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Chapter 36
Trembling, Buffy’s hands went to zip her jacket closed--shit, but it was cold--only to notice that she wasn’t wearing one. Why the hell had she stepped outside, in the biting wind, without a coat? She could almost hear her mother scold her: ‘you’re going to catch the death of you--where are your hat and mitts?!’ If the weather in London changed this quickly, she was going to have to make a habit of wearing layers.
She frowned, noticing for the first time that she was standing in the middle of a courtyard, among the remains of a long-neglected garden. What the heck was this place? Even better, why the hell was she there?! Last thing she remembered, she was at the Council with Ruth, sucking at feeling her aura. Maybe she did something wrong--maybe she teleported herself there. “Figures I’d do something completely wrong--Spike’ll never let me live this down.”
Stuck in the middle of... whatever this place was, and obviously alone, she fought back a surge of panic. What the hell was she going to do?! She took a deep breath and remembered what Giles always told her: ‘Buffy, please look around you before asking so many questions. I won’t always be there to answer them for you. We’ve been through this before: take in your surroundings, gather all the information you can...’ Well, Giles sure as heck wasn’t there, unless he was hiding, which was so not like him. That left the information gathering up to her. Lifting her chin up high, jaw set with determination, she... rubbed her arms to keep the shivering down to a minimum. Stupid cold; why couldn‘t I have teleported myself to Greece, or something?
Her first self-appointed task was to take a good look at where she was. Dry, yellowed weeds choked what once must have been a beautiful place. Vines strangled the skeletal remains of small trees and covered narrow pebbled pathways in a tangled mess, making it almost impossible to venture anywhere. A fountain at its centre was cracked and the only water that filled it was a bit of stagnant rainwater. The statue that adorned it--a saint, Buffy assumed--looked sad, as if he was forever tied to the death that surrounded him. It was a desolate, depressing place, chilling Buffy to the bone more effectively than the breeze.
The building itself wasn’t familiar to her, but she was sure that she’d seen pictures of places like it; it was like a castle, or something as old as one. The courtyard was surrounded by four walkways, each enclosed by a waist-high wall topped with dozens of archways that towered over the small garden. Everything was either cut from, or made of, stone.
Over two of the walkways--the ones to her right and left--was a second floor, complete with tall, narrow glassless windows. She shuddered, thinking of how cold it must be in those rooms.
Straight ahead of her was one of those tower-thingies. What had Spike called them? Turrets--that’s it. She did a mental Snoopy dance, proud that she’d actually retained something from that night with Spike, other than memories of their first knee-weakening kiss. The turret’s grey stone was marred by patches of mould and it loomed above her sternly as if watching her every move, ready to chastise her if she went out of line.
She turned on her heel, wanting to see what lay behind her. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight. The main building loomed overhead, almost as high as the turret across from it, but much wider. Massive, it was menacing in its mere presence. Its stone was as dull and mouldy as the turret’s, but it had also begun to crumble. Her heart beat faster--for some reason, she feared this place. Just knew that it was evil. Maybe, once, it had been good, but the weight of time had crushed its spirit, erasing any happiness from its confines.
Buffy walked out of its line of sight, wanting to remove herself from its disapproving gaze. She could see no opening or doorway leading to the walkways, so she hopped over the wall through one of the archways. She could feel the cold of the stone even through her jeans, and as she landed on her feet an icy wind wrapped itself around her shivering form, causing her hair to dance about.
Almost immediately a doorway loomed beside her, dark, gaping and not altogether inviting. But hey--at least I’ll be inside, away from this bloody wind. Great. Now I’m beginning to talk like him... Smiling to herself despite the oppressive atmosphere, the young woman entered the wing.
“Or maybe not,” she added out loud as dampness was added to the still-present wind. Her words fell flat against the walls as if they had been absorbed. The lack of echo was disconcerting, but instead of letting the wig factor get to her the Slayer chose a path--she just knew she had to choose the entrance that lay ahead of her--and followed it.
***
“How long has she been like this?” In full watcher mode, Amelia took critical stock of Buffy’s inert form. The young woman sat cross-legged on the mat, eyes closed and hands on her knees. Her chest rose and fell steadily, indicating that she was still alive, but it was clear that her spirit was elsewhere.
Ruth stood behind the watcher, just as perplexed as the two others. “About half an hour. We were still working on getting her to feel her aura when it happened. I was helping her reach deep inside of herself, to feel her energy, when I heard her breathing even out as it should. After a long silence--which was strange, since she should still have been aware of her surroundings--I asked her what she could feel, but she didn’t answer me. I’ve tried to wake her, but nothing’s worked. She’s in some kind of trance, obviously, but it must be very deep--I’m afraid she may have tapped into her Slayer...”
“Well,” Amelia stood up, straightening the creases out of her pants, “it looks like we have a bit of research to do.”
At those words, Spike--who despite his frantic pacing seemed to have been temporarily forgotten--threw his hands up in the air. “Research?! This isn’t the bloody time for research! We‘ve got to do something!” Fucking watchers--all alike. The bleached blonde bristled at the seeming nonchalance the watcher was displaying.
Not in the mood for the vampire’s tirade, the watcher snapped back. “And what do you suggest we do? Slap her? Yell at her? Wave some smelling salts under her nose? Buffy’s condition is obviously mystical in nature and unless you’re holding back none of us have the answer at our fingertips.” The woman sighed, resting the palm of her hand across her eyes. When she spoke again her voice was calm. “We all want Buffy back, William, but right now our only option is to pour through the Council’s literature and see what we can find.”
Tossing another glance at the Slayer’s still form, Spike nodded. She was right--it would do Buffy no good to waste time pacing a groove into the floor. As he turned toward the door, he mumbled under his breath. “Betcha she‘s sleeping. Probably one of her bloody Slayer dreams again...”
***
“So, Monty, should I take door number one or door number two?”
After having walked through endless corridors, Buffy came to the first fork in her path. The small room contained an old table, a few chairs, and a built-in fireplace. It might once have been a kitchen of some sort, or maybe just a place to take the weight off your feet and warm up on cold days. Unfortunately for the Slayer, there was no one to tend to the fire; the room was just as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the building.
Two doors led out: one straight ahead of her and one on the wall to her right. She closed her eyes and let herself be guided. Her Slayer sense was very strong here, its power coursing through her body. “Right it is, then,” she decided as--once again--something told her which path to take. Playing with the handle, she winced at all the noise it made. Over time the wooden door had warped, causing the lock to jam. “Where’s a can of WD-40 when you need one?” Although she could have just kicked it in, Buffy preferred to remain as stealthy as possible.
Finally, under a yank that was more Slayer than Buffy, the door gave way and she found herself facing a narrow stairwell. The stairs were steep and if it hadn’t been for the faint orange glow she could see at their bottom, she would have turned back. This was almost too much, even for a Slayer.
As she made her way down, slippery step by slippery step, the silence began to take its toll on the young woman. Even in the wee hours of her night-time patrols, there were familiar sounds: owls hooting, wind rustling leaves, cars in the distance. But the nothing that surrounded her in the constricted passageway frightened her. She could feel a draft coming from somewhere; cool tendrils danced around her ankles like long icy fingers, tickling her skin and making her shiver. Everything about this place was playing on her nerves.
When she finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Buffy broached the last step and peered around the corner, curious about the light’s origin. She scanned the room, looking for anything that might pose a danger--demons, humans, shifty-looking furniture... The chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling reaching high above her. Satisfied that the coast was clear, the Slayer entered with a combination of trepidation and excitement. Although she was frightened and her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest, there was that tingle of excitement she always felt when faced with the unknown.
At first glance, the room seemed empty. There was no furniture or weapons that she could see. Just a bare stone floor, four grey walls and about a dozen supporting columns. But as she continued to scan the room, a black and white flash at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Turning on her heel, she tried to catch what she had almost seen. Instead, she found herself staring at a lone chair set in front of a wooden stage.
“Okay, now I know that wasn’t there a minute ago.” The young woman crossed the hall. After the dead silence of the upper hallways and stairs, the echo of her footsteps made her jump. The only entrance was the one she had used, at the base of the stairs. So how did someone sneak in not only a chair (a nice comfy-looking one, at that), but also a full-sized wooden platform? She walked along the stage’s perimeter, looking for a clue--footprints, a hole where someone might be hiding, heck, even a Home Depot sticker. But nothing was askew. It simply looked like it had always been there.
Think, Buffy. What did all this mean? There’s a stage, and a chair. Stage... chair... stage... chair... She looked at the chair again. There was only one. And she was the sole person in the room. Could it really be that easy? Of course, the only way to find out was to try it out.
So she sat down, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the stage was set and the actors had taken their place.
“What on earth...”
***
“...did you just say?!”
Spike turned back to glare at the two women. First they want to research, now they want to chit-chat. “What, the bit about the Slayer sleeping? Never seen a chit so in love with her bed. You‘d think that with...”
“No--what you said after. About her dreams. Have you ever witnessed one?” Internally, Amelia was kicking herself--why hadn’t she thought of this?! No wonder the Council kept passing her over when potentials were called...
It didn’t take long for the vampire to figure out what both the witch and the watcher were thinking. Pushing the door back to a close behind him, he leaned against it and watched the Slayer for a moment before answering. “No. She just told me about ‘em. Mentioned how they’d helped against some baddie a few years back.” He cocked his head, his gaze never having left his lover’s still form. “You really think that that’s why she’s like this?”
The witch was the first to answer. “I have little doubt, now that I think of it. She was reaching deep inside of herself--into her Slayer--when she fell into the trance. Who knows what she may have tapped into? I don’t think the Council fully understands these girls’ premonitory dreams yet.” 
Spike bit back about half a dozen jibes about what the Council was good at--namely sending young women off to their potential deaths every night. Instead, he pretended to absorb what the witch had said. “So what you’re saying is that we’ve no way of knowing where her mind is, or when she’ll wake up?”
“Exactly.” Once again, both women answered in chorus. Given different circumstances, their timing could have been considered comical. But with Buffy’s body in the room with them, her mind elsewhere, none of the three could find reason to laugh.
Sighing, Spike slid down the wall and landed on his rear with a solid thump. “Well, wherever she is, she better be having a better time than we are...”
***
“Good evening, Miss Summers.” The man in the red and yellow harlequin outfit took a deep bow and smiled warmly. “I do hope that you find your seat comfortable.”
At a loss for words--this was way weird--Buffy simply managed to nod in accordance. Her Slayer sense was sounding the alarm bell, but she wasn’t getting any negative vibes from the mysterious troupe of actors. Whether they were ghosts or whatever, they didn’t seem evil. Of course, those were always potential ‘famous last words’...
He clapped his odd-coloured hands as giddily as a five-year old about to get a cookie. “Wonderful! Oh, I’m so glad to finally meet you...” A loud harrumph from behind him caused him to pause. Regaining his poise, he started over. “What I mean, of course, is that we’re all happy to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to this for over a century.”
A century?! Ok, now was the time for the Slayer to find her voice. She watched them set the stage, then spoke up. “Wait! Who are you? What do you mean, ‘a century‘--how did you know this was going to happen? Why didn’t you stop it?” The barrage of questions just came out unbidden; Buffy blushed at her impertinence (well, that’s how she viewed it). “Sorry about that--I didn’t mean to go all Spanish Inquisition on you, but...” Her apology was interrupted by various members of the troupe, who all decided to speak at once.
“Oh, what a curious nature!”
“Such a polite young woman, too!”
“And beautiful.” A younger actor sighed wistfully. “No wonder the vampire loves her so...”
The harlequin shushed them all with a ’tut!’ and turned his attention to his audience. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we won’t be able to answer all your questions. Things can be seen from far away but cannot be changed. The sapling that you see from a distance will be a majestic oak when you reach it--nothing you do will change that. However, when you reach the tree, your options are wide open. You can cut it down, you can climb it, you can hang a swing from it, you can leave it be. That’s why we are here now. The time has come for us to decide upon our actions and we choose to help you as best as we can. We have no magic to offer, no weapons to lend you; what we do have to share, though, is just as powerful. We shall give you knowledge.”
With that, he bowed gracefully and turned his back to Buffy, leaving her to digest his words.
Power in knowledge...  
***
“Gin!”
“Oh bugger.” Amelia slammed her cards down onto the table. Mumbling, she counted the value of her useless cards. “Thirty-six points. That’s eight games straight, William. You’ve got to be cheating! Just admit it, will you? It‘s not like I‘m going to be surprised.”
Incensed, the vampire sat straight up. “Cheating?! Bloody hell, woman, you dealt the last hand! How the hell am I supposed to pull that off? S’not my fault you’re a shit gin player...”
The watcher pushed her cards over to her opponent and muttered a grumpy ‘oh, go fuck yourself’ before tallying Spike’s points.
As he dealt himself and the watcher their cards, Spike looked up and called out to Ruth. “You sure you don’t want to play?”
Nose stuck deep in a book, the witch shook her head without looking up. “For the last time, no. I’ve had enough negative energy for today, thanks.” 
The vampire and watcher looked at each other and shrugged innocently. “Suit yourself, then. The bickering’s just part of the fun.”
Rolling her eyes, Ruth sank deeper into her chair, trying her damnedest to block out the constant arguing; as amicable as it was supposed to be, it was still a drain on the witch’s positive karma. Anyway, who ever heard of good-naturedly calling someone an asshole?
As if they’d sensed the older woman’s mood, the two card players toned down their quarrelling. The flicking of cards was the only sound to permeate the sudden silence, until a loud ‘ha!’ was heard from the Slayer’s side of the room.
The watcher, the witch and the vampire all dropped what they were holding, kicked back their chairs and ran to the young woman. Amidst their chorus of ‘are you ok?’ ‘what happened?’ and ‘Christ, love, you scared the shit outta me’, she managed to utter four important words.
“I know his weakness!”
Author’s Note
Thought I’d dropped off the face of the earth, eh? Well, almost. I’m so sorry this chapter’s been long in coming, but I’m trying to make this a worthwhile story to read. I’m a devout believer in quality, not quantity. Anyway, my life right now doesn’t lend itself to quick and easy writing. Liam’s nine months old right now and he’s fully mobile--almost walking. Which means that 95% of my attention has to be on him, the cats and anything he can get his hands on/stuff in his mouth. Scary stuff, folks. Also, I’ve started a part-time job certain evenings, because the pittance paid while you’re on mat leave doesn’t do much for bills. But this story’s at the back of my mind almost all the time--I’m constantly plotting, writing, thinking, but the actual putting down on paper doesn’t come so easily. Thanks to all for sticking with me and, as usual, please feed me some reviews :)





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