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chapter 4: deuteronomy, part II

Spike slapped his palms against the invisible barrier preventing him from entering Giles' apartment. “Invite me in!” he demanded. “It's almost bloody fucking sunrise and Anya said you could tell me about Dawn and Buffy. So let me the fuck in!”

“Well, I see your sense of tact hasn't blossomed beyond that of a hedgehog in heat,” replied Giles, who for an instant reminded Spike of one of the grizzled headmasters from the Montpelier School in London. He hadn't thought about the small boarding school and its repressed teachers in more than a century.

“As you might imagine, I'm not the least bit compelled to invite you into my home, let alone have a conversation with you regarding the whereabouts of Dawn and Buffy.” Giles stood wide-legged, an arm braced on either side of the doorframe. His voice, cold and dismissive, hadn't wavered as he spoke. But to Spike's satisfaction, the Watcher hadn't slammed the door in his face.

"Well, at least not yet," he muttered as he backed a few inches away from the barrier, his eyes studying the man in front of him.

Just like the town and Anya, something was off about Rupert, thought Spike as he bit his lower lip to help him keep his mouth shut for a moment as he took in the Watcher's appearance.

Red-rimmed eyes peered at Spike over the top edge of black spectacles and Rupert's jaw actually quivered under Spike's gaze. The dark gray shirt and black pants he wore looked wrinkled and his shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open and exposing sallow skin and a few gray chest hairs. Obviously, he'd slept in his clothes, noted Spike. Maybe for more than one night by the stale odor of dried perspiration he sniffed. However, that smell wasn't as prevalent as the double malt Scotch seeping out of his pores. Rupert had been drinking quite a bit for quite a few days in a row.

“Tell me what happened,” Spike implored, his voice striving to sound friendly, which wasn't that much of a stretch to him. That summer the two Brits had managed to form the beginnings of something approaching a mutual understanding. At least, that's what Spike believed. After Dawn was in bed and had fallen asleep, the two men, more often than Spike imagined possible, ended up sitting at the counter in the kitchen on Revello Drive polishing off a bottle of Rupert's good Scotch or a pot of fresh brewed tea. They talked about England, the Slayer, and her leap from the tower. Or more accurately, Spike talked about Buffy and Giles listened. After a time, they'd gotten somewhat comfortable around each other, Spike liked to think, and even joked occasionally during patrols, sharing a chuckle in response to a remark or gesture that only two Londoners could thoroughly appreciate no matter what century they called their own.

Now as Spike searched Rupert's eyes, he saw despair, pain and guilt. He'd seen the same in Dawn's face that past summer and imagined he looked that way, too, especially when he allowed himself to dwell on what he hadn't been able to do for Buffy. One of the reasons he'd left Sunnydale after she returned to life was that he couldn't bear seeing his failures reflected in her eyes.

Spike's stomach muscles tightened as he forced his attention back to the impenetrable entranceway in front of him. He took a step toward Giles, leaving his hands at his side. He was so close to the barrier that his skin was tingling and the blood was rushing up and down his spine. “What happened?” encouraged Spike. “Did the Council of Wankers get the Slayer into a jam?”

“Seems you've gotten your culprits twisted,” mumbled Giles, taking a step backwards and breaking eye contact with Spike. “The Council is not involved in this debacle,” he added, looking down at his hands. “Only Buffy's friends could make a deplorable situation this bad.”

Giles then turned his back on Spike and walked toward the kitchen. Spike waited, as the door was still open, and soon heard Rupert's dull voice above running water, ice cubes hitting glass and the clanking of dishes. “I invite you in,” he exhaled.

Spike stepped into the apartment but remained in the foyer.

“Come on in and sit down, Spike,” said Rupert moments later as he walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea, two tumblers (filled with ice) and a bottle of Scotch. He gestured for Spike to sit on the couch.

"When did you dis-invite me, Rupert?"

Giles glanced at Spike as he stumbled, ever so slightly, toward the sofa. "Didn't know I had until you came to the door." He seemed baffled by this realization, thought Spike as he moved to his spot on the couch. Giles shook his head, appearing to brush aside a memory as he placed the tray on the table. He sat down in the chair opposite Spike and reached forward, grabbed the bottle of Scotch and filled both tumblers to the rim.

As hard as it was for Spike to remain silent, he didn't ask Giles why he was pouring Scotch at dawn. Instead, he watched as Giles gestured to him to select from the beverages offered. He picked up a tumbler for himself, settled back in his chair and gulped down his drink. Following Giles' lead, Spike chose the remaining glass, lifted it to his lips, threw back his head and poured the brown liquid down his throat.

Suddenly, Spike's calm façade collapsed and he slammed the glass down on the table. “Rupert,” he snarled. “Where are they?”

Looking intently into the empty tumbler as he spoke, Giles said slowly, “New York City".

“Where?” Spike exclaimed, his eyebrows knitting together. Even though he'd heard Giles the first time, he couldn't stop himself from asking him to repeat his words.

“New York City,” said Giles again.

“You used a spell to send them to New York City?”

“What?”

“Anya said you and Tara, and the marvelous Willow, had to do a spell because of Dawn and a portal jumper…and something went bloody wrong, as per usual,” Spike explained.

“Yes,” Giles whispered.

“Yes, there was a spell or yes, it went bloody wrong.” The irritation in Spike's voice was apparent to him, but the Watcher, who looked practically catatonic, didn't seem to notice as he mumbled his response. “Yes…a portal jumper and a spell.”

Giles leaned forward and filled his glass quickly with more Scotch before repositioning himself back into the cushions of the chair.

“Rupert, snap out of it!” A spasm of pain ripped through Spike's head as he grabbed the Watcher's wrist, causing him to spill half the Scotch on the table.

“Put the drink down, please.” Spike inhaled, trying to calm himself as he let go of Giles' arm. Abruptly, he stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “How long have Buffy and Dawn been in New York ?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Two months?” Spike repeated, alarmed and confused. “So the spell didn't send them to a demon dimension or alternate universe, but to New York City …two months ago?”

“The spell didn't send them to New York . They took a plane,” explained Giles.

Exasperated, Spike shoved his hands into the pockets of his duster to avoid the temptation to strike the Watcher repeatedly about the head and face. “Okay…let's forget about New York then.” He stopped pacing and glared at Giles. “Anya said a portal jumper was after Dawn…that's why you performed the spell, to protect her, right?”

“Not a portal jumper, Spike. The portal jumper,” interrupted Giles. “And yes, it came after Dawn, and gave her headaches. Devastating headaches.”

“Did the spell stop them?”

“Pain is just the means by which the Monster prepares its quarry,” began Giles. “The portal jumper tracks its prey through the thoughts of each of its victims' friends and loved ones.”

“I ask again, Rupert,” managed Spike without screaming while knowing the look in his eyes had to be a few millenniums beyond agitation. “Did the spell stop Dawn's headaches or not?”

“Yes, it did.”

“But still, the damn spell went bloody wrong?”

“Yes, horribly wrong,” whispered Giles as he slowly rose from the chair and stepped closer to Spike. “Because the spell was more than a cure for a headache. It was meant to keep us from helping the Monster find Dawn. So, we cast the spell on each of us. Me, Tara, Willow, Xander, Anya and, of course, Buffy.”

“You all had headaches?”

“No, damn it!” he cursed. “Listen to me, Spike. We had to make certain that the portal jumper wouldn't be able to find Dawn. We figured out that if we could just take away one thought, we'd be able to keep the creature away from her. And it worked. The spell took away one thought from each of us.”

“So, what was it?” Spike asked as he stopped pacing and stood a few feet from the Watcher. “The thought. What was it?”

“I don't know,” said Giles, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “None of us can remember what it was.”


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Buffy scrutinized Dawn's face as she lay sprawled on the sofa bed. She had to be joking. “No, you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there's this whole thing having to do with sixteen year old girls and almost eighteen year old boys that spells trouble, with a capital ‘T', which rhymes with no freaking way.”

“God, Buffy, you're such a prude.”

“Huh?” she scowled. “Don't think so.”

Dawn rolled onto her side so that she was facing the bay window in the small apartment's living room area that also served as her bedroom. “Jeez Buffy, I mean Carlo is like the perfect guy. His parents own the restaurant where I work, he's one of your students and you like him. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, well sure. But liking him and allowing you to date him are way major different.”

“You just don't change, do you?” sighed Dawn as she swung her legs onto the hardwood floor, pulled her nightshirt over her head and headed for the bathroom.

“Wait a minute, Dawn,” yelled Buffy. “You can't just get up and walk away from me in the middle of a conversation.”

“Well, I just did,” shouted Dawn from the bathroom, a second before slamming the door behind her.

“You're turning into quite a bee-atch, Dawn,” said Buffy quietly as she stomped the three feet from the living room to the kitchen's miniature refrigerator and flung open the door. The rush of cool air made her moan as it hit her damp skin. For early-December, it was freakishly hot in New York City, or was it just the Bronx that was too hot? Or was it the fourth floor walk-up's two-room apartment and the heating system, automatically turned on by the landlord on October 1, that made her skin all hot and sticky. “Too many options,” she muttered to herself. Buffy then shrugged as she eyed the contents of the refrigerator. There had to be an egg or slice of bread, something that might pass for food. But nothing, as per usual.

“Damn,” she cursed, slamming the door shut before calling to her sister. “Hey Dawn, hurry up, I've got to get ready for work, you know.”

Walking into her bedroom, which happened to be the largest room in the apartment, Buffy glanced around, searching for a pair of clean tights and the company T-shirt she had to wear. Working six days a week out of seven as a personal trainer to neighborhood moms, unemployed actors and soon-to-be next year's professional sports sensation (that would be Dawn's Carlo, she smiled) wasn't the best choice for a young woman who didn't like to do laundry on a regular basis, she decided. Her room was beginning to smell like her locker at the gym, especially with these maddeningly weird hot days.

“Then throw in vampire slaying and demon hunting and you wonder when a girl has time to have a life,” she complained aloud before snatching a hopefully clean pair of tights from under a stack of gym shorts and jeans. Pulling the garment in front of her nose, she smiled. “Yep, these will do.”

Buffy strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to hurry Dawn out of the bathroom.


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“Give me four double-burgers rare, fries on the side, and three extra tubs of hot sauce,” barked Dawn over the counter as she placed her order sheet in the revolving turnstile. She then smiled at the cook, who placed his hand on hers as it rested on top of the counter. He smiled back, but then swirled suddenly to shout at the fry guy to turn down the grease before he toasted the joint. “Hey man, you'll piss off my Mom if her place burns down,” joked Carlo. “And you know she can kick your ass.” He laughed, as he seemed to bounce from one spot to the other. Which he probably was, thought Dawn. Bouncing, that is. He was a boxer. One of the most promising talents in the city or so he'd told her a number of times. He was some kind of weight class Dawn couldn't remember, but it sounded like how he looked. Sleek, tall, dark and really hot. Well, not that tall, Dawn amended herself. At least he was a little taller than she was which meant he wasn't short since Dawn had grown at least another inch since her and Buffy had left Sunnydale.

“Dawn, you gonna take these cops their drink orders or just stare at the cook,” said Tommy, the other evening shift waiter and a classmate of Dawn's from Christopher Columbus High School.

“I'veI got it,” she answered, filling a tray with two cups of coffee, two diet cokes and four plastic glasses filled with tap water.

As she walked over to their table, the four police officers stopped talking and turned to greet her. “What's up, blue eyes,” winked Darnell, an African-American beat cop from the 43rd Precinct. He ate dinner at Mom's Restaurant every day when he was on duty as far as Dawn could tell. Well, at least for the past month that Dawn had worked at the restaurant. Nonetheless, a few days earlier, he'd gotten into the habit of teasing her about Carlo. It couldn't be that obvious, she thought, pursing her lips in mock annoyance as she placed the drinks on the table.

“Sorry, Dawn,” said Darnell. “But you kids crack me up with this lovey dovey, shit.” The other three cops at the table laughed.

“Leave the children alone, Darnell,” said the female cop. “Your old butt is just jealous.”

“Could be,” smiled Darnell. “Hey, Carlo.”

“Yeah, man.”

“Walk your lady home tonight, okay?” advised Darnell.

“Her sister walks her home, and believe me, her sister can take care of both of them,” said Carlo, pushing four plates filled with burgers and fries to the top of the counter.

Quickly, Dawn caught his eye and gave him a ‘shut-up now' look.

“Seriously, some bad shit happening over in Fort Lee,” warned Darnell. “Got what looks like a serial killer.”

“Hey, don't say that,” said the female cop, tapping Darnell on the arm. “We don't want to panic the community, you know.”

“Yeah, right?” said Darnell as he continued. “Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, this killer is real nasty, boy. A fucking lunatic from what we can tell.”

“How many bodies?” asked Carlo, walking two plates over to the table and placing them down as Dawn delivered the other two plates.

“No bodies, man,” said Darnell, shoving a half dozen French fries into his mouth. “Just heads.”

to be continued…





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