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chapter 7: leviticus – fools

The dark alley was lined with steel dumpsters overflowing with rotten fruit and grease-stained bags of filth so vile that Spike thought he might heave. But that wasn't likely, he decided. Not with Buffy standing a few feet in front of his nose with her arms crossed, glaring at him.

Spike had landed softly on top of one of the oversized wastebaskets before tumbling to the ground feet first onto a patch of pavement next to Buffy. Standing motionless, his hands resting on his hips, he'd stared into her eyes as the dust of a half-dozen vampires swirled in the air around them. She had looked like a goddess from the rooftops, her body moving magnificently as she took out one vampire after another. Now she was yelling, gesturing with her arms, a forgotten stake clenched in her fist as she shot question after question at him. He had to stop himself from smiling as he watched her. She was so beautiful up close, temper unchecked, skin glistening. Bloody hell, he thought, she was lovelier than he remembered.

Spike cleared his throat. “Giles did send me,” he said, finally answering one of her questions. “But not to bring you back to Sunnydale.”

“Why then?” Buffy's hand trembled slightly as she pulled it through her hair, sweeping a few long blond strands from her face.

“Something went wrong with the spell,” Spike watched Buffy's expression change from curiosity to dismay. She walked stiffly over to a stool-shaped canister next to the dumpster upon which he'd landed. She plopped down on the makeshift seat with an exhausted thud. After a moment, she looked up at him, eyebrows rising, imploring him to continue.

“The spell had consequences. Changed the Scoobies…or at least Giles and Anya…quite a bit,” explained Spike. “Didn't see Xander or the two witches, but from what Giles and Anya said they're all pretty much running a tank short of something.”

“I haven't changed. Neither has Dawn. We're just fine, except for…missing our friends, and things,” Buffy looked away from Spike's face and appeared to tighten her grip on the stake.

“You may be okay, but they're different, believe me,” he said. “It's as if they've lost their souls.”

“Are they evil?”

“Bollocks, Buffy,” exclaimed Spike, trying to hide his annoyance by shoving his hands into the pockets of his duster. “Not evil, just different. Less than what they were, and in some cases, more than what they should be.”

“Sorry,” said Buffy, looking down she began to twirl the stake with her left hand. “But Dawn hasn't had a headache since the spell. She's been fine. We're both fine.”

“I can see that,” Spike said reassuringly, but at the same time he wondered if he'd heard her correctly. Had Buffy just apologized to him? The answer was obviously yes. He could hear the scampering feet of a hundred rats running behind the dumpsters on either side of them. He definitely had heard Buffy say “sorry”. He tried to recall the last time she'd used that word in a conversation with him. Could it be – never? He tilted his head, listening to Buffy's heartbeat as it began to thump wildly in her chest.

“I think the Monster is getting closer.” She glanced at Spike.

The look in her eyes told him she was telling him something she hadn't admitted to anyone else. “You're right,” he said to her, taking a few steps closer to where she sat. “But Giles said the Portal Jumper doesn't know it's looking for Dawn. Not yet." Spike gestured to the open spot next to Buffy. She nodded. He sat down.

“How does it find its victims?”

“Through the thoughts of its last kill,” Spike said. “Giles said that's why the spell was so important. He didn't tell you?”

She shook her head. “How come it didn't take a thought away from me, though?” Buffy looked at Spike. “I mean it took away Dawn's pain, but nothing else from either one of us.”

“Do you remember the thought the spell took?”

Buffy closed her eyes. Spike could hear her heartbeat returning to a steady rhythm. “No,” she said slowly. “I can't remember.” She opened her eyes.

“Giles said he couldn't remember, either,” said Spike. “None of the Scoobies remember.”

“Is that why he sent you here?”

“He asked me to tell you and Dawn it was time to move in with this Watcher, Bertram Ross. He'll be able to help you keep the Portal Jumper off your trail.”

“Too late,” said Buffy, her eyes fixed on her hands. “He's dead. Found his head in his apartment about week after we got to New York.”

Buffy's lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Spike reached forward, instinctively placing his hand on top of her hand as it rested on her knee. "Well, how 'bout if I just hang around for a bit,” he offered.

"You know, I can take care of me and Dawn,” she said. But as Spike looked into her eyes he was surprised to see that her words weren't spoken in anger. In fact, he thought he saw a small smile crease the corners of her mouth.

"Right. You're the Slayer, love." He smiled. “Guess you can handle whatever comes along. Just like you handled these Bronx vamps tonight.”

“You were watching me?” Buffy returned his smile. “I sensed another vampire, someone stronger than the pile of dusty fledglings here.” She waved her hand over the dirt. "It would be good to have some help. Maybe you can join me on patrol. You've always been a good fighter."

Spike's stomach was doing flip-flops. Who was this girl who was inviting him to join her on patrols? Could it be the same Slayer who apologized to him a few seconds ago? He found himself looking down at his own hands, hiding his eyes in an attempt to avoid showing her just how much her words meant to him.

Of course, the good times never lasted, he would claim later. Both he and Buffy jumped to their feet simultaneously as a row of new and soon-to-be-dusted vampires crowded into the entranceway at either end of the now incredibly short and narrow looking alley. Spike felt Buffy's back settle against his spine, her body bracing for battle.

“This is not all of them,” she whispered. “Look up.”

Raising his head to the sky, Spike saw Jacob standing on top of the rooftop almost in the same spot where Spike had stood less than twenty minutes before.

“Come on, man. What the fuck are you doing talking to a Slayer?” shouted Jacob, as he appeared to fly off the ledge into the air. He fell slowly to the ground and landed only a few inches in front of Spike's face. “What happened to killing the bitches, Spike?”

“What do you mean, Jacob?” Spike could feel Buffy's body stiffen against his back as he heard her whisper, “You know this vamp?”

“Yes, darling, we're old friends. Go way back,” snarled Jacob.

“Thought you didn't care about what a Slayer did in the Bronx, Jake?” interrupted Spike.

“I just came to watch you take her out, man. And what do I find? Your Aurielian ass hugging our mortal enemy,” leered Jacob. “The Portal Jumper isn't going to like this, Spike. He expects more of his brethren.”

Spike felt Buffy's body move away from his back. Shit, he thought. This wasn't good.


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Giles heard a light knock on the front door of his apartment, but continued to thumb through the pages of the second volume of the Zy Qasdor as he sat at his desk. He'd seen Xander out of the corner of his eye jump up from the sofa and scurry over to the door, pulling it open so quickly he caught Willow with her fist in mid-air. Giles shook his head, and whispered, “She's finally here.” He knew it was Willow at the door. He'd been expecting her.

“Good day, Willow,” he said. The fake graciousness of his greeting was obvious to him, but what Willow heard, he could only guess.

“Hey there, Giles,” she said, her voice bouncy as she strolled into the living room of the apartment, her dark eyes exploring the space thoroughly before resting their gaze on him. Giles noted she hadn't even acknowledged Xander. He chuckled at the perennial best-friend of all things Scooby who had moved aside sheepishly after opening the door. Now he sat shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, huddled in a corner near the foyer in a half-witted attempt to keep out of harm's way Giles imagined.

Turning his head away from the boy, Giles decided to give Willow a bit of the once over she'd just extended his way. She appeared as she often did these days. Dark red hair curling gently around her face, her eyes were two big round disks that changed from green to black so quickly he had given up on using them as a barometer of her mood. He exhaled slowly. There was too much to see when he looked at the new Willow. So he decided to focus on one aspect of her face. He fixed his gaze on her mouth. It was too big, he reasoned. Stretched wide and appearing like a gash cut lengthwise between her cheeks. It was always open, too, as if she couldn't breathe through her nose anymore and had to gulp air constantly through parted lips. He might be exaggerating the ferocity of her appearance, he admitted. But she just looked that foul to him any more.

“Giles, you can't keep avoiding this,” she began. “We've been hiding out in Sunnydale too long. We can't just leave Buffy and Dawn in New York, unprotected, forever.”

“Buffy does not need our protection, Willow,” he remarked, casually. “She's the Slayer. Or have you forgotten that, too?”

“Let's not argue, okay?” Willow edged her way closer to Giles' desk.

“I've got something I want to tell you about the spell.”

“Then tell me, Willow.” He closed the book.

“I changed it. Before we cast it, I changed it. I mean seriously, Giles. A monster that uses horrific pain to track its prey cannot be forgotten with the snap of a finger. So I tweaked it, just a little. The spell that is…I altered it.”

Slowly he stood up and took a cautious step toward Willow.

“You think I hadn't figured that out already?” He growled. “Look at Xander! Is he the same young man you loved? Where's Anya? Have you even seen her lately? And Tara ? Heaven help her,” he exclaimed, leaning forward and moving dangerously closer to Willow. “And what about me? You sodding bloody fool! I research for hours all day long, every day since they left but I can't remember a word. Nothing. Everything about me that was a Watcher is gone!” Giles turned abruptly and slammed his fists on the desk before picking up the volume of the Zy Qasdor and flinging it across the room.

“Calm down Giles,” implored Willow.

“Don't you tell me what to do.” Giles countered.

“If you don't calm yourself, I'll do it for you,” she warned.

“No Willow, please don't,” Xander's soft plea stunned them both as he and Willow turned to the man in the corner.

“Okay, Xander,” she said her voice shaking a little. “I won't do anything. We'll just talk.” Willow looked at Giles sternly. “Let's sit down. We don't want to upset Xander.”

Giles was panting heavily, his anger not nearly abated. But even with his nerves threadbare, he was thankful that Willow chose not to make Xander mad. One of the reasons he'd insisted on Xander moving in with him after Anya left was his effect on Willow. Whatever thought they'd taken, the change in Xander was the most perplexing to Giles. The boy appeared fearful and nervous most of the time, except when Willow used her threatening voice, as Xander called it. And for some reason Giles couldn't comprehend, Willow didn't seem to want to use magic against Xander.

Giles sat opposite Willow on the sofa as Xander retreated back into his corner.

“The original spell took away any thought of the monster's existence,” said Willow. “I just upped the ante a bit by changing that thought to fear.”

Giles glared at Willow. But he remained silent and waited for her to continue.

“Think about it. We remember the monster but aren't afraid to fight it,” she explained. “The monster thrives on fear. Without it, it can't find us or Dawn.”

“If the spell took away any thoughts of fear Willow, why are we all so afraid?” Giles reached up to pull his glasses from his nose, but then remembered he didn't wear them anymore.

“I'm not afraid,” she said.

“You're afraid of Xander,” he glanced at the corner.

“Well, I can't quite explain that, right now,” she mumbled. “But I do know about the Jumper. I know what he is, and how we can stop it.”

“How?”

“Well first, Tara and I have got to go to New York.”


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Carlo's morning run always started on the track at Christopher Columbus High School. His coach had given him a key so that he could get into the gym at 5 a.m. He was up at 4 a.m. every morning so it was never a hassle for him to get there to do what he needed to do. He believed that hard work always paid off. He changed into his special sweats, extremely stinky special sweats according to Dawn, and his favorite pull-over hoodie – the one with the letters USA emboldened in bright blue on the back and given to him by Mohammad Ali at the Olympic camp the summer before – and he was ready to rumble, as he liked to say.

God, he loved running at dawn nearly as much as he loved boxing. The ache in his thighs, the hardening of his calves and the tightening of his forearms as he pumped the air while sprinting over the hard concrete, wet mud or slippery streets and alleys of New York was heaven on earth to Carlo. Wherever he tread he devoured the path with winged feet, rushing blood and a focused mind. He was a contender. He thrust his shoulders up and down from side to side, fast, fast and faster. Fists pounding against the wind as he ran. "This is all good, man. All good," he laughed.

Today, he felt better than good, though. He felt unstoppable. Dawn had promised him she'd get out that weekend. Sneak away from her overly protective but definitely cute big sister. They were going to a club in Harlem. It wasn't just a date. It was going to be a first. He was going to kiss her. Yeah, it sounded lame. A freaking kiss. That's all he wanted from her right now. She was that kind of girl. You didn't jump the bones of a girl like Dawn. You worked for it. Since he believed in hard work, she was his perfect prize.

He'd been running for at least an hour. Circling the neighborhood and catching his second wind a few blocks from the alley behind the apartment building where he and his Mom lived. She'd be awake by the time he got back. A pan of bacon, scrambled eggs and a large tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice waiting for him on the kitchen table.

He reached the alley in what felt like seconds. Leaning forward, his hands tugging at the fabric of his sweatpants over his knees, he inhaled, sucking the cool morning air into his lungs.

Suddenly, he spun around and snapped into his boxing stance, startled by a thudding sound behind him. He peered into the blackness. In mid-winter it was still dark at 6 a.m. Eyeing the shadows, he tried to get a glimpse of what might be attempting to sneak up on him. Immediately, he forgot about his fatigue and need for oxygen. Fists held up in front of him, and loosely clenched, he prepared himself for the attack.

“Carlo,” a familiar voice came from the darkness. “What's up, kid?” It was Darnell, the cop from the 43rd Precinct.

“Hey man, what you doing in the hood at the crack of dawn?” asked Carlo, relaxing instantly.

The cop took a step forward, putting him in the spotlight of the beam shining down from street-lamp onto the pavement.

“G-got some news,” Darnell stuttered.

Carlo looked up at the kitchen window of the apartment where he and his Mom lived. He could see a light on, saw a body move past the window and he sighed. He could see his Mom fixing his breakfast. She was okay. He looked back at Darnell. Whatever the cop had to say, Carlo could deal.

“Your boy, Tommy Dugan," began Darnell. "He's dead."

Carlo shook his head as if his hearing had suddenly gone bad. He took a step backwards, putting some distance between him and the cop.

“What the hell are you talking about, man?” he asked. Tommy dead? That was some bullshit. “What happened?”

“Serial killer got him,” said Darnell. “This fucking bastard is doing his thing in the Bronx now and he doesn't care who he tags. Teenage boys, old men, they even say some dead ten-year old farm boy in upstate New York has the same M.O.”

“Is this the one with the...”

“Yep. All he leaves is the head.”

“Tommy, dead. Man, my Mom's gonna be upset." Carlo leaned against the side of the building. "Damn, he's worked for Mom since we were kids."

"You're still a kid," Darnell pointed out, quietly.

"You got any leads?"

“We're working on the answers, boy," said Darnell. “In the meantime, this bastard is getting awfully close. You and yours just be careful, okay?”

“Sure man, I'm all about careful,” said Carlo. He headed toward the front of the building, but then he paused. “Hey Darnell, thanks for telling me about Tommy. Would've hated to hear this shit on the nightly news.”

“No problem.”

Carlo walked into the building and ran up the four flights of stairs to his apartment.

to be continued…





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