Author: Rabid Squirrel
Title: "Murphy's Law"
Disclaimer: If I actually owned BTVS, would I bother to write fanfiction? Seriously, Buffy and co. are owned by Joss Whedon, Kazui Productions, 20th Century Fox, and UPN, sick bastards all of them.
Summary: Follow-up to the travesty that was season 6. Answers questions such as: Why Spike is able to hit Buffy; why did Xander really leave Anya at the alter; where does Whistler get his wardrobe; and just what really is in a hot dog. (Just kidding about the hot dog – nobody knows what they hell they put in those)
Spoilers: Thru season 6, though my selective memory allows me to edit out or rewrite certain unsavory aspects. Also, this may be a crossover at some point, though I make no guarantees.
Rating: R, for violence, strong language, sexual content, and the untimely demise of cute little puppies and bunny rabbits.
Dedication: To all B/Xers, who know that B/S is simply that - BS.
Note 1: This fic will be primarily action/drama oriented, with just a smidgeon of social introspection thrown in for flavor. Will also at least hint at being a B/X and/or X/W shipper. I don't write romance folks, so probably no smut (well, not much), unless the Gods intervene, at which point I'm powerless to resist. Also, I'm a fanfic virgin…so please be gentle!
Note 2: To any B/S fans who may endeavor to read this story: Fully expect Spike to die a painful death. Let's face it, he stopped being even mildly cool after season 4, and I fully intend to put him out of his misery and into the nearest ashtray.
Note 3: I apologize for any abuse of the Latin language. I haven't used it since high school, most of which I spent in a drunken stupor.
Note 4: All text appearing in italics reflects a character's thoughts. All text appearing in the Penthouse Forum reflects my thoughts.
Feedback: Constructive criticism and positive feedback are welcome. I also accept flames; I use them to light my cigarettes.
And now, the feature presentation….
Present Day
Outside Edinburgh Scotland
For over 550 years, the temple had stood relatively undisturbed, defiled only during the Reformation, a century later while under occupation by forces under Cromwell, and again in the year 1688, when it was ransacked by anti-Papist forces critical of its décor and vestments.
Today it would be violated once more, if for more altruistic purposes.
Out of the swirling fog in the still Scottish night strode a lone figure, clad entirely in black, gliding swiftly and purposely towards the ancient wooden door at the entrance to the nave. He covered the distance in silence, leaving nary a footprint nor overturned stone in his wake. Pausing only momentarily to gaze upwards at the intricate circular window adorning the outer wall above the entrance, he continued on inside, a seemingly wistful grin adorning his otherwise stoic visage.
"Home sweet home."
Venturing into the chapel, the enigmatic figure took a moment to appreciate the awesome beauty of his surroundings. Endless carvings and statuary graced the ceiling and walls, depicting various scenes from the Bible, as well as pre-Christian, Celtic, Arabic, and other lesser "mythologies". He was not here to worship, however, nor to appreciate the stunning aesthetics of the historic chapel. He was here for a singular purpose, and nothing could be allowed to prevent its successful completion.
Striding forward, he continued on towards the alter, a magnificent edifice constructed under the auspices of the last Prince of Orkney so many years before. The man, if such a creature could indeed be could be called that, stopped short of the alter, for that was not his target. Instead, he walked slowly towards a distinctive stone pillar, a column adorned with intricate carvings set upon coiling spirals twisting down the length of the pillar.
This particular pillar had long ago been dubbed the "Apprentice Pillar" by locals, whose legends held that the structure had been crafted by an apprentice craftsman in the absence of the master mason, who, upon observing the sheer beauty of the pillar, had murdered his protégé in a fit of jealousy. Whatever its origin, thousands of people have since made the pilgrimage to gaze upon it, and to theorize what magnificent secrets it concealed. For this pillar – as well as the structure which housed it - was unlike any other.
Founded in the year 1446 by Sir William St. Clair, the chapel proper served as the spiritual home of the Knights Templar, the infamous, if somewhat misunderstood order of warrior noblemen formed in the closing years of the 11th century. Legend held that the Knights, created under the auspices of the Pope and christened after the Temple of Solomon, were tasked with procuring certain items of vast knowledge and power from the Temple of Jerusalem during the Crusades. Speculation that the Knights were to some degree successful was fueled by their sudden accumulation of wealth and power following their return from Jerusalem. However, no one outside of the order had ever known just how successful they had been. But that, like many other things, was about to change.
Reaching the pillar, the apparition in black proceeded to lay his hands upon its double-helix shaped spirals. Kneeling down, he uttered a simple phrase, one spoken many times before in this ancient church, but never before by a creature such as he:
"In Nomine Patria, et Filia, et Spiritus Sanctus."
Even as the words rolled off his lips, the chapel underwent a profound change. A static charge permeated the atmosphere, the very air crackling with a preternatural energy not seen by man for over 2000 years. A low rumble could be felt emanating from deep within the earth, reaching up to shake the very foundations of the temple, as well as the pillar within. The dim light filtering in thru the multitude of stained-glass windows took on a bright blue hue, increasing in radiance until its magnitude would have blinded a mere mortal. And, just as it seemed the building was in imminent danger of collapse, the rumbling ceased, and the night became still once more.
The chapel itself remained relatively undamaged, though the same could not be said of the Apprentice pillar. It now lay in pieces at the feet of the unknown interloper, though he took little notice. His attention was riveted to the ancient artifact lying within the shattered remains of the pillar. A small wooden chalice, cracked and shriveled with the ravages of time, lay miraculously intact atop a slab of broken rock. Unassuming in appearance, this cup had once belonged to a carpenter, albeit one who had not wielded the tools of his trade in over 2 millennia.
Not one to be easily awed, the dark figure hesitated, though only briefly, before collecting his bounty. He bent down, carefully retrieving the wooden treasure and placing it gently into the foam-lined case he had carried within his robe. Rising again to his feet, he turned back in the direction of the door he had entered only minutes before, and proceeded to make his exit, the world around him impervious to what had just transpired. But the apparition in black knew. He knew that with this one act, he had set in motion a chain of events that would forever change the world. And that, he surmised, was not at all a bad night's work.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he ventured one last look at the chapel, saying to no one in particular, "Next stop, Sunnydale".
Sunnydale California
The next day
There are those days when everything just seems to fall into place; When the planets align perfectly, the birds are chirping, the sun's shining brightly, and absolutely nothing can go wrong.
This was definitely not one of those days.
Not for the first time in his 21 year existence, Alexander Lavelle Harris wondered how in the hell his life had ever gotten this complicated. After all, he was the zeppo, the sidekick with the biting sarcasm and witty one-liners. He was the normal one in a decidedly abnormal group. And yet somehow, he had once again managed to help save the world. It wasn't like he had meant to. He was only doing what came naturally – looking after his friends. It was just that by doing the latter, namely saving Willow from herself, that he managed to save them all in the process.
Of course, saving the world was the easy part -- it always was. Dealing with the aftermath was the wild card. It was easy enough to forgive Willow for what she had done. She was, after all, wracked with grief over Tara's murder, and as the adage goes, revenge is a powerful motivator. He and Buffy had repeatedly tried to impress upon Willow their forgiveness, but she would have none of it. How could she accept their forgiveness if she couldn't forgive herself? Resigning himself to that fact, Xander once again steeled his nerves and knocked gently on his bedroom door, repeating what had become for him a daily ritual.
"Hey Wills, mind if I come in?"
Receiving only a muffled response in reply, Xander quietly opened the door and poked his head inside, cursing silently to himself at the sight before him. Willow lie curled up in a fetal position on the bed, occupying much the same position as she had for the past four weeks. The window shades were drawn, a sliver of late afternoon sun filtering in thru the bottom of the window panes. The irony was not lost on Xander; The darkness of the room perfectly complimented Willow's present state of mind.
"I thought you might be hungry, so I picked up some Chinese on the way home. You want?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Come on Will, it's not every day you get to feast on General Kim's Kung Pao Chicken and egg rolls. OK, maybe every Tuesday, but definitely not every day." Eliciting no response with his feeble attempt at humor, Xander decided it was time to pursue another course of action. Turning on the light, he proceeded to cross the room, and sat down on the bed opposite the petite redhead. He had put this off for long enough.
"You know Will, it's been a month, and we haven't really discussed it. I-I understand that it's hard for you to talk about it, and I won't pretend that I know what you're going through, but I want you to know that when you're ready I'll be here."
Still getting no reaction from his friend, Xander took a more direct approach. Cupping Willow's head between his hands, he gently lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. Her eyes -- Willow's eyes. More than anything, it had been the look in her beautiful blue eyes that alarmed Xander the most. When he gazed into them now, he saw only defeat, not the boundless spark of life that was decidedly and uniquely Willow-esque. Gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, he tried once more.
"Willow, I need you. We all need you. I liked Tara a lot. I loved her, because she made you happy, and that made me happy. If I could take away your pain, I would. But I can't -- no one can. It hurts because she was a part of you, and she always will be. Death doesn't change that. If it didn't hurt so much, If it didn't feel like your heart and soul had been torn out of you, then maybe you would know some kind of peace. But then all of it would have meant nothing. If there's one thing I've learned Will, it's this: Pain and love -- they go hand in hand It's the price we pay for loving someone. It's cruel and it sucks and it's not fair, but that's the way it is."
By now the tears were streaming down Willow's cheeks, her eyes blood red. "B…But what I did. I killed someone. I took a human life. I tried to kill you and Buffy and Dawn and Giles, and I, I…."
Pulling Willow into his arms, Xander cut her off before she could finish. "But nothing, Wills. All of that, everything you did, it doesn't matter. We've been there and done that. You're not the first one of us to fuck up. We're not perfect. We forgave Angel for what he did to Ms. Calendar. We forgave Faith for everything she's done. We forgave Buffy when she tried to kill us, and we forgive you. You've taken a human life, Willow, but you had your reasons. Warren killed Tara. He murdered her. She never did anything to him. She never hurt anybody. She died because she chose to help us, because she was in the right place at the wrong time. Maybe I can't condone what you did to Warren, but I'm not going to shed any tears over his death. He willingly took two human lives, and he almost killed Buffy. You'll have to live with what you did, but you won't have to do it alone. I promised you I'd never leave you Willow, and I won't. You're stuck with me, at least for another forty or fifty years."
Willow still wasn't entirely convinced. Trembling in his arms, she cried, "I didn't just try to kill you, Xander, I tried to destroy the world, and I felt nothing. I was going to kill six billion people, and I didn't care. How can you sit here and say that it's going to be OK? How can I look at you knowing what I did; How can I face the others?"
For the first time since Tara's death, Xander saw something in Willow's eyes, something other than despair. He saw hope. And that was all he needed.
"Willow, do you know what the difference is between you and all the other would be big-bads in Sunnydale? Every monster we encounter, every demon that tries to end the world, they all have one thing in common: They have no sense of compassion. They don't feel remorse for the lives they destroy. You're different than they are. You can't bear to think that you've caused others pain. You tried to hurt us all, to destroy us, because you were out of your mind with grief, and all you could see was that we were trying to get in the way of your vengeance. The reason you can't face us, the reason you hide away in the dark, it's because you feel remorse. I talked to Giles, Will. I know how he tricked you into stealing the coven's power. He told me what the power did to you, the pain you felt. You did what you did to end the suffering, not to cause it. You just went about it the wrong way. We're still here, Willow. The world's still here. What you do next is up to you. But I want you to remember one thing: If you give up now, if you decide that you can't bear to go on, then you dishonor Tara's memory. She forgave you Willow. She forgave you for putting magic before her. She forgave you for lying to her and betraying her trust. Let that be Tara's legacy. Honor her by forgiving yourself, and by letting us forgive you."
At the mention of Tara's name, the floodgates opened even wider. The tears poured from Willow's eyes as the depth of her loss hit her once more. Xander felt her arms tighten around him, and he returned the gesture, running his hand slowly thru his best friend's hair.
"I'm so sorry Xand. I'm so lost without her. I- I just got her back, and now she's left me again. I can't think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I can't see past the pain. I can't imagine my life without her."
Xander said nothing; he was fresh out of answers.. Instead, he bent down, softly pressing his lips to her moist cheek, tasting the saltiness of her tears as they streamed down her alabaster skin, and guiltily reveling in the pleasure. Willow didn't pull away. Turning unexpectedly to face him, she felt his lips brush lightly against hers. Xander tensed against her, and Willow pulled him even closer. She needed this. She needed to feel close to him, to feel alive again, if only for tonight.
Willow kissed him again, harder this time, pulling his upper lip into her mouth. Her tongue probed eagerly against his lips, begging them for entry. Xander demurred, mentally forcing the blood back to his brain. OK, this has to be wrong. This is Willow, my best friend, my GAY best friend. I mean, it's nice and it feels good, so it's probably wrong and… whoa – hands in new places. Willow's hands in new places….again.
The last thought jarred him back to reality. Willow's hands had moved from his face, venturing down to his chest, pausing only long enough to divest him of his shirt, then continued their southerly journey towards more intimate regions. Sensing Xander's reticence, Willow disengaged her lips from his long enough to reassure her friend, even as her hands busied themselves with the button on his jeans. "Xan, I need this. You need this. I know we're not in love, and we don't have to be. I love you, and I know you love me. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that."
Maybe it was Willow's sage words of advice, or maybe it was her hand stroking him, either way Xander felt himself compelled to agree. Willow continued with her ministrations, her surprisingly adroit tongue exploring the far reaches of Xander's throat, even as her nimble fingers finally succeeded in freeing his manhood from its denim prison. Gasping involuntarily from the contact, Xander proceeded to return the favor, caressing Willow's breasts through the sheer silk fabric concealing them. His fingers fumbled with the impossibly small buttons on her blouse, searching desperately for the treasure buried within. He finally succeeded in with the task, uncovering her small, perfectly shaped breasts, tenderly kneading them with his palms as his thumb expertly traced small circles around the dark red areola. Xander paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his best friend's body, reveling in the exquisite beauty that was Willow. So this is what heaven's like, mused Xander, closing his eyes in an attempt to forever ingrain the moment in his mind. A firm believer in Murphy's law, Xander was keenly aware that at any moment this could, and probably would, go all to hell. After all, this was too perfect, given his past experience in life and love on the Hellmouth.
Feeling Willow pull away from him, Xander opened his eyes, expecting the worst. What he saw stunned him. Willow knelt on the bed, her thumbs hooked inside the elastic band of her white lace panties. She slowly pulled them down her hips, revealing her enticingly bald sex, already slick with desire. Sliding her right hand between her legs, she lightly rubbed her moist outer lips, slipping first one finger, then another, inside herself. Willow's left hand crept upwards, alternately caressing and pinching her erect nipples, the incredibly erotic sight rendering Xander speechless.
"Xand, think you could give me a hand?"
The last cogent thought Xander had that night was that maybe this day hadn't been so bad after all.
Willy's Bar
That same nightAs at most any bar, the regulars at Willy's liked to knock back a few stiff drinks at the end of a hard day's work. But, as the resident's of Sunnydale could attest, Willy's wasn't like most other bars. At other places, people ate the dead things offered on the menu; at Willy's, the dead things ate the people offered on the menu.
Mindful of this fact, Willy, namesake and proprietor of this fine establishment, couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive toward his newest customer. The man's loud attire could only be described as late-seventies pimp, and he walked with an indifference not usually found in a living Sunnydale resident, especially not after dark. That was a quality that could get a man killed, if that's what he truly was.
He wasn't a vampire; of that much Willy was sure. Though the man's ensemble screamed undead fashion victim, his demeanor said otherwise. His obvious distaste for the patrons of Willy's was readily apparent. But Willy's was an establishment known for its variety, both in clientele and selection of fresh blood. For that reason the man could be any manner of creature, and therefore bore watching, something Willy fully intended to do.
Strolling over to the bar, the man took a seat opposite Willy, removed his purple fedora and casually glanced around the room. What he saw amused him. The bar was populated by no fewer than a dozen of Sunnydale's less savory denizens, a virtual who's who of the demon world. There were vampires, lycanthropes, fyarl demons, chaos demons, even the odd bull demon, whose kind, rumor had it, had once endeavored to storm the very gates of heaven. For all of their apparent differences, though, the assembled demons all had one thing in common on this night– they were all afraid.
Willy curiously approached the newcomer, making a show of wiping down the bar with his towel. "What can I do you for pal?"
"Guinness, draft, and make sure the glass is clean" the stranger replied in an accent Willy couldn't quite place.
"Sure thing buddy, one Black and Tan coming right up." Willy turned to the sink, grabbing what passed for a clean glass. "Say, I haven't seen you around here before. You got a name?"
"People call me a lot of names. You can call me Whistler."
"I'm just askin', cause, you know, we don't get that many humans in here" Willy remarked off-handedly as he placed the glass under the tap.
"Big surprise. Maybe you should try cleaning the bathroom. It smells like death in there." Whistler was beginning to enjoy himself. This was not going to be good night for the weasel behind the bar.
Willy ignored Whistler's observation, topping off the glass with an unusually generous head before placing it on the bar in front of the odd customer. "So, what brings you to beautiful downtown Sunnyhell? You here on business, or just passing through?"
Whistler played along for the moment, knowing full well Willy's reputation as an information broker in demonic circles. "Actually, a little bit of both" he said, taking a sip of the dark stout. "I'm meeting a friend".
"A friend, huh. It's always nice to have a friend, 'specially around here. So, this friend of yours, he a local?" Willy pried, once again on a fishing expedition. After all, information was power, or in his situation, money, which was just as good in any case.
"He's not from around here, though I hear his boss has a few places around town." Whistler could play this game, too.
"You don't say. This boss, have I heard of him?"
Whistler smiled to himself , "I wouldn't bet against it, though I doubt you've seen him in here. He runs in different circles, you see." Satisfied with his attempt at obfuscation, Whistler opted to change the subject. "You know, your boys seem pretty wired tonight. What crawled up their asses and died?" The balance demon wasn't just making small talk. The assembled multitude in Willy's seemed unusually on edge, even for a bunch of antisocial demons.
"I don't know man. The last coupla' days, they've been all wigged. Something's got 'em spooked, and these guys aren't exactly the type to scare easily, if you catch my drift."
"Maybe they caught something in the bathroom" Whistler ventured, an innocent expression on his face.
"Hey pal, lay off the bathroom. Demons, they ain't exactly big on the personal hygiene, you know." Willy was genuinely hurt. He had just cleaned the bathroom last week, after all.
"You have my condolences" Whistler replied, draining his glass and setting it down loudly on the bar. Whistler turned away from the bartender, taking a closer look at his fellow imbibers. The usually boisterous demons were largely huddled together as one group, keeping a keen eye on the front entrance. A lone vampire, a 200 year-old bloodsucker, was presently pacing silently up and down the wooden floor, sniffing the air nervously. So pervasive was the fear in the room that one could almost smell it, much to Whistler's delight and to Willy's chagrin. Looking up at the bartender, the balance demon smiled broadly once again. "I think my friend is here."
All heads in the bar snapped towards the entrance as the metal door slowly swung open. For the first time in his life, Willy prayed that the Slayer had decided to pay a visit. He was terrified to think of what else could inspire this degree of fear in his patrons. Willy's prayers, however, would not be answered on this night.
The newcomer could not be mistaken for the petite blond woman, no matter how poor the lighting in the bar, nor how drunk the patronage. He was of medium height (by human standards at least) and dressed head-to-foot in black, the bottom of his trench coat nearly brushing the floor as he walked. The most remarkable feature of the man was his impassive mien. He didn't bat an eye at the things he saw in the bar, ignoring them completely as he walked towards the short man seated at the bar. He took a seat beside Whistler, not bothering to remove his coat. He didn't plan on being here long.
He fished a cigarette out of a small metal case, getting a light from a Zippo proffered by the bartender. "Been a long time Whistler" the man said, taking a long drag from the American cigarette. He liked Marlboros.
"Fifty years, but who's counting," Whistler agreed, making the requisite small-talk. "You don't call, you don't write. Where's the love?"
The man looked at Whistler, raising a disapproving eyebrow. "You've been spending too much time in California, my friend. You're going soft on me."
"What can I say, Danyael. I'm a lover, not a fighter. I leave the dirty work to you."
Danyael chuckled at his "friend's" flippant remark. "I doubt that our superiors would consider the execution of supreme policy "dirty work", as you so succinctly put it, Whistler." Dealing with the balance demon was always an exercise in patience. Some things never change.
"Speaking of the PTB's, I don't suppose they've reconsidered. You know, maybe they thought things over and decided this was a really, really bad idea." There was always a chance. It wouldn't be the first time they had reversed themselves, and with luck, it wouldn't be the last.
"Whistler, you forget yourself. Ours is not to question. We are but pawns in this game of chess. It matters not in what esteem we hold their policies."
"I see you've memorized the handbook, Yoda" Whistler lamented. "You know, If I recall correctly, I remember a time when a certain individual bearing a remarkable resemblance to yourself managed to get himself banished for disobeying orders. Refresh my memory if you would; how exactly did that come pass?"
"You know, Whistler, immortality is a relative term." Danyael remarked, the veiled threat implicit in his statement not quite so veiled.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones…" Whistler started, his reply cut short by the sudden appearance of a misshapen claw on his shoulder.
Pivoting in his stool, Whistler turned to see the demon whom the claw belonged to. Not surprisingly, he found himself staring into the ugly mug of a bull demon. A very large, very ugly bull demon.
"…but words will never hurt me.," the creature finished, an evil leer plastered on his gruesome face. "I, on the other hand, will."
Sighing audibly at Whistler's predicament, Danyael stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, turning slowly to face the demon and the small horde assembled behind it. "First of all, " Danyael explained, as if to a child, "my friend here is not a mortal. I am well aware that your kind is not known for their intelligence, but I would think that you would have learned a thing or two in the last 500 years." Danyael continued on, ignoring the growling of the now irate bull demon towering over him. "Second of all, you're not going to do anything to him, or any one else for that matter, for the rest of your miserable life."
"Oh really, and why exactly is that?" the bull demon asked, now as amused as he was angry.
Danyael said nothing at first. He merely smiled at the demon, an eerie serenity belying the torrent of emotion simmering beneath the surface. His eyes began to take on an otherworldly cobalt hue as he unleashed the power coursing through his veins, freeing it from its cage to cascade over him in wave after wave, surrendering to its raw essence. The pure energy emanating from Danyael washed over Willy's like a tidal wave, revealing his true identify to the assembled demons. A sudden realization dawned on the bull demon, though too late to be of any benefit to him. The man seated before him was the one they had all feared. It was he who was hunting them.
Danyael looked up at the cowed beast before him, finally answering the demon's question. "You won't do anything to my friend", he replied, "because you're about to die." Faster than the human eye could follow, Danyael's hand shot upwards, piercing the giant's larynx like a blade, passing through his neck, severing the spinal cord, before finally emerging from the back of the demon's neck at the base of its skull. The incredible force of the blow tore the demon's head from its torso, killing it instantly, showering its fellow demons with copious amounts of noxious green blood.
Through the entire exchange, Whistler remained silent, shaking his head at the demon's graphic misfortune. Looking past the lifeless corpse of the bull demon, he belatedly addressed the remaining demons. "A word of advice boys: Now might be a good time to run. My friend here is not known for his self-restraint."
Accepting that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, the remaining demons promptly turned heel and fled the bar, stumbling over one another in their haste to escape, not caring whether or not the slayer was out hunting tonight. Best to take your chances with the enemy you know.
Whistler watched the bar empty, then turned back to his enigmatic friend, picking up the conversation where they left off. "But seriously man, have they really considered how this revelation's gonna affect her? Trust me Dan, you do not want to upset this girl. She doesn't take surprises well; she tends to get a little violent, generally at my expense."
"I appreciate your apprehension, Whistler, but time is of the essence. The girl must be prepared for what's to come, and she can only do that once she's accepted what she truly is." Danyael was fast becoming exasperated. Doesn't he ever give up? Persistence is a noble quality, but only to a certain extent. At some point it just became damn annoying. By Danyael's reckoning, Whistler was fast approaching that point.
"I'm only suggesting that for once you try a little subtlety. Look at it from her point of view. The girl died for God's sake. She had her soul torn from heaven, which I'm led to believe is an altogether unpleasant experience. I just think that you should tread lightly when dealing with this slayer. She's been through a lot."
"Whistler, you're preaching to the choir here pal. I know better than most what she's going through. It's not easy to come back from the dead, and I should know, I've done it before. It will be hard for her to accept her destiny, but she's done it before, and she'll do it again. She has no choice. I wasn't thrilled about it at first either, but I came around, and look how I turned out."
"And they say that you have no sense of humor," Whistler replied drolly, reaching for his hat. "Do what you will, pal, just heed my advice – go easy on her. You'll thank me later when she doesn't stake you," the balance demon argued reasonably. "Well, I'll be damned, look at the time. It's been great catching up with you, but duty calls. I have a date with a waterlogged vampire in the city of angels." Turning to make his exit, Whistler spied Willy crouching behind the bar, a foul smell wafting up from the still terrified bartender. "You know Willy, if you're really serious about cleaning up this joint, you might want to start with your pants. You smell like shit." Nodding farewell to his supernatural friend, he proceeded to make his exit, whistling to himself as exited into the dark night.
Alone in the bar with Willy, Danyael gazed down at the prone bartender. "I hear you're in the information business, William," he stated matter-of-factly. "As luck would have it, I just happen to be in the market for a little information myself."
Willy somehow managed to find his voice. "s-s-s-s-sure thing pal. Anything you want. I-I'm your man," he stammered, in fear for his life.
"Elizabeth Summers. Short. Blonde. Likes to kill your customers. Where can I find her?"
Willy didn't hesitate to supply the requested information. "1606 Revello. She lives there with her sister. Why man? What do you want with her?"
Danyael grinned in response. He stood up, walked to the front door, and stopped. Not bothering to face Willy, he nonetheless responded to the human's question. "I'm going to send her to meet her maker," he said purposefully, plunging out the door and into the awaiting night, leaving the bartender with more questions than answers.