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chapter 11: mary magdalene – part III

It wasn't going to be the way anyone expected, vowed Anya as she tugged at the hem of her skirt. No, not what anyone would expect from her at all. There would be no running away too soon or disastrously inappropriate words falling out of her mouth too often. She'd immediately make certain he understood just how important it was to her that a portal jumper—no, the portal jumper—had chosen her.

Then for what felt like the umpteenth time, she tucked in the shirttail of her bright white blouse and gave herself the pep talk. “Be strong, be brave and calm,” she said loudly as she zigzagged slowly across the lawn toward the man standing near the wooden bench.

He was leaning against the trunk of an old cherry tree in his blue seersucker suit and white gym shoes, casual and confident in his leisurely pose. He reminded her of the tailored young men she'd seen in New Orleans back in the 1930s, except for the shoes. Anya had spent quite a few vengeful nights in the South during that decade, frying the balls of frisky clergymen. She recalled how those soon-to-be neutered men had stood pontificating at the pulpit, not knowing it would be their last sermon. The portal jumper looked quite commanding braced against a length of wood, just like they had during their last hurrah. Too bad she couldn't wreak any vengeance against him, she thought solemnly.

A band of children scurried past Anya, laughing nervously as they fled from their moms and their tail-wagging dogs. She paused, letting them pass as she stopped to straighten her collar and brush the hair away from her face. He had to be able to see her eyes when they met. He had to see that she was not afraid.

A little girl bounced off Anya's leg, and she watched her spin in a circle making tiny patterns in the grass with her feet as a far too excited puppy nipped at her heels.

Anya kept her hands at her side, resisting the urge to tug at her skirt. Instead, she combed her fingers through her hair. It felt messy, out of place. Glancing down, she thought her blouse was too white also. And hadn't she been clumsy all day? Sure, she tripped over her words sometimes. Still, she rarely stumbled over her own two feet. If it hadn't been for Xander, she would have fallen on her face.

Suddenly Anya recalled that until that day, she hadn't seen Xander since she'd walked out on him and moved into Spike's crypt. She hadn't even thought about him that much since the spell, not even during the endless hours she'd spent walking through the streets of Sunnydale trying to remember what was missing from her once shiny human life. All Anya knew was that after the spell she no longer loved Xander, but didn't know why. She feared Willow, but couldn't explain what was different about her. She pitied Tara, without compassion. And Giles had become a drunken spineless buffoon. But mostly, there was Xander and she didn't love him anymore and she didn't know why.

Anya shook her arms as if they'd gone numb and needed fresh blood pumped down from her shoulders to her fingertips. The skin on her forehead felt scratchy and the corners of her mouth dry. She looked up, took one more step forward and stopped in front of the man, leaning against a tree, wearing an old-fashioned summer suit in mid-December. Even in Southern California, he looked out of place.

“Did you ever travel to Rome?” he asked.

Anya stared at his lips as he spoke, but could barely hear his words. She could feel the vibrations of his baritone circling inside her head though.

“Of course, you've been to Rome, a vengeance demon teleports from place to place at a whim to levy her justice. You've definitely seen Rome.”

By his appearance, she guessed he'd been of the same age as she a thousand or so years ago when fate changed both their destinies. “Yes, I've seen Rome,” she said, calmly.

“Well, we won't see it again, now will we,” he stepped away from the tree and extended pale thin fingers out to her. Without hesitation, she took his offered hand. He curled her arm around his, pulling her close to his side and began leading her toward the row of reddish pink rose bushes at the far end of the park.

“What is it that you believe I want from you, Anyaka?”

“You said you wanted to talk.” Her voice felt small in her throat.

“I rarely talk to my prey,” he slowed his pace, and took the fingers of his other hand and placed them on top of their entwined arms and squeezed. “But you aren't prey, are you?”

“What am I?” The words gushed out of her mouth, and she bit down on her lower lip hard to stop it from quivering.

“My muse,” he breathed, smiling.

Anya was mesmerized as she looked directly into his eyes for the first time. They were the color of oceans on a brilliantly bright day. She certainly hadn't expected him to have such lovely eyes or for his skin to be porcelain cream or for his nose to be angled just so. Then again, he'd been a Roman philosopher when his life was his own. He'd studied nature and elaborated upon the virtues of a special kind of romance.

His affair was with birds, plants and the changing sky. Indulgences of the flesh were foreign, evil, and intolerable to him. Anya was surprised that he'd even talk to a vengeance demon, a creature that credited its existence to the arbitrary twists and turns of physical love and romance. But mostly, she thought his blue eyes were incredibly lovely.

“Your muse? Me?” she asked, staring into his face.

“The Greeks, barbarians all, still managed to worship a creature called Mnemosyne. She was one of Zeus' daughters and the goddess of memory.” He stopped walking and touched Anya's face, then brushed his fingertips over her lips. “You will keep my memories while I deliver my gifts.”

“What?”

“You will keep them, here.” He placed his hand on her chest.

“I don't understand.” Anya searched his face and shuddered. “I can't help you kill my friends.”

“You have no friends.” His hands continued to linger over her lips then he grabbed hold of her chin and held it firmly. “You are a vengeance demon, a thousand year old creature that has destroyed nearly as many lives as I have in half the time.” His voice became hard and the ocean blue of his eyes turned violet. “A year from now, the boy would have left you, and you would have wept. I'm sparing you that heartache.”

They came to a stop a few feet in front of the rose bushes. “These humans tricked you into becoming one of them. It wasn't your choice.”

“Are you giving me a choice?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes, if you'd like, you have a choice. Just tell me what matters to you, and I will spare it.”

“What's your name?”

“My name? It's Lucretius,” he said. “But call me Luke and I swear, by all that's right, to protect what matters to you, if you agree to help me.”

Anya paused, but couldn't remember. “Oh God…nothing matters to me.”

“Good.” He grabbed her arm, and began to lead her once again toward the bushes. “You've made your choice.”

She'd never teleported when someone else was at the helm. Riding his wave, Anya was astonished by the portal jumper's movements through dimensions. They were much smoother than anything a vengeance demon could ever conjure. At least not this demon, thought Anya. Even on her best days, she couldn't have pulled that relocation spell off as seamlessly.

“We're not in Kansas anymore, are we?”

“No, they call it, New York City,” the portal jumper said as they came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a dark alley that smelled of grease and filth.


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Xander hadn't run so fast in his entire life, at least not without a few demons chasing him. But this was worse, the thoughts racing through his mind were more dangerous than any demon clan or vampire that might choose him as its prey. He'd left Anya with the portal jumper. He'd turned his back and set his feet down on the pavement one foot after another in a mad dash away from her and the monster that wanted to talk. The rational side of his brain understood he'd had no other choice. But he wasn't at all accustomed to dealing with that part of Xander Harris.

Panting, he turned the corner of Giles' street in no time, and rumbled through the courtyard to the Watcher's door. As he took out his keys, he noticed it was dark and absently wondered why in the middle of a bright sunny day, the treeless garden was in shadows.

Xander walked into the hallway of the apartment and called out to Giles an instant before he saw him lying on the floor near the weapons chest. He lay face down, arms spread eagle. His glasses were clutched in one hand and in the other his fingers were wrapped around a book. Xander moved swiftly across the floor, and dropped to his knees.

“Giles?” He nudged the Watcher's body. He didn't move. “Giles.” Xander said again and bending over, gently rolled the man over onto his back. Still nothing.

Jumping up, he ran into the kitchen, searching for a rag and pitcher for water. Giles wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead, thought Xander as a small thread of panic buried itself in the pit of his stomach. No one was going to die. No one, he said stubbornly to himself.

Seconds later he was back at the Watcher's side, a pitcher of water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. Large drops of perspiration were dripping from Giles' face. Xander hadn't noticed that before. A sweating man was a breathing man. He was alive.

“Come on, Giles,” he pleaded. “Wake up, please, wake up.” He dipped the washcloth in the pitcher and wiped Giles' brow and squeezed a few drops of water onto his lips. He stirred, but only slightly.

“What happened here?” Xander said, practically to himself, and looked around the room. He didn't see any signs of a scuffle. The only thing that looked out of place was Giles' weapons chest, which was open. Then there were Giles' hands that didn't seem capable of letting go of the book or the glasses. Xander took a breath and allowed his eyes to access Giles' condition more closely. He was dressed in plaid pajamas. A British thing, Xander imagined. His feet were bare, and there was blood. Not a lot, but blood nonetheless. Leaning forward, Xander looked down at Giles' bare feet. They were cut, small slices covered his bare soles and small pools of dried blood were spattered on the floor next to them.

This was odd, thought Xander. He looked at Giles' hands and the book in held in his left one. The name emblazoned on the black cover of the book caught Xander's eye. No, he decided. The cuts on Giles' feet weren't as odd as finding him laying on the floor unconscious with the King James Version of the Bible clutched in his hand.

A low moan slid from Giles' lips. His eyes were still tightly clenched but Xander could make out the words coming from his raspy throat. “He was here.”

“Still here,” replied Xander, knowing immediately that Giles was referring to the portal jumper.


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“Buffy love. Come on, wake up, pet.”

With her eyes stubbornly held closed, she raised her arms and groped the air, blindly searching until she found the offensive party's hand, grabbed it and pulled its owner close. “Go away,” she whispered. She then pushed the arm away gently and nuzzled deeper into the cushions of the overstuffed chair, burying her face in the crook of the armrest.

“Buffy!” At the sound of Dawn's shrill voice, Buffy's eyes snapped open and she jumped from the chair in one smooth motion. Her quick movement startled Spike, knocking him backwards a couple of steps into Carlo, who nearly fell on his face before righting himself.

“Carlo?” she opened her eyes wider, momentarily bewildered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Calm down, Buffy. You were dreaming, love.”

She turned her head sharply and glared at Spike.

“Hey Buffy,” said Dawn. “How was your nap?”

A violent scenario played itself out in Buffy's mind as she imagined herself smacking the silly grin off her sister's ridiculously cheerful face, but she decided to ignore Dawn for the moment.

“I'm not dreaming. I'm wide awake.” She said pointedly to Spike. Then swiveling her head slowly, she leveled her gaze on Carlo. “And again, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, ah—just dropped by for dinner.” He answered hesitantly as he inched toward the front door.

“What do you mean dinner? It's like barely dawn.”

“Actually, love, it's more like dusk,” said Spike. “You slept all day. Kind of like a vampire, wouldn't you say?”

She spun around, her eyes narrow and zeroed in on Spike. He was smiling almost as broadly as Dawn had been a moment before.

“Just saying, you were really out of it. But it gave us all a chance to get to know each other better, learn a few things 'bout who we really are? Right, Carlo?”

Carlo swallowed and took a step closer to Dawn. “Yeah, I mean, you being a vamp and all was kind of weird. You know, that shit is pretty out there man. But I can deal with it.”

Buffy couldn't believe she'd slept through all of the introductions. She had been exhausted, but she didn't really think she was that out of it. Wasn't like her to sleep so soundly.

“Well, glad everyone has had a good day, chatting and the like, but Spike and I have some business to take care of since you say it's dusk,” she said turning to Spike. “You ready?”

“Always, love.” Spike strode out of the living room and headed for Buffy's bedroom.

“Hey, where you going?” said Buffy.

“Get my coat,” he answered, giving her his ‘what the fuck' look.

“What's it doing in my bedroom?”

“Brought me home last night, mended my wounds, gave me some nourishment,” he smiled. “Let me sleep in your bed. You don't remember?”

She smacked her lips. “Yes, I d-do," she said reluctantly, remembering more than just tending to his wounds.

“Where you guys off to?” asked Dawn. She and Carlo were no longer hovering over Buffy. They'd moved to sit down on the sofa in the living room. “Going after some big baddies like in the old days back in Sunnydale?” Dawn sounded giddy to Buffy.

“This is serious business, Dawnie,” she snapped. “Spike and I have to find and kill this portal jumping guy before he can hurt you, or any of us.”

Buffy was standing in the middle of the room, and Spike, duster swirling, had strolled out of the bedroom, and was now standing next to her, waiting.

“We'll be back soon,” said Buffy.

She grabbed her coat from the hallway rack, opened the closet door and dug around for an instant. When she stood up, she threw an ax to Spike, which he snatched from the air. She held a sword.

“Where we headed, Slayer?”

“To that alley, where we ran into Jacob.”


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The heat followed him everywhere. Even in this cold, chilly alley in the middle of a city made of brittle stone, he couldn't hide from the scorching arid heat. That's why he jumped so often. He wanted to feel cool, crisp air and soft gentle breezes. That only existed for him between dimensions. But the nature of things wouldn't allow that for him on earth. He had to sweat. He had to be wet. He had to be the portal jumper.

Luke glanced at his muse. She was standing next to him. Her eyes fixed on his face. He didn't need to look at her, he could feel her gaze. Thankfully, she was pretty. A small ancient soul. She didn't really understand why she'd come with him. He knew that. But he understood why. If he remembered later, he'd tell her. He might even try to explain everything to her. Then again, maybe not.

He pulled Anya to him and hugged her to his chest. She returned his embrace and buried her face against him. He always loved this part of the game. The hours before he gave away his gifts were the most pleasant, especially with his muse in his arms. He might not even jump tonight. He'd stay here and let them come to him. Let the alley fill with fools and vampires.

Damn it, though. He just hadn't counted on that witch. She was something he hadn't considered. They usually didn't last this long or get as powerful. But his vengeance demon would help him with her. He tightened his arms around Anya.

Then Luke inhaled deeply. The air was putrid. The stench curled the hair in his nostrils.

They'd better arrive soon. He missed the smell of roses.

to be continued…





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