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chapter 8: leviticus – blood on the ears

When the portal jumper grabbed him by the throat, he didn't scream.

Giles slammed his fists into the mattress on either side of his body, struggling to pull himself out of the dream. He rolled over onto his side reaching out blindly, searching in the dark for the small table he knew was there. Finding it, he slapped his hand down on the surface. Hard. Then he did it again.

A thin pale hand spread sinewy fingers over his stomach and began clawing at his naked torso, brittle nails sliced small cuts into his belly and chest.

He had to wake up. Patting around the tabletop, he touched a stack of leather-bound books piled three high, a sticky half-filled tumbler of whiskey and the bulb-shaped base of his antique Victorian Cranberry lamp. Suddenly his throat closed and he pulled his hand to his mouth as he began to cough.

I'm choking.

Bolting upright in the bed, he grabbed his chest as a sharp, burning pain spread across his sternum. He had to swallow, get air into his lungs. His heart was being torn apart and his windpipe was closing shut.

If I could just take a few deep breaths—

But he couldn't breathe. He fell over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He'd read that lying flat, face down, relieved tension. He waited a few seconds, but it wasn't working. The retching sounds were still erupting from his throat. Turning abruptly toward the nightstand, he splayed both hands frantically over its surface, sending the books, the lamp, the tumbler and his last fifth of single malt Scotch flying across the room. He barely noticed the splintering noise the bottle made as it crashed onto the floor and broke apart. He had found the curved wire ear pieces of his spectacles.

He had to be awake.

His fingers roamed slowly over the frames of his glasses as he allowed himself the comfort of a compulsion denied for weeks. The vision of the monster in the daylight, sweat pouring from its skin as his eyes shined gold, had faded. Giles had stopped coughing, too.

Using his thumb and index finger, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the soft skin soothingly. Then he eased the glasses onto his face. It was still pitch black in the room, but for an instant, he thought he could see.

Swinging his bare feet onto the floor, Giles grimaced as his toes touched the cold wooden planks. Shoving the matted hair from his brow, he stood stiffly, and stumbled across the floor, heading for the bath. He decided to skip flipping on the light switch and staggered past it through the shadows into the hallway. By the time he flung open the bathroom door, he'd decided he could see better in the dark anyway. He hadn't had any success in the daylight remembering lost thoughts or forgetting new fears.

Maybe I'll become a creature of the night.

He laughed hoarsely, a deep cavernous sound in his quiet apartment.

Taking off his glasses, he searched in the dark for the ridge of the porcelain sink, and carefully placed his glasses down. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands and splashed the cool tap water over his eyes. Then he paused. The boy was on the sofa downstairs. But he couldn't hear any sounds coming from the living room where Xander was sleeping. There was no indication that Giles' noisy dream had disturbed his guest's slumber.

He splashed more water on his face then raised his head without thinking, expecting to see his reflection in the mirror above the sink. It was still too dark—but he saw a glimmer of light flash in front of him.

“Well, bugger me backwards,” whispered Giles as he grabbed his glasses and placed them back on his nose. “He's a human vampire.” He dropped his head forward, chin bouncing on his chest as he pressed his hands against his temples. "By God, he's more than that," he blurted. "Bloody hell—!” He reeled around as he remembered what he'd seen in the eyes of the monster in his dreams. He stumbled out of the bathroom into the hallway. He needed to examine the passage in the Zy Qasdor, where he'd first found the monster. Memories were flooding into his head so fast, he felt dizzy.

He stormed down the hall, making his way back to his bedroom in a matter of seconds. Flipping on the switch of the ceiling lamp, he stopped in the doorway, the fluorescent light momentarily blinding him. He removed his glasses and squinting, stared down at the floor, searching for the volumes he'd knocked off the nightstand.

A dozen small pools of blood were scattered across the floor amidst the broken glass and books. He leaned against the door jam and crossed his leg over his knee, examining the sole of his foot. He hadn't felt any pain when he'd walked over the glass. Hadn't realized he'd been cut. Too busy thinking about having his bloody head ripped off, he presumed.

Perhaps, the monster had devoured him, cut open his flesh and butchered his soul, and now this was the dream.

He shook his head, trying to shake the remnants of the vision from his mind. Placing his foot back on the floor, he reached down and picked up the second volume of the Zy Qasdor, which had conveniently landed near the entranceway. He brushed a few pieces of broken glass from its cover and opened the book to the page he hadn't been able to read since he, Willow and Tara cast the spell that stole a thought from each of them.

He began thumbing through the pages rapidly, tearing the edges of a few in the process. He inhaled deeply when he found the illustration he'd first seen of the monster hidden within a drawing of the god Glorificus. He had believed that this image had shown him how to stop the monster from finding Dawn. Giles bit his lip and stared at the drawing. The monster held a rose in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. He hadn't remembered seeing anything in the portal jumper's hands before. But now, etched on the parchment, he could make out the symbol C^, the sign of the legend Lucretius.

Giles swallowed. The dryness in his mouth was nearly unbearable as he gulped and tried to clear his throat. He then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh God,” he moaned. “Lucretius—and I sent Spike to New York.”

Giles spun around and ran down the hallway shouting to Xander to wake up. Jumping down two steps at a time, he reached the bottom of the staircase and noticed out of the corner of his eye the first rays of daylight coming through the window blinds. He also could see that Xander wasn't there. No wonder the boy hadn't come up to his room to see if he was all right. Xander hadn't been there all night.

“Shit,” Giles exclaimed. He had to make a call, and right away. If he was correct, and the ancient Lucretius—the legend Watchers refused to believe in the daylight, but whispered about fearfully in the dark—was the portal jumper, well, Giles had to warn them all before it was too late. He picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed.

“Willow, Giles here,” he said after listening to her recorded message, mildly conscious of the irony of her girlish voice. “You were wrong about the thought. It was never fear. Call me. Dear God, girl, call me as soon as you get this message. I remember everything, and you've got to tell Buffy, she can't trust—.”

Giles dropped the phone as a sudden deep pain sliced through his skull. “Aaaargh!” he cried. The arteries in his head were twisting like knotted wet rope. He dropped to his knees, the agony traveling throughout his body.

He looked down at the book still clenched in his hands and began to crawl across the floor to the oak weapons chest he kept against the wall near the fireplace. If he had the fourth volume of the Zy Qasdor it was in that trunk.

Bloody hell. He had to have it.

He edged closer to the chest. His mind reeling from the pain and from the effort of trying to remember the ritual and the chant the young Watchers would whisper late at night. They believed it saved them from the legend of Lucretius, the vampire that lived forever in the daylight and butchered his prey throughout the night as gifts for its brethren. Lucretius didn't feed, he hunted for sport. As Giles inched across the floor, he realized Lucretius was more than a legend; he'd met him face-to-face in his dream. As the thought once taken returned to him, he knew that, just like Dawn, the pain in his head was the portal jumper, traversing through his mind, searching for his next victim.

What had Anya said about the monster?

It doesn't leave anyone around to tell stories.

Giles reached the chest, and pushed it open. He had to find the book, perform the ritual and recite the chant.

If he could only endure the pain a little bit longer, he thought dimly.


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It was over in a matter of moments. The heel of her boot caught Jacob squarely in the balls. He doubled over letting out a girlish scream as he grabbed his crotch with both hands. Spike immediately dropped a two-fisted blow solidly on top of Jacob's back as Buffy dropped to her knees, tucked, rolled and then snapped up onto her feet in front of a slim female vampire spinning a metal braided chain above her head.

Buffy buried her stake into the vamp's chest quickly, snatching the chain from the demon's hands as she turned to ash. Swinging the weapon side-to-side, Buffy then knocked down the row of demons that had stood behind the chain-swinging female, staking them one after another, as they tumbled to the ground. As she brushed the dust from her eyes, she wondered why the arrogant bloodsuckers always insisted upon attacking one at a time when they clearly outnumbered her. Teamwork just wasn't a vampire thing, she figured.

A wail behind her drew her attention as she turned in time to see that Jacob had recovered and Spike was paying the price. She impulsively raised her hand to cover her mouth, but withdrew it quickly not wanting any one to see her and misunderstand. She looked around, however, realizing that she was the only one left to notice since the alley, filled with vamps a few moments before, was empty now. The demons Buffy hadn't dusted had retreated to the rooftops and were staring down at the war raging between Spike and his friend, Jacob. The battle had turned into a spectator sport, Buffy noticed, and she decided to join the crowd. She wasn't inclined to help Spike at that moment, anyway.

These two knew each other, and from Jacob's words, he'd expected to witness Spike doing in his third Slayer. He'd also said something about the portal jumper and brethren–and what did brethren mean anyway, she wondered. Sounded like they were family. Still, Buffy wasn't certain how long she could watch Spike being bloodied this badly. Even if it wasn't clear if he was winning or losing. He actually seemed to be enjoying it. How sick was that? Enjoying getting a beat down didn't make any sense whatsoever.

She'd been dusting vampires since she was sixteen years-old. She toyed with them, sure, but she didn't really get into the beating down of vamps like Faith, for example. For Buffy, it had been all about a few well-placed kicks and punches and, of course, puns–then take them out. But from what she was seeing now, it didn't look like vampires fought each other with the goal of killing. These two were trying to find out how much vamp blood they could spill. They were covered in it, too. Blood was oozing from their eyes and throats as they clawed and ripped at each other as if they were peeling potatoes. Pointless, Buffy huffed.

Their growling echoed throughout the alley and suddenly Jacob's large hands held Spike around the throat.

“Care to give a bloke a hand, Slayer?”

Buffy stared at Spike, pursing her lips as she folded her arms across her chest and thought seriously about tapping her boot on the ground. She was still pissed and didn't have any idea what Spike was thinking by not telling her about Jacob. But maybe he was going to say something and just hadn't had time. Still, Spike probably deserved some of this ass whipping. She just knew it. But she didn't want to see him lose his head over it.

Buffy grabbed Jacob by his flimsy tailored shirt, and raising her stake, aimed for his heart.

But the next thing she knew she was lying on the ground as a gale of cold wind stormed through the alley, knocking her on her butt, flinging Jacob into a steel dumpster and dragging Spike seemingly by his boots across the concrete surface.

“Spike,” Buffy yelled. “Hold on to something.”

He grabbed her and both of them skidded across the ground, ending up in a heap, legs and arms tangled. Then the wind stopped. Just like that, it was gone.

“What was that?” Buffy asked, not really expecting an answer.

“The portal jumper, preparing for his visit,” responded Jacob a large toothy grin on his dark face as he stood on top of the dumpster in the middle of the alley. “I told you he wasn't a legend,” he said, looking directly into Spike's eyes. “Ta-Ta, mates.” He gave them a half-salute then jumped straight up into the air to the rooftop, and disappeared with the rest of his vamp crew.

Her chest heaving, Buffy rolled off Spike's body and glared at him. “So, tell me about your friend.”


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A small fat-legged child wobbled by, briefly blocking his vision as he sat on the wooden bench, hunched forward, elbows on his knees and fingers in his mouth, chewing the dry broken skin hardening around his thumbnail. He'd been staring at a clump of shrubs at the opposite end of the crowded park since dawn. He was studying the clusters of pink flora in the bushes. The large spots of reddish-pink bleeding through the evergreen backdrop transformed the horizon with their beauty. He was mesmerized. Even from a distance, the petals shimmered in the sunlight, reaching toward the bright globe in the sky as remnants of the morning rain glistened on their leaves. He closed his eyes and inhaled, languidly breathing in their aroma as he sucked his thumb and forefinger into his mouth. Then he moaned. He didn't care if he was heard. He missed the taste of rose pudding on his lips and the feel of the flower's oil rolling over his skin. The wrinkles on the back of his hands had never been brittle when he bathed in rose water or dined on the essence of the reddish-pink petals.

His mouth suddenly pruned and his nostrils opened wide as the human infant gaggle interrupted his mind's journey. Their chortling pained his ears, and the scurrying bodies obstructed his view of the landscape he'd sought to soothe him.

Chubby, thin, loud and mournful, snuggling against a breast or tugging at the hem of a dress or jean pant bottom, they beamed with self-importance. He despised them. Too strong a sentiment for an ancient, he knew, but for as long as he could recall he had never avoided the truth.

Then he saw her walking across the street. Her head bowed, her too tight skirt stretched over her ass and thighs like warm mud smeared onto a windowpane. He was amused as he watched her jerk then stumble, appearing as if she was trying to remember how to walk. Her awkwardness aside, she still pleased him. She was familiar. He had been like her once upon a time.

He stood, meticulously rubbing his hands over his clothing, straightening the rumpled fabric of his seersucker suit, tidying his appearance for their first meeting.

“Anya,” he whispered, and strolled toward the ancient young woman.

to be continued…





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