clear, commanding tone, “That is enough, both of you! Instead of wasting precious time berating Seyhan, why don’t we just turn our attentions into solving this problem?”
Grudgingly, the men sat down, albeit out of knowing that she was right instead of obedience. Willow grinned at Buffy as the Slayer and Seyhan sat down, too. Buffy grinned back. She caught Xander’s eye and he smiled warmly at her.
It was almost like she never left.
“Buffy,” Giles said, “Did Seyhan already, uh, show you what happened … to them?”
Seyhan stiffened, “Them?” he asked faintly. His eyes roved over his fellow Vashkans, “Oh, no …”
“Yes,” Rumus spat, “We were attacked, too. Not long after you. I can not believe what you did. You left your people floundering without a leader, begging for aid from the other tribes―”
“Oh? And what are you doing here, then? Who’s looking after your people, Rumus?”
“All the Vashkans have united as one large village,” Selig cut in, glaring at Seyhan, “Aksah Rowik, Yesha’s adjutant, has been left in charge of the rebuilding. My general Graden Wakrazna and Rumus’ Suni have been left to organize an army for defense. Just in case the fiends return.”
Guilt gnawed at Seyhan’s stomach. He may not be as good a ruler as his older brother, Selig―what with his penchant for spending his time alone surrounded by his books and manuscripts―but that did not mean he didn’t care about his people, “You should go back,” he said softly, “Protect what is left of us.”
“No,” Selig riposted calmly, “We know why you’re here, Seyhan, and we understand. But you cannot have vengeance against those murderers all on your own. You’ve seen what they can do.”
Seyhan sat in silence, humiliated and angry. Selig would never think of him as anything but a younger brother. He was probably planning on dragging Seyhan back home. Well, it would not be like the first time; this time Seyhan wouldn’t go back so docilely. He lifted his head defiantly and―
“So we’re going to help you,”
―swayed with relief, “You are?”
“Of course,” Rumus sniffed, “You’re not the only one who’s been ravaged.”
Yesha, in her cool, serene way, gave an approving nod.
Seyhan started to feel hope rise in him for the first time since he embarked on this suicide journey. Perhaps, with all of them together …
“Wait a minute,” Xander said suddenly, “Look, I’ve seen what you’ve been through, and heck, I know that if I were in your place, I’d be on the warpath too. But let’s not forget. This vengeance thing can easily get out of control.”
“That’s right,” Willow added, “Remember that there are innocent people in this world, too. We’re not going to help you if we think there’s a chance they could get hurt.”
Rumus shook his head, “I told you they’d worry more about protecting their own,” he said to Selig.
“Only those who are innocent of the crimes committed against you,” Buffy was frowning at Seyhan, “That’s what this is all about? Revenge? What happened to getting the Balancer back?”
Seyhan flinched.
Yesha looked confused, “But the Balancer is just a myth …”
“… isn’t it?” Giles looked so curious, it was almost as if he’d forgotten that there were other issues at hand, “I’ve heard of it, of course, but have never gotten any hard evidence of its existence.”
“Yeah, you said those bastards only attacked you because they thought the Balancer was with you people,” Xander said.
“But it’s not, and it never was,” Rumus emphasized.
Selig was silent, watching his younger brother.
Even in his youth, Seyhan had been blessed―or cursed―with an intense curiousity. He’d read countless books and go on expeditions to explore the natural and supernatural worlds. Once, he’d run off on the day before he was to be crowned. Selig had searched for him and finally found him in New York City, in the company of humans and demons alike, much to the scandal of the Vashkans. Although the Vashkans do not hate humans, they weren’t particularly patient with them, either.
Once he had accepted his destiny to rule, Seyhan incorporated his interests with running his tribe. The Western tribe reflected the character of its reluctant leader. The Western Vashkans were proud of their library, the main home of all their historical records. They treasured their very own mythology, reveled in the discoveries they made on their own slice of science. And they, among all the other tribes, were the guardians of the vast inheritance bestowed upon them by the infinite world of magic. They were the keepers of the Vahskan collection of charmed objects and Talismans, of artifacts rich in history and shrouded in mystery, of ancient weapons once held by their heroes and legends.
Seyhan had made it his life’s work to seek out such objects of power. Not to use them, but, according to him, merely to study them, to chronicle them, perhaps even to understand them. He would keep them safe and guard them, with his life if necessary. That was his true purpose. And for years, for centuries, so many treasures of the faery realm had been kept safe from thieves with evil intentions and ignorant minds―the most deadly combination―by the devotion of the Western tribe.
Who, but Seyhan would know about the Balancer? But even Seyhan couldn’t have what does not exist.
Could he?
“Seyhan?” Selig prodded. Everyone was staring at the younger D’Harken, waiting with breaths held.
“The ‘Ark A’fen Dai Vakar’―The Keeper of the Scales, yes it does exist,” Seyhan said in a monotone, “Forged by the magicks and power of our ancestors to―among other things―protect the then fledgling race of man―”
“You mean before man drove us to a mere strip of land while he went out to conquer the whole world?” Rumus said sarcastically, with all the proper bitterness of one who knew the history without actually experiencing it.
Seyhan ignored him, “Should the scales tip, the balance be upset, the humans can tap into this power to restore everything to its natural order. Our ancestors chose the humans because the humans had a heart. Supposedly. In fact, they entrusted it to a boy,”
“Should’ve given it to the First Slayer,” Buffy joked lamely.
“Good Lord,” Giles murmured with a shake of his head, “You do realize that at the hands of the wrong people―”
“We don’t have to think about that because it doesn’t exist!” Rumus snapped.
“It does!” Selig snapped right back, “Haven’t you listened to a single word Seyhan has said?”
“And to think of all that power,” Willow said softly, “Handled by people who kill … so …” she looked away, “That’s not a good scenario,” she finally murmured.
Xander squeezed her shoulder.
“We have to find it,” Buffy said firmly, “Where’s Faith?”
Everyone stared at her. Buffy sighed, “Some of the people in the vision Seyhan showed me … I recognize them. Faith had been on their tails once, she even faxed me some mugshots of them to warn me that they might be in San Francisco.”
“We know, Buffy,” Xander said, “We’ve seen them, too. She sent us the same photos for research. All we could find was that they’re a part of some nasty underground organization. Nothing that Faith didn’t already know.”
“Great. And the only one who knows where they could be is―”
“Angel,” Giles finished.
“What?” Buffy asked.
“Angel was the one who gave Faith those photos. She told me so. She also said that Angel practically gave her an order to stop following them, to just let it go.”
Buffy snorted, “An order. Yeah, right,” she shook her head once, as if dispelling all doubts, “Right, then. Let’s go to L.A.”
TBC...
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay, I can't seem to get it right, but I'd just like to warn that Spike/Other is implied in this story.