So only are ye unbound;
Lift up a people from the dust,
Trump of their rescue, sound!
Connor paused, and tried to pull himself together. He, Willow and Oz were staked out in the backyard of semi detached, two storey house in the middle class suburb of Henbury. The houses, by the looks of them, had been built in the sixties, and without much TLC over the years, now sat on the shabby side of comfortable. The yards too were fairly scruffy, the gardens choked with unkempt shrubs and trees. Which, considering their need to keep undercover was actually pretty convenient.
They’d arrived in Bristol late on Saturday night, checked into the hotel that Willow had reserved for them and slept soundly through the night. The morning had been spent confirming the Felkin’s address and sorting out their cover story and the IT and magical backup they’d need. Connor had had to reign in the restless impatience that thrummed constantly through his nervous system, the desire, the demand to get on with Dawn’s rescue, but finally, finally, after a late lunch, they’d set off to navigate the unfamiliar streets of the historic English city and locate the Felkin’s home. That done, the team had been divided into three groups and without delay, they were off. Connor, partnered up with Willow and Oz, had been given backyard surveillance, with the added bonus of possible breaking and entering.
They’d had to sneak through an overgrown hedge that marked the border between the quiet little lane and the row of back gardens. That was difficult enough to manage stealthily, in the broad light of day, but then they’d had to scramble over a couple of rickety old fences as well. None of the tasks were physically difficult for Connor; any able-bodied teenage boy would be strong and fit enough to cope, let alone a super-powered whatever he was. But the subterfuge, the need to be quiet and light-footed and sneaky so they didn’t alert Dawn’s kidnappers, that was what was freaking him out.
He didn’t know much about his past, or at least his real past, but Connor was pretty sure that guile and deceit wouldn’t have been part of it. For a start, he couldn’t imagine that he’d be much good at being devious. Which is why he was hunkered down in some bush waiting for the sun to rise and the signal to be given, rather than sitting comfortably in the van with Wes and Fred. Apparently they were both sneaky and duplicitous enough (although they called it acting) to pull off the role of doorknocking Witnesses, there to spread the Good Word, and hand out a few relevant tracts.
They’d planned and practised their discourse, thrown in a few references to ‘glory and divine energy’ and how God’s truth would ‘light the pathways of the divine’, just enough to get the Felkins excited and hopefully invite them inside for a theological discussion. Connor had tried to spin the religious line along with his teammates, but he’d got so nervous that his eyes had bulged and he’d stammered and blurted out all sorts of nonsense. Wes had muttered “Liability” and Fred had patted him on the back and said “Never mind,” so when Oz offered him a spot on the ‘storming the backyard’ team, he’d gratefully accepted.
He could have stayed in the van of course, with Andrew, who was apparently in charge of ‘electronic surveillance’, which seemed to consist of tuning in the dials on a silver box and typing in stuff on his suped up laptop. But Andrew made him feel uncomfortable, what with his twitching and staring. So, hedge and fence scrambling duty it had been.
Which is why he was currently scrunched up uncomfortably under a prickly bush, trying desperately to slow his shallow breathing and calm his galloping heart. They were waiting from a signal from Andrew. Depending on whether or not Wes and Fred had successfully gained entry to the house, they were planning to either sneak into the house through the unlocked back door, or storm the premises. What he hadn’t counted on was the third option, retreat.
“Pull out, pull out,” Andrew’s breathless voice hissed through the ear bud of his wireless headset. “Mission is aborted. Immediate return to base. Repeat, immediate return to base.”
Connor’s already overtaxed heart skipped another couple of beats as he ran through the various ghastly scenarios that would result in a withdrawal. What he wasn’t prepared for a quick, whispered conversation between Willow and Oz, followed by a wry headshake.
“What?” he asked.
“Apparently Felkin’s not home,” Oz shared, “The boy’s out as well. And it doesn’t look like Dawnie’s there either. Mrs Felkin answered the door, and hers is the only life form in the house according to Willow.”
Connor sighed in relief, but before he had a chance to relax, the other two were off, crouched low as they dashed across the yard. He would have preferred to stick to the trees and bushes around the perimeter, but if he did that now he’d be left behind. So, a quick sprint it was.
Less than two minutes later they were scrambling through the van’s sliding door, tumbling onto the floor as Wes pulled away from the kerb. It was several minutes before they’d got themselves sorted and seated and belted in and could breath slowly enough to ask the relevant questions. Oz, who seemed to Connor an almost unnaturally calm sort of dude, was the one who asked, although in a more abbreviated way than the teen would have done himself, if he’d been capable of speech that is.
“So, what next?”
“Mrs Felkin volunteered the information that her husband was still at work. He rents a warehouse out in the Avonside Industrial Estate. Runs a plumbing supplies business out of the building supposedly.”
“Yes,” Andrew said, his fingers flying over the keys of his laptop as Wes eased the van onto a highway. “Avonside Plumbing and Supplies, registered to Mr David Felkin, ACIPHE Registered Plumber. Specializing in Commercial & Industrial, Contract Work, Domestic Heating, Domestic Plumbing, Sanitary and Drainage and Sheet Roofwork. Find us at Unit 4, Avonside Rd, Bristol.”
Wes nodded and turned left at the roundabout. It was 5.00 on a Sunday evening, so there was very little traffic about, and within another 10 minutes they were pulling up outside the brick and iron clad building. It was set well back from the road. Two cars were parked in the lot in front of a large roller door. Wes cruised past slowly, then made a u-turn and turned right, back onto Feeder Rd. He pulled into the entrance to a large carpark about 50 yards up the road, then drove back in the direction they’d just come from. After a sharp left turn he swung out and reversed the van into a parking space. They were hidden from the road by a hedge and several trees, and even better, they were parked right up against the rear wall of Avonside Plumbing.
Cautiously, Wes, Oz and Willow slipped out of the vehicle. Just before Oz slid the door closed, Connor gathered up his courage and clambered out after them. He was terrified, but something about the memory of Dawn’s big blue eyes and sarcastic little pout drove him forward. She was in trouble, and he would do whatever he could to help rescue her.
Scrambling over the chain link fence and breaking in through the back door was achieved surprisingly quickly, and with almost no sound, barring the reverberations of Connor’s thumping heart.
But before he even had a chance to panic, they were inside, creeping single file down a long narrow hallway, and then up a flight of stairs that Oz had indicated were the right way to go. That had been no surprise to Connor. Some instinct, some feeling inside was leading him forward, leading him upwards to where he could hear the faint murmur of voices and sense the faint prickle of what he guessed was magic. A rush of courage and determination and urgency washed over him, flooding his veins with fire. While the others stood outside the closed door, considering their next move, Connor shouldered them aside and pushed the door open.
The room was a long, plain rectangular box, the floor carpeted in dark blue felt and the walls painted white. Waning light filtered in from the high windows, its dirty glow revealing the tableau before him. Several dozen chairs had been laid out in rows, facing the far end of the room. An altar had been set up at that end, and various implements and artifacts were set out on the surface. The seats themselves were empty, as the dozen or so occupants of the room stood, forming a large circle, in the empty space between the chairs and the altar. They were robed; the gowns, of varying colors and design, were sashed and hooded. Collectively, the group was engaged in chanting monotonously (“Ah-tah”), and carrying out some sort of obscure, arcane one-handed isometrics. The room pulsated with the vibrations of their intonations and candles flickered in the gloom. All very ritualistic.
Directly in front of the altar, and facing it, someone who appeared to be the head honcho led the mantra (“Mahl-kooth”), while waving around a bright sword. As Connor moved closer, he could see that Dawn was lying in the center of the circle, an inert Sleeping Beauty, laid atop a large, sigil adorned rose cross. Even asleep or unconscious she was as stunningly beautiful as he remembered, a pale luminescence lighting up her fair skin and exquisite features. He recalled her haughty, dismissive attitude towards him, the way her blue eyes had flashed with disdain, and goose bumps broke out over his skin. She might turn her nose up at him later, but either way; he was determined to get her out of there.
Surprisingly, he hadn’t as yet been noticed, the robed initiates were so involved in their ceremony that they continued on unabated. Connor paused, his impulsiveness momentarily deserting him. Behind him, he felt rather than heard the others step into the room to join him. Finally, the worshipers, turning towards the door as they intoned the name “Rah-phay-el”, noticed that they were no longer alone. Pandemonium broke out and the Master stopped the ceremony abruptly, stepping towards them with his sword in hand.
“What is the meaning of this? This is a private gathering, on private property. You are trespassing. Leave now before I call the police.”
“Certainly,” Wes stepped forward, “Mr Felkin I assume?” He waited only long enough to witness Felkin’s frown and reluctant nod before continuing. “We would be most happy to leave you to your little ceremony, once we’ve recovered our friend. We would prefer to uplift her now, and without fuss or outside involvement. But if necessary, we have associates outside who can contact the police immediately. They’ve been searching for Dawn Summers for the last forty eight hours, and I’m sure they’ll be grateful to be able to solve this disturbing case of abduction and assault.”
Felkin shrank back, a look of panic crossing his face. Around him the other adepts shuffled and muttered, clearly alarmed to be connected in any way to such a crime. The rescue team were about to relax, and Connor got set to dart in between the robed postulants to grab Dawn up and spirit her away, when a large, florid faced man charged towards them. His features were twisted into an expression of fanaticism, and the glow of psychosis lit up his watery eyes.
“No,” the man shouted, globules of spit flying from his mouth as he spoke. “You shan’t have her. She is the Gate Mistress; she is the Key to the meaning of life. Through her we shall behold the truth, and our hearts and minds shall be opened,” he was ranting and gesticulating wildly, moving to stand between the Ashdown crew and Dawn.
Connor stepped back, leaving Wes to the negotiations. Willow had come forward, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the ex-Watcher, ready, if necessary, to use the magic she was so renowned for. In the meantime, the teenager snuck around behind the apprehensive troops, their confused murmuring and anxious shuffling an effective mask
The big guy, Mathers undoubtedly, started up again. “She has come to us from afar, a gift from the heavens. She is the Light that will deliver us from the darkness, the Truth that will bring us peace. Only the Key can open the door between this world and the next, and usher us through to that Glorious Realm where we will once again be made whole.” He stood now directly in front of Dawn, a wild beast zealously guarding its prey.
Wes stepped forward another half step, just enough to emphasize his composure and control, but not so far that he’d rattle the clearly unbalanced man further. “Seeking spiritual guidance and clarity is always a worthy pursuit,” he conceded glibly, “And I can only admire the dedication and sacrifice you’ve displayed to pursue your enlightenment to such ends.” At this point Wes drew himself up, his stance just a little taller, his voice and demeanor honed to a sharp edge, and infused with a grim authority. “But I can not condone nor even accept such actions as these, designed to exploit the gifts of another, an innocent, without consent or cognizance. These precepts do not align with the teachings of your order. This path will lead not to salvation, but to damnation and regret.”
Mathers froze, a look of such abject yearning and despair on his face that words were wholly unnecessary. Passion and fervor were one thing, but the ability to marshal his scattered mental energies together enough to counter such accusations was beyond the man’s capacity. He collapsed like a soufflé. Unexpectedly, given his earlier capitulation, Felkin stepped into the vacuum, an intuitive tag team substitution. “Now hold on a minute. I’ll grant we may have gone about this the wrong way,” he said steadily, reasonably “Swept away as we were by the excitement and anticipation of the auspices. But our intentions were pure, our veneration sincere. We believe she is indeed the Key to inner salvation, and the answer to all of the Mysteries.”
Felkin was calm, rational and determined, in a sense way more dangerous than Mathers because he could be quite implacable in his tenacity. Wes wasn’t about to surrender his high ground though. “You have no proof of that. And even if she does indeed possess abilities and powers that seem miraculous, those gifts are hers to share, to distribute as she deems fit. Yet to take her without consent, to attempt to harvest her power in this way, surely you cannot hope to attain Spiritual development through the unmitigated abuse of a mere child?”
The collective mood of the followers had become largely remorseful, hung heads and gasps of horror clearly communicating their shame and distaste, both for their own past sanction and for Felkin’s current arrogance. Tentatively a smaller figure stepped forward. Throwing the hood of his robe back, he revealed himself to be a teenager, no older than Dawn herself. Connor froze as he realized that this was likely the boy, Robbie Felkin, the chief’s own son. The kid placed a gentle hand on his father’s arm, the action equal parts appeasement and entreaty. Felkin senior started, jolted out of his intense debate with Wes, his tenacious defense of his actions, his beliefs, and turned towards the interjector. The boy spoke only one word; “Dad?” but the shape and tone of that word conveyed a wealth of unspoken emotions.
The father paused, rationality and basic instincts warring with the inexplicable sense of power and destiny that was currently flooding his psyche. David Felkin was a small man, ordinary, unremarkable, possessed of a boringly grey, normal life. This sudden proximity to such reserves of power, both mystical and political, had intoxicated him more thoroughly than any of the vaguely recollected, rowdy binge fests of his distant youth, or the solitary, late night, anaesthetizations performed with depressing frequency in his own front room. He loved his wife, his son, but he also felt trapped by them, hemmed into an endlessly long, tedious tunnel that had always seemed to lead in one direction, to one end.
Meeting Mathers, and reestablishing the Golden Dawn, had seemed to promise the possibility of an intersection, a fork, even, for God’s sake, a few s bends. But actually coming into contact with (after all, you couldn’t really call being in the company of a comatose person ‘meeting’) Dawn, just being in her presence, had impacted on him so strongly that it was as if a hole had been punched in the roof of his endless tunnel, and he’d been lifted, out of hopelessness, out of drabness, out of himself.
In the end, those paternalistic, nurturing instincts were washed away in a floodtide of greed and self-interest. This was his chance, his shot dammit, and he wasn’t prepared to throw it away, not for anything. Not for anyone. Even his own flesh and blood. Frowning, he looked at Robbie, a long, hard stare cementing his familial authority, and shook his head.
Having accepted his own stance, so effortlessly as it turned out, Felkin was not about to concede the treasure he’d worked so hard to recover. Never mind that he hadn’t really had to do much at all, beyond organizing a little band of earnest followers, providing transport, disseminating a little of his growing hoard of magic. Undoubtedly a side effect of the Key’s energy; his budding abilities were a delicious, addictive, flame, that could spread like wildfire through his veins and leap, arc-like from his fingers. There was no way that he was willing to let that slip through his fingers so readily, and if that meant keeping the girl where they had her, well so be it.
Desperation lent steel to Felkin’s backbone, and as he stepped backwards to stand abreast the deflated Mathers, the fire of fortitude lit up his features. “You are very much mistaken,” he said in a cold, distant tone. “We do not wish to abuse our Mistress, but rather worship and glorify her. For she is as a Goddess to us, and we her humble servants. You shall not take her, just to drag her back down to your own level, we will protect her with our very souls.”
It was a stirring speech, and it seemed to reignite a spark in Mathers, enough at least to steady the big man’s bearing. Felkin took heart from this and prepared himself for an outright attack. Magic floated around him, thickening the air with its tendrils. Desperately, arrogantly, he drew himself up and struck out, flinging a salvo of words and will in Wes’ direction. The magic flared, a shower of eldritch sparks, bright enough to temporarily light up the room, before fizzling out like cheap fireworks.
His parlor tricks had met the might of a true virtuoso. Unbeknownst to Felkin and his followers, one more powerful than they could ever imagine was in their midst, a being that was almost otherworldly in her might, but who had worked tirelessly to keep her feet on the ground. Willow worked hard at keeping the darkness at bay, at tempering genius with humility, but it was impossible to deny that she was fast becoming one of the most preeminent witches of the modern era. She was able to draw on a seemingly bottomless well of power, and her cunning and daring in crafting and shaping things to her will was finally matched by an understanding of and respect for the natural order and balance of the world.
Added to that, the gifts she’d received since beginning her Guardian training, not least of which was the addition of an almost transcendent aspect to her demeanor, and Willow was undeniably coming into the apex of her abilities. Now, here she was, up against a clutch of misguided fools, lead by a rank, arrogant amateur. An ironic little twitch graced the corner of her lips as she remembered Giles’ words. She guessed he’d been right in a way. He’d needed work on his delivery, that was for sure, but his intention, to guide her away from conceit and self-interest, had been pure. Now, in some small way, she could pay Giles’ advice forward, and try to guide Felkin away from the edge of the voracious pit of overweening pride.
He definitely had a natural, raw talent for bending the world to his will, undoubtedly some unexplored, inherent ability that had passed down to him as part of his birthright. But he had little in terms of power of his own, and had obviously never learned how to access and draw on the energy that exists all around us. Instead, finding himself in such close proximity to the super battery that was Dawnie would have not only roused those latent skills, but also awakened the electrifying, addictive thrill that accompanied such semblance of control and invincibility.
But it was only a façade, and a mere drop of power compared to the vast ocean at Willow’s command. She had blocked Felkin’s spell with little more than a blink of her emerald eyes and a single word, thought rather than spoken. The word had thrown a protective wall around Wes, Oz and herself, and Felkin’s little spell had dashed against it like a pebble against a mighty fortress. The shock on his face was almost amusing, or would have been if it hadn’t been so quickly covered over with anger and guile.
“So,” he said, “One of you has some skill of his or her own. I don’t think it will help you any, not when we have righteousness,” Felkin paused as he took another step back and dropped into a crouch, before waving his sword around in front of him, “And power on our side.”
It seemed clear that he was going to make a grab for Dawn, whether to use her safety as collateral, harm her in some way, or attempt to draw off her power was unknown, but the desperate lunge he made suddenly spurred everyone into action. Willow was first, throwing a command to ‘thicken’ at the air around Felkin, while Oz and Wes moved forward, ready to physically attack. The initiates gasped and scrambled backwards, pressing themselves up against the walls, desperate to distance themselves from their leader and his delusional behavior. The boy, Robbie, was caught in the middle, fear driving him away, even as concern for his dad stayed his retreat.
Willow’s first command did little to slow Felkin down. His final actions, grabbing hold of Dawn’s jumper with his left hand, while prescribing a protective pentagram in the air with his sword wielding right, served to shield himself from the major impact of the spell. Powered as it was by Dawn’s energy, his counter carried enough weight to block all but a small faction of Willow’s cantrip, enough that he could still move, albeit slowly, and use his blade to slash through the last of the directive.
The surge of triumph that welled up through Felkin’s body barely had time to register. Willow now stood directly before him. Calmly, almost gently, she flicked the adept’s shield away, exposing the man to both her own magic and to the physical threat of Wes and Oz.
“No,” he screamed, spinning to throw himself down across Dawn in a frantic, last ditch attempt to preserve his claim over her. Off balance and wild with despair, Felkin tripped, the sharp edge of his blade flying towards Dawn’s torso. The room seemed to move in slow motion, Willow’s scream as she raised her hand, Wes’s dive towards Felkin a flying tackle, while the congregation’s chorus of horrified groans and gasps provided the background accompaniment.
But it was Connor’s desperate lunge that really stopped everyone in their tracks. During the great showdown, he’d been slowly inching his way closer and closer to Dawn. Coming in from the left turned out to be beginner’s luck. Felkin, by attaching himself to the girl with his left hand, created a substantial blind spot to his right. Connor was able to noiselessly sidle in towards the action, so that by the time the man turned to strike, he was crouched directly behind, at Dawn’s outstretched feet.
He dove at Dawn the minute he saw Felkin spin round, his slim body darting at light-speed between the girl’s cataleptic form and the sharp edge of the descending sword. The displaced air and Connor’s leading arm caught the blade’s bite just before Willow’s ‘prohibere’ did, disrupting both it’s journey and it’s vicious intent. The steel tore into his right triceps, deep enough that he felt the sting, but not so far that it compromised the arm’s functionality. As Connor landed, atop Dawn, but slightly twisted to his left, he scooped her up and rolled, away from the now immobile Felkin and his inert weapon, away from the danger.
The stunned silence was almost instantly interrupted by the dull thud of Wes’ body colliding with Felkin’s as the ex Watcher took the immobile priest out with an impressive looking rugby tackle. Oz leapt over the tangle of bodies to dash in and retrieve the sword, and most of the congregation took the opportunity to hightail it out the backdoor, away from the fear and danger, and away from the sort of violence and chaos that they’d probably thought never to witness outside of their daily dose of televised drama. Just a handful remained, Robbie Felkin and Chuck Mathers amongst them, their faces full of shock, tempered by concern.
The clean up was pretty quick from that point on. Wes and Oz got Felkin propped up and cuffed before Willow lifted the immobility spell. The man seemed dazed and forlorn rather than vengeful, and cooperated fully when asked about Dawn’s catalepsy.
“Uh, yeah, its just a simple spoor spell,” he admitted, “Along with an impedia enchantment to block any attempts to locate her presence. I don’t really have the skill or the power to do much more.”
“So you’ll be happy to lift those right now,” Willow said snappishly, her expression and tone of voice suggesting that there was no room for negotiation.
“Yeah,” Felkin sighed, “No problem. Except, um hands?” He shrugged and shook his cuffs.
As soon as they were removed, he flung his hand out in Dawn’s direction, and uttered the command “Expergo!” Dawn, still cradled in Connor’s lap, slept on.
Felkin sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think,” he mumbled, “Don’t think I’ve got enough juice left to wake up a kitten.”
Willow strode up to him and took his hand. “Try again,” she said firmly. Felkin started and looked up at her, his expression full of wonder and enchantment. This time the command flew through the air, and almost immediately Dawn began to wriggle and stretch. Slowly her eyes fluttered open, long, sleepy blinks until she could focus on her surroundings. Staring up at Connor’s wide blue eyes and worried expression, she frowned and tentatively reached a hand out to touch his cheek.
“You?” she croaked, her voice rough from days of disuse. “You’re real? Where, where am I?”
~~~
Slowly, Dawn struggled to sit up. The boy, the floppy haired boy (and Oh My God, was it really him and what was he doing here, and why was he looking at her like that?), helped her, propping her up against his side, arm braced around her shoulders as Willow and Oz rushed over to provide her with a slice of familiarity. Willow skipped through an abbreviated explanation. A kidnapping, a ritual, a clash of magics and Connor’s life-saving lunge, just the bare details, not enough to understand why? or how? but more anyway than her flitty, floaty brain could currently cope with. Her eyes combed the room, cataloging the make up of the rescue team, and a small vertical line appeared between her brows, marking confusion as to the inclusion of some, the absence of others.
Meanwhile, Willow was back in Generalissimo mode, talking earnestly with Wes (why was he here?) about the fate of the small, rather pitiful looking man, obviously the bad guy, in front of them. Next to the Little Bad, an anxious teenager hovered, hanging onto every word of the conversation, nodding or shaking his head dutifully where appropriate, in a way that kicked the usual parent-child dynamic on it’s ass. The boy nodded again and glanced towards Dawn, and she was shocked to realize she knew him. Robbie! One of her Religious Studies classmates. Something drifted near the edges of her memory, something about the sick room at school. She had a funny feeling it all tied together somehow, but her synapses were obviously on strike. A side effect (hopefully temporary) of the stasis spell, no doubt.
Before she’d managed to connect the dots, Robbie was walking towards her. Dawn tensed up, and floppy haired boy, Connor, tucked her more firmly in against his side. Weird that snuggling up to a perfect stranger should somehow make her feel safe, but it was likely just more short-term spellage collateral. Bound to wear off before long!
“Um, hi Dawn,” Robbie said, “How, how are you feeling?”
Dawn frowned, irritation and disbelief replacing the earlier burst of anxiety. Her eyebrows reached up towards her hairline, leaching the warmth out of her gaze as they climbed. “How do you think I’m feeling Robbie? I thought,” the self righteous anger deserted her so quickly that she was left feeling sad and out of kilter, “I thought you were my friend!”
“Oh God Dawn, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I just thought it would be so awesome, and that you’d think so too, and my Dad seemed so happy and kind of bigger or more or something, for the first time ever, and then things just got kind of out of hand. I think,” he paused, chewing his bottom lip as he frowned, “I think my Dad went a little crazy there for a bit, or even a lot. It was bloody scary, most of all because it looked like he was really gonna hurt you. And now I wish that I’d never, ever told him about you, or talked you into getting him to drop you off at home.”
Wow, being grown up really sucked, if it meant you had to be all magnanimous and forgiving. But then, he did look really remorseful, so she figured she could afford to be a little generous. “Ok Robbie, I guess I forgive you. But you’d better never do anything like this again, or I’ll be siccing witches and werewolves and vampires and crazy Amazon chicks on you faster than you can blink.”
“And me,” Connor said fiercely.
“Yeah, and him!” she agreed, adding, “Whoever you are!” under her breath.
It might have been a good time for finding that out, sharing the life rundown thing with one another. She still thought he was a bit of a weirdo, but apart from his name, Connor, which oddly seemed to ring a bell somewhere in the dark reaches of her muddled memory, she didn’t know anything about him, while he probably already knew heaps about her. She couldn’t even work out why he was here, although seeing as he was with Wes, maybe he was like a nephew or something. So that had to be a plus right? And okay, he was probably over the top annoying, but he was kinda cute, even with the floppy hair. Also, major bonus points for the saveage. Pretty white knightish!
But just as she worked up the courage to ask him about his background, Wes signaled that it was time to go. Willow had been speaking very sternly to Felkin the whole time, and he’d been nodding miserably, but now his expression was tempered by a dash of hope and determination, and colored by a flood of admiration, whenever he looked at Willow. Some sort of agreement had obviously been reached.
Connor scrambled up and immediately reached down to help Dawn to her feet. Unexpectedly and embarrassingly, her legs were still as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, and she slumped sideways as soon as she was vertical. Connor caught her and swept her up into his arms, his face a study of concern and pride. Undoubtedly, the attempt at standing, along with the sudden swooping, was responsible for the lightheadedness she seemed to be experiencing, and was the reason she decided it would be safer to wrap her arms around his neck.
She needn’t have worried. Connor held her gently but firmly and headed towards the doorway. As they neared the rows of seats, the guy who was sitting in the front stood up and lurched towards them. He was staring at Dawn, a light of rapture in his eyes.
Dawn eeped, and Willow, who’d been walking behind them, and had witnessed the man’s reaction, stepped forward. “Mr Mathers, we need to get Miss Summers home.”
The man, Mathers, nodded, but continued to just stand there, staring. “Pretty,” he crooned, reaching out towards Dawn’s shoulder, pulling back only at the last moment as Dawn shrank further into Connor’s arms. He blinked and shook his head, seeming aware once more, both of his surroundings and how his own actions might look. “I saw you back then of course,” he added, almost to himself. “Back when the Beast had you in her grips. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen, bright, glowing light. A message of such hope in the grey world I’d been dragged into. I’m awful glad she didn’t kill you, and even happier that the walls didn’t come down the whole way.”
“Um, thanks, I guess,” Dawn whispered, big cobalt eyes shiny with exhaustion and residual fear. It suddenly hit her who this guy was, what had happened to him. All because of her, in a way. “I’m sorry that Glory did the brain sucky thing on you. She was a real bitch.” They nodded at one another, mutual experiences bonding them.
“Willow,” Dawn asked, “Is there anyway that we can help Mr Mathers?”
Willow smiled and shook her head in amazement. Here was Dawn, fresh out of an abduction, and the first thing she wanted to do was help one of her kidnappers. “It would mean using a little of your energy, but yeah, I think we could give him a little boost, enough to realign his synapses anyway.”
“Okay, do it,” Dawn said firmly.
Willow put her right hand on Mathers’ head and held Dawn’s left hand in her own. She closed her eyes and muttered a few words under her breath, and the man’s head seemed to glow with a pale eldritch light. It only lasted a few seconds, but once Willow dropped her hand, Mathers blinked and opened his eyes as if awakening from a dream. Wonder and elation radiated from his overflowing eyes, and his tears spelt out the joy of rescue after so many years left wandering in the wilderness. It had been such a simple thing, but it gave a man back his life. Dawn wondered why they hadn’t thought of doing such a thing earlier.
After a rather effusive display of gratitude and promises of life long fealty, they finally escaped out the door and down the stairs. One of Ashdown’s vans was waiting for them at the front door and not before time. Dawn was exhausted, but she knew that Connor wasn’t doing much better, the fine trembling of his muscles as he held her signaling his fatigue. The back door slid open, and Fred appeared, another mystery addition to the team, then the driver leapt out, and there was Andrew gushing and fussing and extoling her courage and Connor’s heroics and making a bunch of comparisons with Princess Leia and Han Solo.
Finally, everyone was in the van and they were off, headed back to Ashdown, back home. Dawn sat in the back, next to Connor, on his left side so that she wouldn’t knock the freshly bandaged gash on his right arm. It had taken Fred to spot the boy’s injury, and Dawn had sat back, feeling selfish and clueless and guilt-ridden, while she watched him being patched up. Connor had grinned at her woeful expression, and held his hand out to her, pulling her into the seat next to him, not letting go as they belted up and set off.
It was late before she thought to ask. The waning moon was playing tag with a few scuttling clouds and her fellow passengers were silent, either sleeping or in a quiet, drowsy, contemplative state. “Um, guys, sorry to be a pain, but can anyone tell me where Buffy and Spike are?”