The Man with a Thousand Faces
Prologue
4 August, 1989, New York City
Spike threw the young woman against the side of the subway car. Her lover lay unconscious on the floor. The blonde haired vamp hissed as his face took on its natural, inhuman form. His hand closed around her throat.
"Wha's your name, slayer?" He hissed, lifting her by her throat from the ground.
"Fuck you," she gagged, driving her toe into his stomach. He groaned and dropped her, stumbling back between two seats on the empty car. Her foot connected with his jaw and he had to jump back to avoid the swing of her fist.
He caught her other hand, though, twisting it viciously, pinning it behind her back. "Your name, slayer, so I can visit your grave stone." He pulled her blonde hair back and inhaled her scent from her neck.
"Niki," she hissed, then with a shout threw her weight into elbowing him in the ribs. He barely felt it, but he released her anyway, taking a wary step back.
He frowned, looking about himself, examining the subway car as it was blanketed in darkness every few moments. "Well, in't this some sort of freaky deja vu?" He finally turned back to her, looked down and gave her slowly stirring lover a kick in the face, throwing him into unconsciousness again. "Y'know, I killed another slayer by the name of Nikki in a subway car like this... couldn't of been more than ten years ago..." They exchanged blows. "She was a dark beauty, though," he mused, smashing his fist into her pale cheek, "and a hell of a better fighter."
"Enough chit chat," she spat, "the deja vu ends here." She pulled a stake from her Ramones-style leather jacket and dove at him. Spike remained unfazed as he caught her easily and drove her into the gritty floor of the subway, pinning her cheek with his knee.
"You know what?" He said quietly above the distant thundering of the tracks. He brought his lips close to her ear as he sat on her chest and held her head with his knee. "I don't fancy your jacket," he whispered, then put his weight on his knee, expecting to hear the telltale crack.
Just then the blond haired man on the floor regained consciousness and an explosion of sparks threw the vampire from the slayer's body. The man slowly lifted himself from the floor with a groan.
Spike leapt to his feet and glared angrily from the man on the floor to the prostrate slayer near by. A sadistic grin spread across his face and he began to advance on them both again. He stepped over one of the already dead passengers and gave the slayer a passing kick to the side of the head as he made his way to the more challenging prey.
The blond haired man struggled up into a sitting position and began to retreat from the approaching vamp.
Spike stopped and smiled, seeing the fear on the man's face. "Looks like you're all abracadabra'd out—" he stepped back again to the motionless form of the slayer. He knew she was still alive and he crouched down and lifted her to his mouth, intent on tasting his third slayer in a century. He closed his eyes and drew in the scent. Then he opened his eyes and fixed his malicious smile on the slayer's lover. "I want you to watch—"
But the blond haired man had just been waiting for his moment. With a wave of his hand, Spike felt a haze of dizziness and disorientation. He blinked and when it was over, he looked down at the woman in his arms with a puzzled frown. Who the hell was this?
He dropped her uncertainly to the floor, then stood, looking around in confusion. How had he gotten here? He turned away from the man on the floor who was now standing up. Spike turned back around, about to ask–
But something hit him hard in the face and everything went black.
---
Part I – The Conjurer
One
8 May, 1995, San Francisco
He was grimy and the sun was too bright. These were his thoughts as he made his way through the crowded street. Finally, Logan's eyes found the man he for whom he was searching. The man was standing by a hotdog cart, under the broad umbrella, casually munching.
Logan's eyes were narrowed, partly from the sun, partly from distrust. He approached the man in the fedora, keeping his eyes away, always glancing at something else, until he was right next to him.
"I want him dead," Kilpatrick informed the man, under his breath. When there was no immediate response, just loud chewing noises, he turned his gaze on Whistler. "Did you hear me? I said I want him dead. I'm tired of waiting."
"I don't make promises like that," the demon answered him, swallowing a large mouthful of San Francisco's finest, "just suggestions."
"Then I suggest you deliver what we agreed upon." Logan's voice was cold and hard, tempered with years of smoldering anger and regret.
"See, I don't make agreements either," Whistler answered, balling up the napkin and tossing it in the waste basket. "Still just suggestions."
Kilpatrick gripped his fist in his hand. "I want him dead," he hissed, his eyes staring across the street.
"Well, Those Who Happen to Be want him alive," the demon began to walk away, expecting this man to catch up, which he did. He glared forward through his grimy blonde bangs. "You need a haircut," the demon informed him, then glanced down at his ratty blazer, "and a new outfit." A grin flashed onto his face. "Come with me," he said happily.
Logan glared even more distrustfully at the man he was following. "Where are we going?" He demanded, stopping in mid stride.
Whistler turned back to him, flashing him that charming smile. "Shopping."
---
Logan frowned, turning around to examine it in the mirror. "I look stupid," he said irritated, making no attempt to hide his dislike of doing anything unrelated to killing the vampire he was hunting. "I look like a pirate."
"Who said pirates are stupid, eh?" Whistler turned Logan around, delicately tugging at the white silk, making it billow. "There, now that looks keen."
"It's ridiculous and I'm not wearing it." He stepped back into the changing room and began to undress. "I sent three trained assassins after him," Logan said to Whistler, who he knew was waiting for him outside the room, "and he killed them in eighteen seconds."
"Well, he wouldn't still be around if he wasn't the best." There was a pause, during which Logan could tell the demon was pondering something very profound. "What do you suppose is the opposite of a Power That Be? A Power That Doesn't? A Power That Isn't?" There was another small pause. "Like the Little Power That Couldn't?"
Logan emerged, wearing again his grimy blazer and matching khakis. He threw the white silk shirt over Whistler's head with disdain. "I'm gone," he dismissed, brushing past the demon. "If you're not going to help me dust this son of a bitch-"
"I want you to do something for me," Whistler interrupted. "Well, o'course it ain't for me. But I want it all the same."
Logan stopped, a surprised and almost amused look on his face. "You want something from me?" He scoffed. "And just why the fuck should I help you?"
Whistler retained his gentle demeanor as he folded the silk in his arms. "Because I have friends." He stated simply. "Friends Who Happen to Be."
Kilpatrick whirled on him with a cautioning finger. "If you're fucking around with me!" He hissed, aiming his finger between the demon's eyes.
"I told you I just make suggestions," Whistler answered amicably.
Logan took a breath. "Well, may I suggest, then, that you suggest the best way to kill William the Bloody, or I will take myself and my significant mystical resources and leave you hanging from the Golden Gate Bridge."
Whistler actually grinned. He opened his mouth but merely took a deep, refreshing breath. "Come with me," he said at last.
This time, Logan followed without a word, fully confident that he had left himself in the stronger position. It was always a game of cards with Whistler. He never gave anything away. Nothing you wanted to know. Only what he wanted you to know. Only what Those That Be wanted you to know, or whatever hadn't been filtered out by their fedora-wearing, hotdog-toting, morally-superior throwback / interloper. Logan gritted his teeth as Whistler stopped for another hotdog on their way to the airport. He'd been waiting seven years, and he'd be damned before he'd wait another seven. Some part of him laughed. What an apt expression. Everything would happen before he was damned. Everything.
---
Two
11 May, 1995, Manhattan
"What am I looking at?" Logan asked with disinterest. "Another vampire, another twelve ounces of dust waiting to be."
"Not just another vampire," Whistler replied gazing with Logan from a tall hedge at the vamp who held the limp body in his arms. "This one lost his soul."
Logan slowly turned to him, complete contempt on his face. "They've all lost their souls!" he hissed, standing from the damp earth from his stakeout position to leave. "I've got better things to do than kill nobody vampires."
"This ain't no nobody vampire," Whistler grabbed Logan by the sleeve and pulled him back to the ground. "This one lost his soul two days ago," he explained, gazing intently at the dark haired creature of the night. The streetlight picked out only glimpses of the vamp's face, in all its unnatural glory, as he ducked to feed on the still warm girl in his arms.
"So?" prompted the self-proclaimed demon-killer. "So he's fresh, so what? Is this some sort of hard luck, tragedy? Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?"
"He's special, because he was sired two hundred years ago," Whistler continued undaunted, peering eagerly through the bushes at the dark figure who now moved into the alley, sensing he was being watched.
This brought Logan's fuming to a halt. "And he only lost his soul two days ago?" He made a sound of distant disgust. "Some processes are getting rusty, aren't they? What can you count on any more?"
"This vampire," Whistler went on, "was cursed with his soul. To remember all the deeds he has done. To regret them."
"Tough luck," Logan sighed, "so you're wanting me to end this fellow's misery, is that it?"
"No," Whistler finally turned to the man beside him. "I want you to give him his soul back."
Kilpatrick's eyes widened, his jaw tightening. He wanted to kill this stupid- He took a breath, calming himself. It was requiring more and more effort these days. "You want me to what?" He asked, trying to retain some semblance of rationality.
"Y'see, the thing about this curse is that if he ever felt a moment of true happiness, poof, there goes the soul and it's back to dental surgery." Whistler returned his gaze to the man skulking in the alleyway, watching them watching him. "Nobody really thought he had a chance of finding any kind of happiness, what with resigning himself to eating rats and all."
"So what happened?" Logan demanded, "he eat a particularly good rat?"
"Nah," Whistler shook his head. "A bump on the head to take care of the remorse, then a night with a pretty girl's apparently all it took." He went on, as if this were a textbook case. "They had some drinks 'So what'd you do?' 'Sorry, I can't remember' 'Oh, fascinating' and then kissy-kissy, smoochy-smoochy, he takes her to wherever she's living and... well, he wakes up soulless, she wakes up eaten."
"And you want me to give him back his soul?" Kilpatrick shook his head and sighed. "You know, I do also kill things that are evil. In fact, that's the bold print on my resumé." He raised a hand to silence the demon beside him before he could speak. "But- Let me guess, Those That Be want him for their coming-out party? He's the... caterer?"
"Do this," Whistler stood and turned from the hedge, "and you'll know where to find your blonde haired charmer." He began to walk away.
"I thought you didn't make agreements," Logan called after him.
"Call it good foresight." And the demon was gone into the next dark alley he came upon.
---
Three
16 May, 1995, Manhattan
Angelus turned as the scent entered his nostrils. A human. And not a particularly clean one, either.
"Angelus, is it?" Logan asked, staring absently at his nails. He rubbed them on his dirty blazer then looked up to the dark figure in the warehouse shadows. "Before you try to eat me, in the spirit of fair play, I must tell you that I've killed more vampires on my way here tonight than I have pounds of meat on my body." He blew across his nails. "Just something to chew on," he muttered.
"Before you die, then," Angelus sneered, "in the spirit of fair play-" and he launched himself silently into the air, his face acquiring the vampiric qualities, only to land upon the untouched floor, no sight or sign of the petulant human. He snarled turning around quickly, scanning the darkness.
Logan made a loud cough to bring the vampire's attention to the spot from which he had launched himself. Angelus seethed.
"If you're through embarrassing yourself..." Logan sighed distractedly. He turned back, raising a small vial of water. "I'm guessing that some part of you, corporeal or not, wants to get your soul back, otherwise this will just kill you."
The vampire hissed, crouching, ready to leap again. "What do you want?"
Logan sighed again. "I want someone to do to me what I'm about to do to you." He uncorked the vial and waved it tauntingly before the vampire. "In the spirit of fair play," he said again. "I'm going to give you three seconds to run-"
Angelus launched himself into the air again, this time, guaranteed not to miss. No holy water would stop him.
With a flick of his wrist, Logan sent a curtain of droplets into the descending vampire's path, then side stepped as time resumed its normal speed. Just a little trick from one particularly insane sorcerer.
Angelus screamed, landing hard on the floor, rolling quickly and crashing into a stack of skids. He writhed and moaned on the floor for several moments as the ether was combed for his missing piece. Then with a pulse of white light, it was rejoined with the twisting vampire.
With a groan and the crashing of an unbalanced wooden skid, Angel rose from the debris. Logan sighed, wiping his face out of boredom. After a moment of examining the exhausted, confused vampire staring blankly around himself, Logan turned to go.
"Wait- what happened?" Angel croaked, his fingers scrunching the material of his shirt over his heart, which still did not beat.
"You ate a bad rat," Logan answered dryly, then walked out.
---
"It's done," Logan began, throwing the empty vile to the table of the restaurant. It clinked as it rolled in an arc and connected with Whistler's glass. "Now where is he?"
The demon sighed, tipping up the brim of his fedora. "The answer you're looking for is here," came the cryptic response.
"Here..." Logan prompted, offering a hand, "in this restaurant? Here in this city? Here at this table? What?"
"You're very angry," Whistler observed with a raised eyebrow. "Didn't it go as you thought?"
Logan sighed and sat. "Well," he began, "he tried to eat me-" Whistler laughed at this, "-despite my warning."
"Did you give him the 'more vamps than pounds o' flesh' speech?" Whistler grinned, taking a sip of his ale. Logan frowned.
"What's wrong with- It's not a speech. It's true. Every time it's true." He dropped his gaze to the table then back up again. "It's mostly true." Whistler laughed out loud. Logan's frown grew. "So tell. Where's my city?"
Whistler sighed and grew sober again. "Over there," he nodded his head towards a man sitting at the bar. "He knows your city."
Kilpatrick rose, bowing his head slightly to the demon in cautious thanks. "He won't escape again." He moved to the bar and took a stool beside the fellow who was obviously a demon.
Whistler sighed and brought the ale to his lips. "That's what you say every time."
---
Four
1 November, 1999, Sunnydale
Logan set his glass down hard on the table top, making the liquid inside it jump. His face was calm and collected, however, revealing nothing of his extreme frustration.
"He got away again, didn't he?" Whistler sat, his own frosty drink leaving a ring on the table.
Kilpatrick scratched his eyebrow with his pinky finger. He finally sighed, taking a long drink from his tortured glass. "Yes..." he said at last, his voice even. "Yes he did."
"What happened this time?" There was an eagerness on the demon's face, he enjoyed these little get-togethers. They were an ongoing testament to the beauty and grace of the plan laid out by the Powers That Be. If Spike was not to be killed, he would live... well, sort of live.
"My demon had tracked him here to Sunnydale," Logan responded, "to a little grove near the local college."
"So what happened? Your demon accidentally attend a lecture and die?"
Logan chewed on his lip. "The Initiative got him."
Whistler's eye shot up. "The Initiative?" He nodded appreciatively. "Wow, we haven't seen them in a while, have we? What's it been - twelve years? They're here in Sunnydale now?"
"Fourteen years," Logan was shaking his head, "and apparently this town is some kind of hell-focal-point." He glowered. "There was a name the demon used, but I forget." He resented Whistler's cavalier attitude to failure, but he made no threats, no smart comebacks. He was calm.
"You look good," Whistler commented, peering at the man over his drink. "Not so... angry."
"Tibet will do that," was his simple response.
"Yes, I heard you're all into meditation now. Find your circumcenter and all that." He gave a little grin. Logan was unaffected.
"It's 'find your epicenter' and yes, I am feeling quite good, for the most part."
Whistler shrugged into his drink and muttered. "I said you look good; you're as angry as ever on the inside."
"Shouldn't I be?" Logan snapped, setting his glass back down. "I'm your little puppet whenever you call, and what do I get out of it? You and the Be Crew work against me at every turn. Revenge was never this difficult." He sighed and started fingering his coaster.
"It's not just us," Whistler defended, twisting his drink in the ring it had made. "With everything working against you, you've got as much chance of catching this guy as Mother Superior of catching VD."
"What's working against me?" Logan frowned. "Because I can kill it if I need to."
"Well," Whistler sighed, counting on his fingers. "You've got Those That Be, for starters, whom you can't kill. You've got this wicked bad case of prophecy, which you'll find out about later," the demon assured him, "you've got destiny, which you can try to kill, but if you do, then get it on video, because I'd like to see it. You've got the forces of darkness, who embrace Spike like one of their own because... well, because he is one of their own. You've got the more intelligent forces among good, like me, because we recognize his eventual importance-"
"Which is?" Logan interrupted, throwing down his coaster. "What the hell good has Spike ever done?"
"None, yet," Whistler sighed, annoyed at being interrupted. "And eventually," he continued, "you'll have the Slayer against you."
Logan's eyes narrowed. "The slayer as in the—?" He closed his fist angrily. He was quickly losing his epicenter. "The Slayer?"
"The one and only... Well, one of two, yeah." He took another swig of ale. "The blonde one."
Logan nodded with a small chuckle as the pieces began clicking together in his mind. "The one who's only still alive because I helped Tall Dark and Confused years back?" He laughed once. "Figures."
"Take a break," Whistler stood, patting the man on the shoulder. "Go back to Tibet, work on your middle, er.. Center. We won't be needing you now for a bit." He turned and began to walk away.
"Are you firing me?" Logan exclaimed in surprise and amusement. He took to his feet.
"Just making a suggestion," the demon answered without turning around. He left the Bronze without another word.
---
6 November, 1999, Chamdo, Tibet
The prelate stood at the top of the steps. He looked down to the street below – the street full of people, coming and going, Tibetans and tourists alike. Despite all that this temple stood for, there was little stillness; little peace in those outside these walls. All the ideals which Buddhism suggested were the path to enlightenment, the Eightfold Path, seemed only truly realized inside the temple itself. A sad truth the prelate had resigned himself to many years ago. He had decided then to at least dedicate himself to those thoughtful few who did enter the temple for those reasons.
One pupil of his in particular was in desperate need of inner peace. The prelate saw the blond haired man now sitting several steps down, gazing out into the throng of people. With silent steps in silent sandals, he made his way down to the man, going against his custom and sitting on the steps next to him, carefully arranging his red robes around his feet.
After a moment, Logan glanced at him. "What am I doing here?"
The prelate kept his serene smile. "You are famous in this temple for asking questions only you know the answers to. But somehow I do not think your Koans are designed to challenge logic so much as to release some of the struggle inside you."
Logan looked back to the crowd. "I've been here a long time. I've learned your meditation practices, your mantras, I'm even half-decent at speaking Khampan." He let his accomplishments hang in the air unchallenged. "But the peace I feel here is empty. You tell me to let go, but I can't even see what I'm holding on to. You tell me attachment is the cause of all of my suffering, but I fear I am my attachment, and my suffering is my life. Here I am called to cease to exist…" he looked out into the uncaring, disinterested tide of people, "and that will happen eventually, but right now I can't stay here any more."
The prelate's smile never faltered. "Logan Kilpatrick, you have many secrets and have done things that you would take to your grave, but I'm afraid one of the things you have been trying to hide has been known among us at the temple for some time."
The conjurer's head snapped in the prelate's direction. His heart was beating faster. "Oh?"
The prelate nodded. "No one here believes it is coincidence that at the same time you arrived the Zhŭdòngxìng began asking questions in this city. We know you are a man with abilities beyond the average human being. Our tradition describes someone with your peculiar talents as a Bodhisattva – a supremely advanced and enlightened form of life who understands the inner workings of the universe so well as to be able to control them for the enlightenment of all… but you are obviously no more enlightened or at peace than the most troubled novice who first gets his alms bowl."
"Thanks for your encouragement," Logan said dryly.
The prelate went on with a little smile. "I believe you are correct. You cannot stay here anymore. You have indeed learned all I can teach you. Buddhism itself – as all rafts on this water, is a limited vessel, to be discarded when you reached the far shore. In your case, however, I find the analogy closer perhaps to a craft navigating the rapids. The Sangha of this temple is a sturdy craft indeed, but I intend to send you to the most stalwart vessel I know: a temple hosting many faiths, high in the mountains surrounding this valley. The monks there are perhaps more equipped to help you reach whatever shore you are seeking."
Logan searched the prelate's eyes, slowly nodding. "I hope you're right."
The prelate stood, smoothing his robes as the blond haired man stood as well, also arranging his robes. "Come, let us get your things- "
Logan drew the small bowl – a Buddhist's only possession – out of the folds in the robes where he had been holding it. "I've got it right here."
---
Five
8 November, 1999, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Logan looked around the great stone entrance hall. The sight surprised even him. Wandering here and there, from entranceway to entranceway were monks of so many different faiths that Logan couldn't keep track. He picked out the red robed Buddhists immediately, the simple monks with skullcaps and the prelates with ornate headdresses. But there were also brown, burlap-robed Christian monks, some hooded and carrying heavy tomes and scrolls. One or two men Logan guessed were Carthusian monks, others were Franciscan, Dominican, Benedictine, Jesuit… There were Catholic, Orthodox, Protestant… Logan lost count as the faces and the styles of dress hurried by. Among the Buddhists he identified Mahayana and Theravada monks. There were Vishnuvites, Shivwits, Brahmins, and other Hindus Logan couldn't identify. There were Muslims, Sikhs and Jains. And of course, that ever-present filler, the lost-looking agnostic tourist populace who came looking for something they would not name and found themselves invariably in one place of worship or another.
The trek to this place had been one that few seasoned hikers would brave and Logan guessed those who lived here were not just passing through. This temple / lamasery / monastery, Logan had been told, was one of the oldest standing buildings in the region, built by the Buddhist missionaries who first came to this valley. They were regarded in something of a heroic light and Logan had wondered from their story if they had been the mere human monks the story-tellers had described. The monastery they had built was certainly impressive for a feat of human engineering.
Carved largely into the side of the mountain, the temple whose name was long ago forgotten had a broad flight of steps leading up to its wide front doors. The front hall beyond was the largest space in the building and it often served for the meeting place for prayer and group meditation. It could be easily converted to serve for Mass or Morning Prayer or even the many forms of martial arts taught here. Branching off from the main hall, at its end, were three hallways, straight ahead, to the left and to the right. Deeper into the mountain than this simple layout which Logan could see when he entered, the temple expanded into labyrinthine complexity, branching off into several directions and levels, having been expanded and deepened throughout the ages to suit different needs.
All across the cliff face into which the temple was set, however, Logan could see from the outside that dozens of balconies and windows looked out over the mountainscape, giving the temple the air of a Petra-like city: completely self-contained and content to be cut off from the rest of the world. The caravan which had arrived with Logan implied that supplies were brought here on a regular basis, perhaps bimonthly, but somehow this didn't degrade the dignified solitude of this religious haven. Somehow, in this unknown or forgotten corner of the world, many faiths had found a refuge from the unending religious friction which ground them down outside these walls.
Logan suddenly felt very small with his simple robes, the cloak he wore and the bowl he carried. What had learned felt insignificant and his abilities and accomplishments seemed humbled in the face of this place. These feelings excited him, igniting above all else a sense that this place, perhaps, could offer him whatever it was he was missing.
After ten years of drifting, Logan Kilpatrick had finally found a home.
---
21 November, 1999, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Haargan, the last Master of the order of Dagon looked the Chinese officer in the face. He was used to having interference from the Chinese military. They were rightly convinced that there were some seriously illegitimate things going on in this monastery. They had even gone so far as demanding bribes to report this monastery as vacant. But this officer was not here for money. He had brought a piece of paper which now lay on the old wooden table by torchlight in front of the old Master.
Haargan look with a scowl at the name on the paper. An American name. Most of the Americans who came here were tourists, some were priests. But the man whose name was on the paper was, according to Chinese Intelligence, a criminal with quite a file against him. He had apparently killed his family and fled America.
He might go by several assumed names, including Dwight Heinz and Christopher Young, but his real name was Logan Kilpatrick. The paper sitting in front of Haargan now was a warrant for the man's arrest.
"He's not here," Haargan said simply. He had no love for the Zhŭdòngxìng and was not about to break the sanctity of this place and turn someone in, regardless of what they had done: he would deal with this man himself.
"Harboring this criminal carries with it the death penalty. It is in your interest to cooperate." The officer had a smug little smile on his face. After all, this was a Buddhist temple: full of pacifists. Even the foreigners who came here were pacifists. Not one of them was armed.
"He is not here," Haargan repeated. "And even if he were, you would never find him. You have been here often enough, Deng, that you know if someone does not wish to be found, they won't be." The aged Master stood from his old wooden chair and moved to the stone wall, approaching one of the crackling torches. "And do not make the mistake of thinking pacifists are harmless—" at his last word, every torch in the room snuffed out, leaving the room in utter darkness.
For several seconds, Deng and his soldiers were surrounded by the inky blackness of the bowels of the mountain. Whispering sounds began to diffuse from the darkness, the clicking of bones and the chattering of teeth. With a whimper, one of the soldiers switched on the flashlight mounted on his gun. He screamed as the ghostly skeleton inches from him was suddenly illuminated.
Haargan tapped the base of the torch and each torch in the room flared to life again, filling the room with warm light, showing no signs of what had been in the darkness. The soldiers had their guns raised, aiming wildly with wide eyes. Only Deng seemed less than spooked. He had indeed been here before.
"I invite you to leave," Haargan said at last, moving back to the table to sit. He slid the paper back towards the Chinese officer across the table. "And next time you want to make threats," he glanced at the wide-eyed soldiers, "bring some backup with stomach."
Deng sneered and turned away, motioning his soldiers to follow. At the door, he turned back, and drew something from his pocket. It was a small silken sac, tied with a string. He tossed it across the room in the old Master's direction. The old man, with grace befitting someone centuries younger, caught the gift in his old hand.
"Should he eventually find his way here," Deng said with a harsh tone, "give him this." Without another word, the Chinese officer and his men left the torch-lit room, storming past the monks outside and heading for the stairs which led out of this dismal end of the lamasery.
Haargan watched them go, then turned his attention back to the small thing. He drew it from the silk sac and held it in his fingers. It was a small glass sphere, about the size of a small bird egg. His eyes rose from the sphere to the door. His expression hardened.
---
Logan was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the chamber, meditating in the darkness. This wasn't his own room, but with so many people milling about the monastery it was the only truly quiet place to meditate. As centering as the drone of the monks often was, there was something to be said for absolute silence. Judging by the lack of window or torches, this was likely a storage room of some kind.
Logan was concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing when there was a harsh pounding on the door. He barely had time to turn around before the door swung open and Master Haargan stormed down the stairs, his derisive expression able to wilt any ego.
"You have not been honest with us Mister Logan. It was not spiritual sanctuary you sought here, was it?" Without waiting for an answer, the old Master turned away with contempt. "The monks who come here are fleeing persecution, not prosecution."
"I haven't done anything wrong," Logan said with a frown. He didn't know how this monk had found out about Logan's past, but frankly it was none of his business.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but even in America it is not up to the accused party to make that decision." Haargan paced before the door, obviously very irate. "We have enough trouble here protecting our own without you drawing such attention from the authorities for legitimate legal reasons. Have you any idea what is going on here?"
Logan's frown deepened. Apparently he didn't. His face showed this to the monk before him. The old man finally softened his expression. Logan couldn't dig nearly deep enough beneath this man's worries to feel out exactly what was going on. The conjurer had just barely mastered being able to sense the kind of thoughts which were a direct threat to him: the violence just beneath the surface; the tension of a coming attack; the satisfaction of a superior force.
Haargan sighed deeply. "Logan, this place is not what you think…"
---
Logan was speechless by the time Haargan was finished. Not what he thought? That was stating it lightly. Logan had come here thinking he would find an inner peace he had been without since his family's murder years ago. But this place was not here to provide that for him. After all, what would a Czechoslovakian monastic order be doing in Tibet? Not looking for inner peace. According to their leader, Haargan, they were protecting something.
Something very, very interesting.
Logan looked at the small glass sphere Haargan had left for him. A gift? From the Zhŭdòngxìng? He reached out to pick it up from the floor but it quivered slightly and the conjurer pulled his hand back with a frown.
As he watched, alone in his small chamber, the glass orb cracked open and a small creature emerged. It was a spider of some kind. Logan cocked his head. The little thing scampered around the small pile of white dust which was the remains of the egg. It hissed a little and made a little squeaking sound.
A pet perhaps? Some kind of trick – were they trying to kill him with a spider bite? Logan considered keeping the thing, but finally flicked his finger a little to build up a charge. His finger crackled with electricity as he prepared to incinerate the arachnid. He had never been a big fan of spiders. As he watched, however, he paused. Something was happening.
As the conjurer frowned down at the little thing, it grew. Within seconds it was larger than the egg from which it had hatched. Its globe-like abdomen began to bloat as if it was an inflating balloon. It's thorax and head followed suit, soon growing in changing proportions until the eight-legged creature was the size of a cat. It had some trouble lifting itself until it's legs had caught up in size to the rest of it.
Logan took an uncertain step backward, soon regretting waiting to destroy it as it hissed louder, its exoskeleton shivering as its innards swelled to even larger proportions. The conjurer blinked quickly, unable to believe exactly what he was seeing as the thing grew larger and larger, by now filling one end of the room, its abdomen pressed hard against the stone wall and still growing.
Logan had seen enough. He drew his hands apart, summoning a harsh and deadly charge. But nothing happened. He wiggled his fingers, trying to call back the electricity he had prepared only moments ago. But all he could feel was a drain. He looked quickly up to the massive spider again. Clever. Somehow this thing prevented magic—
The spider hissed and lashed out with one of its massive legs, swiping at where Logan had been. He ducked and hurried to one side, wishing his robes allowed for easier motion. He made his way slowly towards the stone staircase which led to the door to this chamber. He had always felt this room was more like a dungeon than a suitable place to meditate, but the silence at least had been peaceful. There was little about this room that was peaceful anymore.
Logan reached the top of the stairs as the creature tried to lurch its way towards him. The conjurer paused for a moment to watch it with a trace of pity. So unnatural a thing which had been conjured to kill him – so large now that it couldn't even fit through the door – creative at least but cruel to the poor spider which could barely move under its own weight.
Logan opened the door at the top of the steps and slid out into the hallway beyond, closing the door and locking it with a point of his finger. This far away, apparently, magic was possible again. It was here in the light of the hallway that he realized how quickly he was breathing, how his brow was covered in cold sweat. Not a big fan of spiders. A Jain walked by, clothed in white with a mask of white across his mouth to prevent him from inhaling any innocent creature. He swept the ground before him with a small broom to avoid stepping on any innocent insect in his way. As absorbing the simple act of walking was, he stopped at the sight of Logan's pale face.
"Are you alright?"
Logan pointed to the door he had just locked. "Don't go in there."
---
8 February, 2000, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
The low drone of the chant brought Logan's consciousness to a perfectly level plateau. There was nothing but the single, unwavering note. All three of him were together, here, pivoting about the spot in his mind; slowly turning. His anger fell through him, like salt through a sieve. It fell away into the abyss that was below, the abyss that was above. He was thin, like paper, but strong, like spider silk. He could not be broken. And he floated, slowly wheeling through the abyss, as long as the note was maintained.
He hummed along with the monks, the vibration in his chest and throat resonating throughout his entire being, warming him somehow, shaking out the impurities, like a deep tissue massage. He was feeling mentally and physically invigorated just sitting here with his eyes closed.
Then the wheeling quickened, he began to spin faster and faster, his heart beat galloping to catch up. At the center; at his center, a bright light was burning. It was blinding and beautiful and it grew the faster he spun. There was no world; no troubles; no monks; no chant; just the light and the abyss. Slowly he tuned out the abyss, settling his narrowed consciousness on the light, the spinning growing faster. No anger; no revenge; no Spike-
A hand came down on his shoulder and his eyes shot open. Spike. Logan whirled around, his hand clenching the sleeve of the one who interrupted him. But it was only a monk. A prelate, actually, judging from the headgear. The man leaned down and spoke in soft tones into Logan's ear.
Logan's hand slowly closed, his fist quivering. He turned his head slightly and nodded to the prelate his thanks. Once the messenger was gone, Logan slowly rose, arranging his robes around him. He looked for a moment out to the small rock garden and the sitting monks who still chanted that note, the one that was lost to his ears and his consciousness now. He turned, his robes sweeping over the cobbles, and left the bright garden, heading for the darkest corner of the lamasery; the corner that was his.
---
12 February, 2000, Chamdo, Tibet
Whistler sat with him on the bank of the Mekong. There was silence between them as they looked across the quiet river. Logan had left his robes, his habit, as he called them, at the lamasery. It wasn't really a lamasery. That was just its front. It was the center of operations for a displaced Czechoslovakian fundamentalist cult, who, among other things, were intimately aware of the mystical goings on of the world and accepted his help as a resident conjurer. He had gladly helped them with all their small schemes; destroying a small time crime lord who just happened to be keen on eating his enemies; thwarting the incident in Chamdo involving the Gentlemen; obliterating a dragon sent to harass Tibet, most likely by some Chinese Taoist conjurer... the list went on. It kept his mind off of... things. It also built his favor among those of the lamasery, those who were in direct control of the protection of the object of Logan's desire: The desire which had grown above and beyond his desire for revenge. But always they kept it out of his reach. Desire, they insisted, was the root of all suffering.
He had requested to be informed of all vampires visiting the continent from America, in the off chance that Spike would try and hunt him down. Now that small spy network had reported a blond haired vampire just arrived in Tartu, Estonia from somewhere in the American Northeast.
"If you go," Whistler said, throwing a small twig onto the river and watching it drift along, "you'll regret it."
Logan rolled his shoulders back and listened to the crack. There was something like Yoga at the lamasery, but he never joined in. "Is this a suggestion or are you trying to cover for a slip in destiny?"
"Destiny doesn't slip," Whistler gave a small smile. "Falter; maybe. Hesitate; perhaps. Slip? Fall? Never." He blew out a breath into the stillness at the river's edge. Tibet really was good for the soul. Maybe that was why Logan had no reason to stay. "You can struggle all your life against it," Whistler said thoughtfully, "but at the end, you become your struggle, not the goal, and you might then just find yourself in vain."
"Destiny will never quit," Logan observed, his voice even and thoughtful, almost as Whistler's. The meditation was useful, regardless of what anyone said to the contrary. "But destiny will blink. On that day, in that blink of the great eyes on the world, I will be where I need to be." There was a kind of distant wisdom and self assuredness about him; he wasn't making a threat or a promise, but almost a prophecy of his own. "And when destiny's eyes open again, Spike will be dead, and I will be laughing."
Whistler pulled another twig apart, waiting exactly seventeen seconds before responding, tossing the twig bits into the river. "You can start laughing right now," he let the little grin spread across his face. "You just missed your flight."
---
Six
16 February, 2000, Haapsalu, Estonia
Logan leaned across the table, his mug of blood untouched. "I'm looking to get in contact with a certain vampire," he said in a low voice. There was a moment during which the bloke on the other end of the conversation looked at him with dull eyes, waiting for clarification. "Where's this William the Bloody bastard?" Logan hissed, keeping his voice as low as he could make it to avoid unwanted attention. For all he knew, Spike was sitting at the next table. Logan hadn't seen him in a decade, he might not recognize him.
The large fellow on the other side of the table took a swig from his mug, licking the blood from his upper lip as though it were milk. He made a sort of sigh and indicated with his thumb an even larger demon sitting at the bar.
Logan frowned, examining the big man from behind. "That's not him," Logan turned back, fingering his stake under the table.
"He knows where," the man across from him prompted, settling back to his drink as if Logan had already left.
Logan stood, taking his mug and moving to the bar. He sat down lightly beside the large, dark haired man. Of course, he wasn't really a man. His long horns twisted and knotted with each other almost as soon as they met near the back of his head, neatly concealed by his long black hair.
"I'm looking for someone," Logan said in a very low voice. Half a dozen eyes moved his way as he spoke, including the bartender's. Logan kept still, kept confident. His stake slid easily out of sight in his sleeve.
"Everybody's lookin' for someone," the demon replied, lifting the hand to his mouth and biting off a third finger, crunching loudly. He set it back on his plate and brought a small napkin to the corners of his mouth.
"William the Bloody," Logan said very quietly. The demon took the wrist of his meal and with short, needle-like teeth tore a mouthful of flesh from it. He chewed with his mouth open, turning quizzically to the small human beside him.
"Eh?" He grunted, louder than Logan would have liked. Before he could repeat himself, the demon turned away. "Didn't catch your name," he said as he chewed, his voice deep and loud. Many eyes now watched them. "Never do business without a name," the demon exclaimed, tearing more from the hand, "specially when I'm betrayin' a vampire to a conjurer," he added loudly.
There were grumbles and mutters from around the bar and many eyes became averted. Many others, however, now looked at Logan, narrowed, some fangs bared.
"Would you shut up? I'm trying to keep this low key," Logan said, hushed. He kept his gaze on the basket of fingers set before him.
"Loki, eh?" the demon grunted. "You'll have to speak up. I've ears the size of fingernails." He let out a roar of laughter, pulling another finger from the hand on his plate. He turned, at last, to examine his new business associate. "Loki was it? Well, I don't care much for vampires, but I care even less for humans who think they're better than demons."
"I'm not human," Loki answered, his voice rational and reasoned. "I'm a Specter."
The demon squinted at him for a moment then his face lit up with amusement. "Good for you!" He slapped Loki on the back with a short laugh. "My third cousin's a Specter. Loads of fun at parties."
Loki nodded with a smile. "Tell me about it."
"So who're you looking for?" The demon asked again, keeping his smile as he munched happily on the palm.
"William the Bloody," Loki said with more confidence. "I heard he arrived here from Tartu today."
"William... William," the demon pondered this. "Can't say I recognize the name... Did have a blonde haired set of fangs arrive from Tartu last night, though. Might be the chap you're looking for. Stayin' in the old warehouse three blocks from here."
"He might also go by the name of Spike," Loki said with a much restrained expression. He held it as a rule to never give away emotion to someone who ate your species.
"Spike, eh?" The demon chewed absently, then began to pick a splinter of bone from his teeth with a clawed finger... one of his own. "Can't say I heard the fella's name," he grunted, "but I got contacts in the new world, I could let Spike know you're looking for him- if you'd like." There was a toothy grin from the demon, letting Logan know that whether he liked it or not, Spike would now know he was being hunted.
"Sure," Logan bluffed, "if you could give him one message from me, it'd be appreciated."
The demon nodded absently. He turned to the man after the moment of silence and could only let out a short howl before the stake slid through his throat. He grappled with it for a moment, his black blood oozing out, down onto his plate. He finally freed it when Logan's knife sliced through his neck, rupturing what had been left intact by the wood. The demon gurgled and fell from the stool, a mess on the floor.
Logan glanced around the bar at the many eyes now staring at him. He took the stake from the demon's stiff hand and drove it through his plate, into the table. He glared at the bartender and indicated the black blood-covered hand on the demon's plate. "I ordered no sauce."
---
Logan took his newly acquired nickname and reputation and strutted down the dark street, the knife again concealed; the small crystal orb he had brought snug in his pocket. The eight-legged nasty which the Chinese had gift-wrapped for him had been useful after all: it produced dozens of eggs a year for which Logan had found no end of use. His breath fogged in the winter air.
The warehouse was exactly where the ex-demon had said it would be. Logan stopped, leaning down and resting the orb on the gritty street, his breath making an orange cloud in the light of the street lamp. Tiny snowflakes fell all around him. He straightened, tugging his long coat into place. When the orb was settled in a crack in the sidewalk, Logan marched to the door of the warehouse.
With a vicious kick, he opened the door, the lock splintering against the old wood. "Hey!" he bellowed into the darkness within. When there was no response, he took a stone from the street and hurled it inside. "Hey, fuck-teeth! Come out and get some!"
When the enraged gang of vampires charged out into the street, led by a vamp with shoulder length sandy blonde hair, they found nothing but the scent of a human, and a small glass orb laying on the sidewalk.
The vampire beside the leader turned to his superior. "Shakes, what the fuck was that?"
Shakes turned around, assuming his vampire face, smelling the air. There was no sign of the direction the human had taken to escape. He had just disappeared.
"Wha's this?" One of the lackeys asked, reaching for the orb.
"Don't touch it!" Shakes commanded, too late. As soon as the vamp touched the small object, it cracked open, its thin glass surface scattering over the street like the snow, through the vamp's fingers. Shakes smacked his subordinate across the back of the head, just as a small creature scurried out from the shards of the crystal.
Everyone leaned in close to examine what was crawling around in the snowflakes. Amid all the attention, the little thing hissed, making some of the vamps back up. Within seconds, it had begun to swell. Soon, as they could all see, it was larger than the orb from which it had crawled. Before any of them could think to squash it, it was as large as a dog, its eight legs dancing it from side to side as it supported its globe-like abdomen.
Now everyone had backed up, forming a wide circle around the spider which skidded back and forth in the snow, its head still getting up to size with the rest of it as it continued to grow. Less than thirty seconds after it had hatched, it was as large as a car and at last made a lunge for one of Shakes' lackeys. The vampire tried to dodge the fangs, but the many legs soon had him, scooping him close enough to the jaws to impale him with the glistening fangs. The massive mandibles drew the shaking, screaming vamp's head into the thing's mouth and with a crunch, the lackey was dusted.
Shakes ran, as did the others, the spider having locked each of them into its memory. It charged after them, hissing and spitting.