Chapter 22:  Happy Hour

I find a door with a 'Maid Service Requested' sign on the knob.  The Skeleton Key does not work, at first. I need to jiggle it some, finessing the tumblers like a burglar. I would have paid for this room, if I weren't in such a hurry. Still, this is not the worst thing I’ve done today, or even in the last five minutes.

The room itself is empty as pockets. Flavorless textures map every surface, from the cheap sheets to the stained brown stubble of the carpet to the naked plaster of walls. It would make a fitting ending for me, but the end isn’t here. Not quite yet.

I heave the suitcase onto the mattress and get straight to it. I retrieved it from my dead-drop twenty minutes ago, once I slipped my tail. Inside are the old tools, a workman’s delight of hard corner and shining, deadly edge. But I go for the duster first, smearing its rumpled shape flat with my palms. Time is a thief, but it fits better than I imagined, with a sidelong drape that tickles the knees like an old lover. I jam the bowler cap low on my forehead, and douse myself in cheap cologne to complete the disguise. The rest of my arsenal gets cinched up in an unassuming knapsack and slung over one shoulder. I take a moment to tuck a few pounds under the pillow, and then head back out into the cool night air.

It’s difficult to think of London as home, though a portion of me knows I never left it, not actually. I accidentally bump a man’s shoulder on the march up Cannon Street. He turns to say something, but it’s lost in his throat the moment he sees the look on my face. Even in this age of touchy, feely talk shows and internets, it occurs to me that the lambs still recognize the hounds.

Seven minutes and one muttered spell later, I locate my quarry once more. They are luminous, and stand out like twin pyres in the black old London night. Blonde and brunette, they swagger block to block, blathering and bickering like small children. It’s difficult to imagine that one of them is over 100 years old. But imagining such details is my job. Or, at least, it bloody well used to be.

I calmly track them from the shadows, then pull back to a safe distance as they enter an unassuming pub. The battle must’ve have made them thirsty, in one way or another. I wait for them to vanish completely inside, and then decide to wait a little longer; to wait and see what else has been following them this evening.

***

“Laaast cawwwoll feh alkyhooool!,” the barkeep sang.

Bloody turnip, Spike decided. S’whuh ‘e looks like.

A pair of miniature black eyes worried back at him from a pale brow, like a pair of warts on a pig’s skull. The barman’s stink was soup-thick, hemorrhaging from pores the size of knife wounds. Spike watched in disgust as the man rubbed down the bar over and over in a hurry to usher them all out. To end the night.

Yeh. Good luck wif ‘at one, mate.

The clothes fit. A black ribbed sweater had stiff, militant patches on the shoulders that he rather liked, and he decided he could get used to the slightly draggled clutch of his new gray Levis. His professional garments were tucked neatly in the duffel bag stuffed under his barstool. He’d been wearing the Wolf’s ‘sun suit’ for over a week straight, and if he was a real live boy it would’ve reeked like a Shanghai harem. But as things stood, it simply smelled a tad musty, as though nothing had been inside them whatsoever. It felt good to have them out of sight.

Faith, for her part, proved a top notch shopping guide, and not unpracticed in the art of protracted borrowing. For his kind, theft was often more of a necessity than a wicked diversion. Due to the odd hours one must keep to avoid bursting into merry flames, it was rare for a fashionable London vamp to find himself perusing the boutiques at his leisure. Clothes were either scavenged from victims, or pirated from shuttered shops in the dead of night. And while the former option was clearly not on the menu these days, the girl clearly had no moral barrier against the latter. Her eyes had twinkled madly as they crept through the dim aisles of an Evan & Baileys, swapping thudding insults as readily as fashion tips. In some ways, the patter had reminded him of his old rows with Buffy Summers. But there was a tantalizing, almost merciful ease about Faith when she was fully on. The daggers were real, and sharp, but they somehow always - just barely and purposefully - missed their mark.  He got the distinct feeling there was no sin too Great and Terrible for her to shrug off. She would have made a brilliant vampire.

He turned to sneer at the pub’s sheeplike clientele. The last time he’d set foot in the Black Row Inn was in the summer of 1968. Dru was in one of her moods, so he’d decided to bugger off on his own for awhile. Back then, ‘Mod’ was all the rage, and the place was packed to the giblets with porkpies and beatleboots and that breed of unkempt, snotty youth that set a dead heart all a flutter. Hour upon hour, the jukebox jangled out the latest-greatest from Georgie Fame or the Kinks or the Spencer Davis Group. And, whenever it did that, well, everybody, Everybody, squealed and shook like it was the mad, miracle opus of some sexpot saint.

Closing his eyes, he recalled them; the endless horde of fit, moist-lipped boys snogging their spotty girls to a snare drum beat, everyone swimming in a bath of peppermint and cigarette ash. That was the smell of the new England, the bawdy aroma of sweat at Punk Rock’s back alley conception. And Spike there among them; cunning old monster lurking in plain sight, sporting a skinny Italian suit as crisp as a naked bone. Back then it was a funny game; sitting amongst the herds, decoding the delicate riddle of their purposes.  He would try on their wild, worldly new expressions in his mind’s backstage mirror. Back then, he could taste every last gorgeous one of them, and felt filled with that longing peculiar to his species: the desire to become them and to devour them, all at once. That was how it was, to study prey.

By comparison, this new lot looked right drab and awful.  High-definition TVs papered the old chipped plaster walls, below which a trio of chubby, t-shirted account managers was giggling about whichever inane BBC sit-com best parodied their useless little lives. Off to one corner, some blowdried tosser wrestled with one of those hideous new music kiosks, tapping his toe to Neil Diamond’s “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman” and probably trying to unearth something even more witlessly ironic. It was as though this latest generation had shed the capacity to feel anything like joy, and they seemed to be quite chuffed about it. If Churchill was spinning down there, Spike was quite certain that Andy Warhol was laughing his bloody bollocks off.

A number popped into his head. “Twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and seventy five.”

“Hmm?” Faith peered up from her drink, feigning a casual interest.

“Nights,” he replied, somewhat groggily. “On average, of course.” The girl just frowned at him, the way a maid might frown at the leavings of mice. “That you people get,” he explained, as politely as he could muster.

“So?”

The vampire shook his head sadly. “Oh…sew buttons.”

She tittered, cruel suddenly, and then gave her drink a sexy little swizzle. “You are so weird ,” she said. “I mean, it’s not just the whole bloodsucking, shithead vamp thing. You’re just kind of a weird dude, ya know?”

“I don’t suck blood anymore,” he fired back. “I sort of just.  Swallow it. An’ besides, you’re one to talk, pet. Way I hear it, you was snugglin’ giant snakes an’ callin’em da da. Talk about issues….”

“No, I mean it, man,” she continued, mockingly earnest. “What we’re you, anyway? Before, ya know…” She hooked two fingers across her lips like fangs.

“Pirate,” he said, automatically. “Highwayman. Mercenary. Nasty sort. Not the kind of bloke you bring 'round for supper.”

 “Yeah, bullshit.” She smirked devilishly.  “Still, I’m curious how it feels, you know… killing people again...”

Ah, the game's afoot. The whiskey was starting to wobble him some, so Spike measured his words carefully. “It feels different, pet," he said.  "Bit less fun. You’re not dessert anymore.”

“Got news for you, bite-boy. We were never food to you freaks. And I seen a million creepy crawlies who put ‘man meat’ on the menu."  She let the pun hang in the air a moment, bloody well pleased with it.  "You guys ain’t hungry for blood. You’re hungry for hurt, babe.” She looked at him sidelong, almost bashfully. “And yeah, I am one to talk about that.”

“Ah’m a bloody monster,” he slurred, so low and so suddenly that it stung him. “Wuh’s your excuse?”

“Fucked up childhood.”

She was tough little snake, he'd give her that. Never missed a beat. He looked smack in her boozy brown eyes, and, though he completely forgot what he was on about, suddenly decided there was no way in Hell he would let her win. “Bollocks,” he said, and lashed out an accusatory tumbler of bourbon, a wave of golden poison sloshing drunkenly over the lip. “We don’ buy what you’re sellin’, pet. No fuh one bloody minute.”

“Oh, is that why you let her get away? Too cheap to spring for it?”

“Eh?  Whuh you on about now?”

“She’s in love with you, Skippy." There was a certain way that she peered at him over the rim of her glass, and a tone, like she was accusing him of murder most black.  "I mean, damn, babe.  What’d you say? Twenty-seven-thousand-and-whatever many nights?  And how many of those you want her to spend alone?”

They sat and considered this for a moment. Yes, she was infuriating. Yes she was probably right. Bloody Yank to the core. Still, he was on the verge of launching the perfect comeback when the aroma filled him again. His old terrible mum’s scent was back.  It was everywhere and nowhere at once, a cool downwind breeze from Pluto.

“What?”

“Think it’s bottom's up time,” he whispered. “Here be tigers...”

***

“No, wait!”

Willow roared into the blue pool, watching Buffy’s face ripple and dissolve. The portal collapsed in mid squat thrust, as did the TV studio, the Tiffany tune and the horrible leg warmer brigade. She was back standing in Harvard’s gymnasium, blinking at an tableau of empty, glittering grandstands.

“Wait for what?” asked Oz.

“It didn’t work. Too fast.” She felt out of breath, and it wasn’t just from the jazzercising. These long distance calls were starting to charge a stiffer toll. She realized she might not get another chance. Not without a really big, whopping power boost.

Oz clasped her shoulder warmly. “It’s okay Will. Like you said, it was a long shot. Maybe, you could try again, if you make it fast…”

“No.”  Tara stopped pacing. “We need to move on the Slayer now, before we lose her again.” The girl’s face was stone hard. It occurred to Willow that this reality had burned away everything but her hatred, and a half-assed reunion with her lover's trans-dimensional twin wasn’t going to change that.  And she had a point; maybe it wasn’t the best time to reach out and touch someone, after all.

The visions we’re getting stronger as the Now grew near. Like echoes from the void, they sang of a death so vast it made all former apocalypses seem like spring cleanings. Meanwhile, back in Willow's own reality, the players were all gathering together for the endgame. Like pieces on the chess board, everyone would play their role, and their final moves were becoming more real by the minute. She saw the massacre, blood drenching the walls of the Watcher’s Council like a Jackson Pollak, and the whole of London swallowed by the Nurse's robe. She saw the fiend Drusilla grinning like a shark as she shredded an old masterpiece and destroyed the artist in the same, black stroke, and saw a boy falling into darkness, never to return.  The pieces were scattered and blurred, but it was becoming easier to see how they fit.  If she only had more time…

She followed the pair of ghosts out of the gymnasium and found a car waiting. A tall, cloaked chauffeur ushered them inside, and they were off, winding down an elaborate network of hidden paths that eventually landed them on a boulevard a few miles west of the campus limits. Oz and Tara discussed strategies and tactics, the names of a dozen unknown people peeling off their lips. But they seemed to keep coming back to one name, over and over.

“Who’s The Widow,” Willow finally asked.

Oz peered back at her guardedly. “She’s… an, uh, operative,” he said.

“And this operative, she’s going to help us… well, you know.”

“Let’s just say she has an old score to settle.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Not like this one,” she explained. “Settling old scores is what she does best.”

***

Three bottles loomed directly in front of her: tequila, tequila and something brown. Skaya opted for the safe bet, and mused that only in her fuck-tastic reality could ‘tequila‘ possibly fit that bill.

“Yo, barkeep,” she shouted, and slapped the table. “I’ll have an Agent Provocateur. Make it a double…”

The creature turned to face her, looking even sharper than usual in his immaculate white apron and crisp bowtie. He was so well put-together that even the horns and the neon green blaze of his skin seemed designed to complement the outfit, albeit in a somewhat cartoonish, demony way.

“Careful with those, honey,” he lisped. “You remember what happened last time.”

“Lorne, when I want your opinion, I’ll… never want your opinion, actually.”

The bartender shot her a pained, cautious grin. “Hey, your funeral, sweetie,” he said, then muttered something that she couldn’t quite hear, but decided to let go. He was a freemon – the demonic equivalent of a prisoner of war. And while they weren’t exactly “free,” the Revolution had decided to grant them a few privileges over the years – the big one being, of course, the right to exist. As things cooled down, a few of the less dangerous ones were given permits to travel in human zones, and even hold down menial jobs. She supposed it was one of those unintended consequences of The Revolution. When a third of your labor pool suddenly gets turned into newts and toads, you look for help wherever you can get it.

Even if that help is green and horny and a total…well, you know…

“Fag?” asked a musical voice behind her.

“Excuse me?” She spun to face the stranger. He was pale and petite, with jet black hair and eyes that seemed to be remembering a particularly filthy limerick. After a moment of looking into them, it occurred to Skaya that she was holding an unlit cigarette, and had been for about ten minutes straight. “Uh, got one thanks.”

“It’s funny, don’t you think?”

“What’s that?” she asked dryly, already losing interest.

He nodded at the barman. “I mean, we spend four years and zillions of dollars fightin’ his kind, and now we order a Guinness and hope he gives us a good pour.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s a regular laugh factory.”

The man flashed a salesman’s smile. “Didn’t catch you’re name,” he said.

“Didn’t throw it.” The guy was suddenly making her feel a little wiggy, and she started scanning the entrances and exits.

“Mine’s Allen. I’m sort of new to town.”

“Uh-huh.” Skaya honed in on a couple of dark-suited women in the dining section, realizing that they hadn’t touched their drinks in ten minutes. Nothing to freak out about, really. Not normally. But something was definitely up.

The guy went for something in his jacket. A long muscle in Skaya’s arm coiled like a cobra, preparing to slam a fist straight through the dude's scrawny throat. But Allen merely dropped a small business card on the table, flashed a tiny grin that might have been charming in other circumstances.

“Allen Francis Doyle, Paranormal Modeling Agent?” she read aloud. “That supposed to be some kind of a joke?”

“Not at all,” he laughed. “You’d be surprised at the demand for plus-human models in this day and age. There’s a virtual goldmine to be made in the supernatural lingerie market.”

“Who says I’m supernatural?” Buffy asked. Across the room, the pair of women stood, one by one, and retreated to the ladies room. She fired a glance at the balcony, sensing a sharp but subtle shift in the light there, and suddenly she realized shouldn’t have drank so much booze, or let anyone get this close.

(stupidgirlstupidstupidgirl)

“Now, now lass. You don’t stay in business as long as I without learning to spot someone who’s a bit… well, special.

A swooning wave swept through her, like a ripple in time. She stared in horror at her empty glass, then back up at Lorne. The demon was studying her with a look of clinical satisfaction, a fisherman admiring a very big, very blonde fish.

Remind me to slay you later, you green asshole.

“Special,” Skaya repeated, grabbing Dolye by the necktie. “Fair enough. You ready for my audition?”  Gripping the tie like a fulcrum, she launched the Irishman high over the bar. His body slammed into the mirror, showering the room with glass.

The next ten seconds were critical. The room convulsed with movement, people screaming, running in all directions. Among them, several undercover Revolutionary agents sprang into action, and for the first time ever Skaya was thankful her new employers were so suspicious of her loyalties. But they were all sitting ducks right now. Skaya had to find the enemy, before the drug sank in and took the fight out from under her.

A volley of gunfire erupted from the balcony, she found herself diving for cover behind the bar. In the same moment, the front doors exploded, sending the bouncer flying into the coat room, and sending the coat room flying down the stairwell. It was real power, whatever it was. And real angry.

No.

The monster sashayed to the center of the dance floor, hair blowing around her face in crisp, laser-cut rows. Two husky agents leapt in for the kill. She tore through them like a hot knife, a sadistic leer marring her beautiful, milk-fed face like a scar. Her ridiculous, sing-song voice rang out as she gave a man’s neck one final, violent twist.

“I heard this place is great for parties,” the vengeance demon chimed. “See, I’ve been planning a wake for a long time now. And you’re the guest of honor.”

Joints screaming, Skaya twirled onto the bar, flinging a broken shard of ‘02 Merlot. Anya brushed it out of mid-air, the face contorting into the grisly landscape unique to her ancient breed. Her eyes were twinkling with a murderous glee that she hadn’t seen since the good old days.

Murderous glee. She liked it more back then.

***

He gulped hungrily at the Glenfiddich, savoring the lovely, 12-year-old warmth that drizzled into the back of his brain. He had more edges to take off than he could realistically count, and tonight he planned to drink until he couldn’t count at all. Dawn had been gone for a couple of hours, and Xander was still marveling at how quickly he had gotten used to the new order of things. It was probably another leftover from that old Halloweenie spell. Military men respect the chain of command, and the concept of ‘service’ was usually deemed more important than who you, in fact, served.

There’s was a neatness to that. There was a neatness to the Scotch too. If the crappola was going to hit the fan tonight, Xander Harris wasn’t going to be a whole lot of help.

“Hey,” the voice came, both as flat and sudden and silvery as ever.

“Hey.” Buffy had appeared almost phantomlike, leaning in the short hallway that connected the living room to the kitchenette. Her expression was as crossed as her arms. “Drink?” he asked, and wiggled the bottle at her.

She mumbled something he didn’t quite catch, and moved into the light. As usual, she had somehow parlayed a fresh set of designer duds. A snug red sweater and calfskin skirt hugged her in all the wrong-slash-right ways. She was the best dressed mass murderess since Joan of Arc. Xander settled deeper into the lounge chair, and gave the bottle another good, hard tug. Buffy staked out a familiar brooding position by the window, the moonlight pooling in one visible eye.

“I saw Willow,” she whispered.

“Willow?  Willow where?”

“On TV.”

“On TV.” Something was convulsing inside him. “You mean, like… on the news?”

“No. She was doing… lunges. It doesn’t matter. She spoke to me, Xander.”

He lurched forward, mind whirring. “What did she say?”

“Not much. There was a lot of static, I guess.   I think she was trying to warn me. To warn all of us.”  Her gaze drifted sideways and down, away from a tiny lie.  “We need to find Faith.”

 “Faith?”  Xander snarked.   “And I guess it’s just this massive coincidence that she’s out chaperoning Sir Dies-A-Lot.”  As the words left, he tried to picture jamming them back in with his foot. But the blonde was still staring dreamily out the window. “Well, maybe Dawn could help with that.  She likes to keep tabs on people.”

“Maybe,” she said wistfully.  “Maybe not.  Call me crazy, but I think my kid sister and her new buddies know way more than they’re telling about this whole Kennedy deal.”

“Yeah, no duh. That Granger guy had a file on me going back to the fifth grade, when I pulled Kelly Ferucci’s hair in social studies.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Boy, they really weren’t kidding about those permanent records.”

“Wait. You talked to him?”

“Yeah,” he said.   “I mean, he took me on the grand tour, ya know? Soldier to ex-semi-super-soldier. And I tell ya, not such a bad guy, either. He means business, Buff.”

“And just when we’re you planning on telling me about your little private war council?”

Xander tried to will himself to stand up to her, then settled for a round of fierce finger-pointing. “Pardon me, your highness. But I haven’t seen you in two freakin’ years! You walked away from the game, Buff. Remember?  And you left Willow and me and Dawn to pick up the pieces.” He soothed his throat with another swig, turning over the thought inside his head. “And then Willow left me… to pick up, you know, a bunch of other pieces."

 "Xander..."

"And then, just a couple hours ago, Giles leaves too.  No more Council or Scoobies or whatever you wanna call it.  No more us.  Just a bunch of broken little pieces that barely even fit together. And me, I’m just… I'm just making this up as I go along.” He wound completely down, then, his voice trailing off into a hoarse whisper. Buffy Summers didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even look at him. There was a lake of ice between them, finally. And for once Xander was glad. It was the safest distance ever.

“You really hate me now,” she said, somber but still matter-of-fact. “Don’t you.”

“Hate you? What for? I swoop in for the big rescue, risk my taut and crispy buns against an army of psychotic Amazons, only to find you making lip pretzels with my sworn enemy?” He gargled back the last drop of scotch, smeared his face on his sleeve. “So what’s to hate?”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah.” He did stand this time, wobbling on gumby legs into the bedroom. “Me too.”

“Where are you going?”

“Getting dressed,” he called back. “Hey, I mean, if I’m gonna take my B-F-F out for a night on Olde London Town I might as well go in style.” He pulled an old pair of workpants out of the closet, laid his crossbow on the bed gently, like a wedding gown. “We'll call Andrew from the car.”

“No," she replied, in her familiar old Boss Lady voice.  "Let’s keep a light footprint. If Willow said what I think she said, things could get a little bit stabby.”

Xander poked his head out the door. “What is it you think she said?”

Buffy was standing in the hall. Her eyes were almost glowing, two embers in the darkness. “A name. Rhymes with Godzilla.” Xander blinked at her, clueless. “Sort of…”

“Oh,” he said, getting it. “Well, that sucks.”

***

It’s near one-thirty when they finally emerge; stumbling onto the curb, clasping each others shoulders in such a way that it was difficult to tell who was supporting whom. I recede deeper into my cover, guessing that, even sloshed, the vampire had a decent chance of sussing me out.

“Them suits and snappy salutes may have you fooled, but me I got experience,” Spike says.

“Please, spare me the whole Initiative violin routine. You got off lucky.  If it was me in charge, you’da been dust bunnies, babe.”

“Look, I'm no’ going back there, so you can just stuff it.”

Faith digs an elbow into his liver, tossing him backward. “Well, shit! Go find a cozy little graveyard. Like I wanna watch you two dweebs makin’ moon eyes at each other, while I do all the heavy lifting.”

“Oy! I’m the one who went traispin’ halfway around the globe to wrap up these bloody minges, while you and the platelet was playin’ house with them X-Files rejects. Sounds t’me like I been doing your lot’s job for you.”

“Oh, you mean when you pissed all over a sting operation I spent the last year of my life setting up? That what you’re talkin’ about?”

“No!  I’m talkin’ about saving lives!”

“HELP!”  We all see her at the same time. The woman hobbles around the corner from the alley behind Severin Street, feebly waving an arm like a leper. A neat wool sweater is torn in places by hard claws that draw a convincing amount of blood. Her curly auburn hair is a tangled mop over dark, intelligent eyes.  “Someone, please help me!”

“Steady, pet. What’s the damage?”

She paws pleadingly at the vampire’s shoulder. “Oh God… they came out of nowhere! Didn’t see them ‘til…” Her face goes dull with horror, a million mile stare. “Hazel. She’s still back there with them… Oh lord…”

“Right, no time to wait around for Him,” Spike says and tosses his gym bag at the Slayer. A moment later he is racing to the rescue, Faith in hot pursuit, shouting profanities. I track at a distance, keeping them in my line of sight. All of them.

The moment they disappear around the corner, our helpless damsel’s posture straightens menacingly, the body contorting into a predatory shape. Her wet, dark eyes gleam suddenly golden, and fangs descend. She leaps behind the wheel of a white van parked nearby, kicks the engine on hard and careens after them down the alley’s black throat.

I’m running as fast as I can manage, reaching the curb just as the van barrels back out onto Severin. I don’t know if they’re still alive or not. And if I don’t act fast, I never will.

I spy a lonely motorcycle leaning up against an all-night laundrette. My hands grip the old Skeleton Key in my pocket; a charm I learned to stop using a long time ago. That doesn’t stop me from mounting the bike, coaxing the steel purr from its gearbox. Pinching the damned thing.

It is not the worst thing I’ve done today.