DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book I, part 1 of 5
Written by Nick Midian
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections
by Theo
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash
French slang by Alan
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than
it did, around the first days of February, OK?
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',
so let's just ignore it, OK?
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,
Crossover.
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of
their respective rights owners.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging
past and present. This time, it's something personal – ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,
but I just had to say that)
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...
~~~~~~
The cast for Book I:
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers
David Boreanaz as Angel
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran
James Marsters as Spike
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl
Elvis the Dog as Himself
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer
Brian Bosworth as Cecil
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD
and
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls
~~~~~~
BOOK I: The Rules of the Game
"The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering."
-- Bruce Lee
~~~~~~
PROLOGUE: Something wicked this way comes
Sunnydale, California. December 1, 2002. 9:58 p.m.
I'm running in the rain
I'm caught in a late night play
It's all; it's everything
I'm soaking through the skin
Twilight... darkened day
Twilight... lost my way
Twilight... night and day
Twilight... can't find my way
"Twilight", U2
If you had any choice about the way you died, what sort of death would it be?
Would you prefer to die in your sleep, departing from this world to the next
embraced in the arms of a winged angel?
Or, would you prefer instead to go out in a blaze of glory, immolating yourself
in the most spectacular explosion of rage and fury that you could engineer?
What sort of death would it be?
As his cruiser slowly patrolled the dark and empty streets of Sunnydale, Officer
Mark Hastings couldn't help but think that he would choose a nice and quiet
death, in the bed of his family home. And much better if it came on a day very,
very far in the future.
Hastings let out a bored sigh and massaged the back of his neck, feeling the
knots that had formed in his tired muscles and the tension stored in his tendons
and vertebrae. He looked at the glowing green lights of the clock on the
dashboard of his Crown Victoria police car, and groaned as he thought of the two
hours that still remained until the end of his seemingly-endless shift.
He stifled a yawn with his fist and craned his neck, making his bones pop as he
tried to find a more comfortable position in his seat.
As he drove at less than 15 mph, he took a long look at his surroundings –
thankful not for the first time that evening, that the interior of the car was a
warm and quite comfortable refuge from the cold of the night.
Winter had come to southern California with a vengeance this year. There had
been an almost pleasant first half of November – with warm, calm nights and days
that fit more into one's notion of the last days of summer.
But the second half had begun with a drastic descent of temperature, accompanied
by rain and clouded, dark-gray skies that promised more days of cold and water.
He hoped he wouldn't have to get out of the car during the rest of his shift,
not liking at all the look of the dark, wet and empty streets of this small
suburban town near Los Angeles.
=All in all though, Sunnydale isn't such a bad place to live,= he thought.
Sure, it had one of the highest death and missing persons rates in the whole
nation, almost to the point of being ridiculously high; and there was that
strange sensation throughout the whole town, like a dark cape that covered it
and that everybody seemed to ignore.
But, all in all, it was a nice place to live. The businesses kept growing and
the weather was good – well, most of the time.
The skies were lit up for a second, with the unexpected blue flash of lightning;
a peal of thunder crashed above the police car, making the police officer jump
in surprise and mutter a curse under his breath.
As if God had opened the dams of Heaven, a thick curtain of water began to fall
over Sunnydale, the raindrops hitting the roof and hood of the car like ice
needles.
Hastings switched on the wipers, which barely allowed him to see a little more
than ten meters ahead, and rubbed the inside of the windshield, trying to erase
the steam from his window.
He was nearing the corner of Heighboro and Fourth when he had to stop the car in
front of the red light at the intersection, his fingers tapping over the
steering wheel while he waited for the green light, so he could restart his
patrol.
That was when the blinking lights got his attention, the orange signal coming
and going out of the corner of his eye. The police officer leaned over the
passenger's seat and rolled down the steamy windowpane, trying to get a better
and closer look at the origin of the light.
He didn't need to use all of his deductive capacities, to understand that it was
the rear turn signals of a crashed vehicle. Hastings switched on the police
car's powerful search lamp, and focused its bright ray on the crashed car.
The ray of light penetrated the darkness like a knife, and allowed the police
officer to take a good look at its target.
He hadn't seen it before, because the corner of the nearest building had covered
it. It was a brand-new looking aquamarine Corvette, that stank of Rich Boy and
money.
Drunk Rich Boy, to be exact. Because the car's flat nose was carefully
enveloping a street lamp, a white cloud of steam coming from under the twisted
hood. Steam that was valiantly fighting with the falling water only to be
defeated by it, like a castle of sand under the crashing waves of the ocean.
Hastings sighed in resignation, and took up the microphone of the police car's
radio. "Central? This is Adam-14," he called, pushing the speak-button of the
radio.
"Central Dispatch," said the distorted feminine voice of the cop in charge of
the police radio central. "What do you need, Adam-14?"
"I've got a Twelve-Thirty-four between Heighboro and Fourth, and we may need
paramedics here," he said, taking his waterproof cap and a potent flashlight.
"Ten-four, Adam-14, do you need any back-up?"
"Negative, just send the damn ambulance, OK?" he said with more harshness than
what he'd intended.
"Ten-four, Adam-14," repeated the voice, not showing if it was annoyed by the
lack of good manners in the police officer. "Over and out."
With a grunt, Hastings placed the microphone on its cradle and opened his door,
quickly putting on his cap and switching on the flashlight.
As quickly as his slightly over-weight body allowed him, the police officer ran
to the crashed sports car, his feet splashing in the cold pools of rain water
and the light of his flashlight dancing on the thick curtain that quickly
drenched him to the bone.
"Damn drunk kids," he cursed, directing the ray of the flashlight to the
interior of the car while he shrugged and closed his jacket, trying to keep some
of the warmth of his cruiser's interior.
"Hey!" he called, "is anybody in there?"
The radio of the car was switched on, tuned into an Eighties station, and an
old, soft song was coming from the car's speakers, barely audible over the sound
of the storm and the falling rain.
"Why, lover? Why?"
With a frown, he leaned close to the rolled-down window of the driver's side,
only to discover that the crashed Corvette was completely empty.
"What the hell?" he muttered, turning around to check the surroundings of the
car.
Over the repeating sounds of the crashing raindrops he could hear the low rumble
of the car's engine, still alive. He didn't find any trace of the car's owner,
or anybody else for that matter, and Hastings couldn't help but feel really
puzzled.
=Who in his right mind would abandon a $50,000 car in such a storm?= He figured
that the driver, maybe confused and probably drunk as a skunk, had stepped out
of the car and lost himself in one of the dark alleys that surrounded the zone,
not one of the better ones of the town.
He would probably be wounded, and his life could be at stake. =Stupid son of a
bitch,= he thought.
"Why, lover? Why?"
While he walked back to the crashed car with the intention of taking a closer
look at the interior, and maybe find some clues to the owner's identity, he took
his portable radio and switched it on.
"Central? This is Adam-14 again," he said, almost with boredom and a good dose
of annoyance. He opened the driver's door, and introduced his water-dripping
head inside the dry interior of the car.
And his mouth went completely dry.
"Why do flowers die?"
"Adam-14, the requested paramedics are on their way," announced the voice on the
radio, not receiving any answer from the police officer. "Adam-14?"
Hastings put the radio to his mouth and tried to find the words to explain what
was in front of his eyes, but he only succeeded in opening and closing his mouth
like a fish out of the water.
"Wait a moment," he managed to croak to the radio.
The interior of the Corvette reeked with the unmistakable odor of spilled blood,
that covered the leather-covered bucket seats and dashboard.
Hastings barely controlled his dry-heaves as the pungent odor wormed its way
through his nose and filled his lungs with an acid, puncturing ache. One that
matched the one of his mouth when the bile rose from his stomach, burning his
esophagus and filling his mouth.
"Oh, God," he sputtered, spitting the awful-tasting saliva to the wet pavement.
"Why, lover? Why?"
The steering wheel and every disposable surface of the car's interior was
covered and matted with dried blood, its sticky look a clear sign that the vital
red liquid had been there for something more than just a few moments.
It was as if somebody had sacrificed a lamb there – as if somebody had
undertaken an unholy baptism of death.
The last thing he saw after he had to turn away to avoid spilling the contents
of his stomach on the floor was a perfect, clearly defined, red fingerprint on
the surface of the rear-view mirror.
Hastings walked away from the crashed car, supporting his whole frame on his
weakened knees and took long, cleansing breaths.
For the first time that evening he thanked the cold, wet air of the night, that
cooled his lungs and refreshed his mouth.
The police officer raised his face to the thundering sky and let the falling
rain wash his flustered face, filling his mouth and erasing the taste of the
acidic saliva from his mouth.
"Why do flowers die?"
When he lowered his gaze, wiping the water from his eyes with his shaking hand,
he found himself in front of the last thing he expected to find in a storm
during a dark winter night.
The young woman wasn't directly looking at him, she seemed more interested in
his shoes. Her hands were hanging limp at each side of her body, her
looking-down face covered by her wet dark-brown hair as the rain fell down over
her, the cold water running down her bare arms and long, smooth legs like the
caress of a lover.
Hastings gulped down with surprise and snapped to attention, trying to regain
some authority.
"Miss?" he called to the young stranger. "Are you alright, Miss?"
She just shook her head, but said nothing. The police officer began to feel
really confused by the whole surreality of the scene.
=Who is this woman?= he thought. She looked unharmed, but, judging by her
behavior, she could have some kind of internal wound or maybe a concussion.
Why else would she be standing there, almost naked in the middle of
thunderstorm? Because that little piece of spandex that she used to cover the
most intimate parts of her anatomy couldn't be called a dress.
It was too short, too sexy, too bold... it was simply 'too'.
"Is that car yours?" he asked her, beginning to cross the space that separated
them. She shook her head in denial once more, but this time Hastings noticed her
lips moving slowly in a silent whisper.
"What?" he asked, taking off his jacket and leaning into her.
"I'm hungry..." she whispered with a rough voice, as if she had a pained throat.
The policeman covered the girl's bare shoulders with his jacket and tried to
offer her a comforting smile, with little success.
"Come with me, Miss," he said, guiding her to the police car. "It's warm and dry
in there. And don't worry, we'll get you something warm to eat later." His hands
rubbed against one of her bare, arms and noticed how cold she was.
=Gotta be shock,= he thought.
She didn't look like the kind of girl with enough money to drive such an
expensive car like that Corvette, but she could be the girlfriend of the driver.
She was probably scared and confused, something that wasn't unusual in
Sunnydale.
"I'm so hungry," she repeated, almost in a trance-like state. "So hungry..."
Hastings opened the rear door of the car and stood aside, leaving space for her
to climb into the car's interior.
She sat in the back seat and he gently removed her hair from her face, then she
looked directly at his face and he fell captivated by her lost brown eyes.
"I don't know what's happening to me these days," she told him. "It's as if
nothing can satisfy me. I've already eaten today, but it's not enough. It's
never enough."
He nodded, not really understanding her but offered the girl a reassuring look.
"Don't worry, Miss, we'll take you to the hospital soon and the doctors will
help you."
She shook her head. "No, I haven't much time. You have to help me..."
"Me?" he squeaked, feeling with surprise how her nimble fingers began to crawl
over his chest almost with a leisurely pace. "Wha-what are you doing?"
"You have to help me, officer..." she whispered raggedly. "You're so full of it
I can taste it on my lips, on my tongue... give it to me, please. I need it."
The first words that crossed Hastings' mind were 'crazy bitch', and he absently
tried to back away from her; but the young woman's fingers closed over the chest
of his uniform shirt, holding him back.
"Let me go-mmmpphh," his voice was cut into a muffled sigh when she yanked at
his shirt, bringing his lips to hers and giving him a long, rough and
open-mouthed kiss.
It wasn't an unpleasant sensation – or it didn't feel like one, until the moment
her fingers began to painfully dig in his scalp, applying so much pressure that
it become unbearable in a very few moments.
It was as if she was trying to suck out his bowels through his throat.
"Get off me!" he shouted, when he finally managed to push her away enough to
take a long breath. "Don't know what your problem is, but you need a friggin'
shrin-"
His mouth went suddenly dry, and his voice turned into a high-pitched warble
when a wave of fear washed over him, closing his throat and making him feel
suddenly light-headed.
Right in front of his eyes, the girl's face began to change, morphing as if the
flesh, bones and cartilage were melting and rearranging of their own will.
Ridges appeared over the nose, brow and cheeks, forming hard edges and planes
where everything had been a smooth curve before. The eyebrows disappeared, and
her dark brown eyes turned blood-red and gold.
She smiled, and he could see her fangs. Long, white as snow and pointed like
little daggers.
Breath came out of the police officer's lungs in a weak yelp, the kind that
would be expected from the spoiled dog of a little old lady, forming just one
word. "No."
Still grabbing him by the chest of his shirt, she sank into the crook of his
neck; her powerful jaws locking around his carotid, as her fangs ripped the
tender skin of the man's throat. She made a spray of dark, thick blood spurt out
like a spring-fountain, coating his uniform and the girl's face and mouth.
Officer Matt Hastings began to kick and punch her with all the strength of his
large body, against which the girl's one looked almost ridiculously small.
Still, like a fly trying to get free from a spider's grasp, it was all for
nothing.
He simply couldn't believe what was happening to him. Even at that very moment,
with that... monster attached to his neck, he couldn't accept the fact that he
was about to die at the hands of a vampire. It was just too surreal.
As the beautiful dark-haired vampire drank from the open wound, taking long,
gluttonous gulps, Hastings tried to scream; but he found that he simply couldn't
order his body to take air into his lungs, and his mind began to feel numb and
fogged by the lack of oxygen.
So, the only sounds that filled the interior of the police car were the noisy,
almost obscene gulps of the vampire, draining his body of the precious vital
fluid. That plus the raindrops falling over the roof and his punches and kicks,
which were getting weaker and weaker with every passing second until, finally,
even that sound died.
She broke away from him, gently letting his lifeless body rest on the rear seat
of the cruiser, tilting her head to one side as she observed with a smile on her
lips how the final traces of life disappeared from his eyes, leaving them
clouded, lost and dead.
Then, with a smile that was beautiful in its cold perfection, she leaned over
him, taking his pale face in her hands and sweetly kissing him on his cheek,
where she left the blood-red print of her generous lips.
"Thank you so very much for your gift, sweetie," she whispered, nuzzling his jaw
and neck with her nose, and kissing him once more before finally stepping back
and getting out of the car.
The rain fell on her again, but her undead body didn't feel the cold of the
water, only the piercing, almost erotic sensation of the raindrops on her bare
skin. She raised her game face to the dark sky and began to dance away from the
accident site, spinning around with her slender arms outspread.
Letting the rain wash away the blood that matted the marble skin of her face and
chin.
"It's so good to be back," she whispered to the darkness, letting out a
near-hysterical giggle. "Oh, B, if you could see me right now..."
Far away, the piercing wail of the ambulance's siren began to be heard and the
rain slowed its pace, falling slower and slower until it stopped completely. The
vampire ended her dance beside the lamplight, her attention seemingly captivated
by a pool of dirty water at her feet.
She looked at the reflecting surface of the pool and, tilting her head again to
one side, waved her hand in front of her face.
Nothing. There was nothing there. No reflection of her, as if she wasn't there,
as if she wasn't real.
With a roar of rage, the female vampire smashed the surface of the pool with her
pump-wearing foot, making it explode into a rain of pearl-like drops. The siren
came closer, too close.
She began to walk away, her heels clicking on the hard pavement. Minutes later,
when the paramedics arrived, there was no trace of her ever being there.
~~~~~~
The mansion was perched at the top of the cliffs like a vulture preying on a
rotten corpse, waiting for its turn to begin feasting. Tens of meters beneath
the tall, dark gray walls of the building and the knife-edge cliffs, the waves
of an angry sea crashed against the rocks, exploding into white foam and
retreating back into the embrace of Mother Ocean.
The building itself was the epitome of a haunted house, its bulky body a
nightmare born from the mind of a mad architect with walls of dark gray concrete
that seemed like the rough skin of a basilisk.
Tall and narrow windows, like eyes boring into the darkness of the night. And
gargoyles on the roof, beasts with twisted bodies of stone and bronze that bared
their pointed teeth in menacing snarls, claiming their territory and silently
fighting amongst themselves for dominance.
A tall fence of rock and long, rusty spears surrounded the mansion, but nobody
could tell if it was there to protect the building and those who lived inside it
– or to protect those who had been bold enough, to dare to walk the distance
from the nearby town to that arid, desert place, from what had made its home
there.
Inside the massive walls of the mansion, darkness reigned. Even though all the
objects stored in every large room and decorating every endless hallway had the
unmistakable sign of money carved on them, everything was cold, empty, dead.
A thick layer of dust covered everything – the elegant 17th century furniture of
the ballroom, the ancient Chinese urns along the main hallway, the valuable
Rembrandts that hung in the library.
It was as if they'd simply been forgotten by the rest of the human race, and the
passage of time itself.
The emptiness of the building was almost audible, like a chilling, dead finger
running down one's spine. But, if someone dared to walk its lonely hallways or
stay, even for a second, inside anyone of the spacious rooms, he would feel that
unsettling sensation of having invisible eyes settled on his figure.
As if inside every shadow, in every corner, behind every piece of furniture a
menacing danger would be hidden, waiting to jump on one's back. As if the blind
eyes of every statue were actually seeing you, boring into your body.
Everything was cold; the open windows of the west side, which faced the naked
cliffs, let the freezing night wind be blown into the darkened rooms, making the
yellowed curtains flutter like ghosts, worn-out remembrances of the past.
In that mausoleum, the old man in the wheelchair looked like just another museum
piece amongst all those musty works of art, almost a living statue carved in
yellowed marble.
He was 101 years old, but to a casual observer he could have been a thousand; so
fragile was his little crippled body, worn by the inclement pass of time and the
fury of the elements.
His skin was nothing more than a tensed vellum over his protruding bones, so
thin that it was almost transparent, crossed by the thin blue web of his veins.
His hair, once as blonde as gold and later snow-white, was now a dirty and sick
ivory-yellow.
His limbs, so thin, so weak that they seemed the branches of a dead tree, were
almost immobile, barely rocking in front of the huge fireplace, its crackling,
dancing flames the only source of heat and light in the whole building.
His piercing blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence and untamable will, were the
only feature that looked alive on his otherwise tired and crumpled body.
His fingers, like curved and twisted claws, moved slowly over the chess figure
that he held in his trembling hands, carefully running over every smooth curve,
deep crack and shady nook as if he were trying to memorize them.
It was carved in pure black ebony, faithfully showing every feature of the young
woman in whose shape it was sculpted, from her short, skin-tight dress wrapping
her voluptuous body to her high stilettos at the end of her long and smooth
legs, her silky mane falling over her bare shoulders and her generous lips.
With a smile that was almost obscene, the old man let his fingertips run over
each one of the figure's features. He allowed his mind the forbidden pleasure of
remembering how it was to touch a real woman's soft skin, to drown in her scent
and taste her as his fingertips caressed the small figure's proud breasts and
shapely behind.
A long time ago, there hadn't been any sane woman that had refused his favors;
but now that he was quickly reaching the last moments of his life, all that
remained to him was the memories of his distant youth.
With a sigh of resignation, the old man put the figure on the Black Queen's
square of the chessboard. The chessboard that, supported by an elaborate black
marble pedestal, was right in front of him.
He tried not to depress himself with the dark thought that always came, when he
remembered his wasted young years.
Soon, he would have a new chance. To live, to conquer, to reign.
"Are you there, Mr. Smith?" he asked, with a voice that sounded like the action
of a pair of rotten bellows.
When the other man stepped into the circle of light provided by the fireplace,
it looked like he had just materialized from the shadows, as if they had merged
together, giving form and life to him.
As he soundlessly walked beside the old man's wheelchair with a pace that was
like one of a panther, his powerful muscles moved under his elegant black suit
and collarless white shirt, bulging like the pistons of a perfectly adjusted
machine.
He was very tall, more than seven feet high – so tall in fact, that the crippled
figure beside him looked almost ridiculous at his side.
He was also remarkably handsome in a dark way, with the severe and calm features
of an African prince; thick lips surrounded by a neatly cut mustache and goatee,
and piercing black eyes that resembled the ones of a shark.
Cold and emotionless, but extremely dangerous.
He waited beside the old man, with his hands big enough to crush a man's head
between his fingers patiently crossed in front of him. His egg-shaped and
perfectly shaved head was slightly tilted to one side, as if he was carefully
listening to a sound that only he was able to hear.
In the flickering light of the flames, his dark skin had the exact color of
chocolate. He said nothing, waiting for the old man to speak first.
This time the crippled old man took the White Queen in his hands, his lips
twisted into a lustful grimace. This figure had also the shape of a young woman,
barely more than a girl; but, contrary to the dark expression and attitude of
her black counterpart, its pure white marble face was smiling with a face that
seemed to radiate energy and warmth.
She wore a blouse that could be silk and tight pants with boots, and her hair
was gathered in a tight ponytail. One that, even when it was as white as the
rest of the figure, seemed to shine with a golden glow.
"How is everything going?" the old man asked, as his fingers began to run once
more over each feature of the small figure.
When the tall man called Mr. Smith spoke, the whole room seemed to shake under
the weight of his deep, vibrating voice.
"The game is about to begin," he said without showing any emotion at all, "the
players are already coming to town. Your... Black Queen is already here."
"Excellent, excellent..." He let his voice trail off as he watched the effect of
the dancing flames over the smooth surface of the figure. "So goddamned
beautiful... such a shame, such a waste..."
He carefully put the figure in its place. "I get the feeling that there's
something you'd like to say, Mr. Smith."
The black man let his brows merge together in a frown, that disappeared as
quickly as it had formed. He licked his thick lips with a flick of his tongue,
before speaking.
"Are you sure that you want to do this? I'm afraid that you are not fully
conscious of the forces you're about to unleash," he said.
In spite of his obvious old age, the man's head snapped up with the speed of a
lightning bolt, his clear blue eyes piercing Mr. Smith's face like laser beams
with rage and anger. "That's easy for somebody like you to say, but my time is
running out and I'm not going to..."
His voice turned into a sick, uncontrollable cough, as his lungs couldn't
support the effort of his angry tirade. The tall dark man waited patiently,
until he was able to regain some resemblance of control over his speaking and
breathing.
"I don't pay you so generously to know your opinions," he finished.
Mr. Smith just raised one eyebrow coldly. "I was just pointing out the fact that
you may be running too many risks, in order to obtain something for which
success could be considered highly... dubious."
The old man shook his head in denial and wheeled his chair around, turning his
back on the man and facing the chess board once more. Very carefully, he took
another one of the figures.
"Everything is under control," he whispered more to himself than his companion.
"I've studied them, I know their strengths and weaknesses – and I know where to
strike to obtain victory."
"Nobody knows everything," Mr. Smith pointed out.
The old man snorted, almost amused. "I also know that, but even the most
difficult enigma has a solution, even the bravest hero has his weak point." He
left the figure on the center of the board, and smiled slowly. "Even this one."
It was a young man, barely more than a boy, that wore a long coat covering his
muscular frame and wide shoulders.
He had longish hair, and a crooked smile on his lips that made his handsome
features look even younger, almost boyish. But his eyes were deep, sad... one
could say ageless.
It was the White Queen's Knight.
~~~~~~
To be continued...
Written by Nick Midian
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections
by Theo
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash
French slang by Alan
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than
it did, around the first days of February, OK?
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',
so let's just ignore it, OK?
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,
Crossover.
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of
their respective rights owners.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging
past and present. This time, it's something personal – ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,
but I just had to say that)
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...
~~~~~~
The cast for Book I:
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers
David Boreanaz as Angel
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran
James Marsters as Spike
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl
Elvis the Dog as Himself
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith
Harris Yulin as Quentin Travers
John Heard as Officer Mark Hastings, SPD
Nicholle Tom as Myriam Archer
Brian Bosworth as Cecil
Denniz Franz as Det. Edward Kowalsky, LAPD
and
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls
~~~~~~
BOOK I: The Rules of the Game
"The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering."
-- Bruce Lee
~~~~~~
PROLOGUE: Something wicked this way comes
Sunnydale, California. December 1, 2002. 9:58 p.m.
I'm running in the rain
I'm caught in a late night play
It's all; it's everything
I'm soaking through the skin
Twilight... darkened day
Twilight... lost my way
Twilight... night and day
Twilight... can't find my way
"Twilight", U2
If you had any choice about the way you died, what sort of death would it be?
Would you prefer to die in your sleep, departing from this world to the next
embraced in the arms of a winged angel?
Or, would you prefer instead to go out in a blaze of glory, immolating yourself
in the most spectacular explosion of rage and fury that you could engineer?
What sort of death would it be?
As his cruiser slowly patrolled the dark and empty streets of Sunnydale, Officer
Mark Hastings couldn't help but think that he would choose a nice and quiet
death, in the bed of his family home. And much better if it came on a day very,
very far in the future.
Hastings let out a bored sigh and massaged the back of his neck, feeling the
knots that had formed in his tired muscles and the tension stored in his tendons
and vertebrae. He looked at the glowing green lights of the clock on the
dashboard of his Crown Victoria police car, and groaned as he thought of the two
hours that still remained until the end of his seemingly-endless shift.
He stifled a yawn with his fist and craned his neck, making his bones pop as he
tried to find a more comfortable position in his seat.
As he drove at less than 15 mph, he took a long look at his surroundings –
thankful not for the first time that evening, that the interior of the car was a
warm and quite comfortable refuge from the cold of the night.
Winter had come to southern California with a vengeance this year. There had
been an almost pleasant first half of November – with warm, calm nights and days
that fit more into one's notion of the last days of summer.
But the second half had begun with a drastic descent of temperature, accompanied
by rain and clouded, dark-gray skies that promised more days of cold and water.
He hoped he wouldn't have to get out of the car during the rest of his shift,
not liking at all the look of the dark, wet and empty streets of this small
suburban town near Los Angeles.
=All in all though, Sunnydale isn't such a bad place to live,= he thought.
Sure, it had one of the highest death and missing persons rates in the whole
nation, almost to the point of being ridiculously high; and there was that
strange sensation throughout the whole town, like a dark cape that covered it
and that everybody seemed to ignore.
But, all in all, it was a nice place to live. The businesses kept growing and
the weather was good – well, most of the time.
The skies were lit up for a second, with the unexpected blue flash of lightning;
a peal of thunder crashed above the police car, making the police officer jump
in surprise and mutter a curse under his breath.
As if God had opened the dams of Heaven, a thick curtain of water began to fall
over Sunnydale, the raindrops hitting the roof and hood of the car like ice
needles.
Hastings switched on the wipers, which barely allowed him to see a little more
than ten meters ahead, and rubbed the inside of the windshield, trying to erase
the steam from his window.
He was nearing the corner of Heighboro and Fourth when he had to stop the car in
front of the red light at the intersection, his fingers tapping over the
steering wheel while he waited for the green light, so he could restart his
patrol.
That was when the blinking lights got his attention, the orange signal coming
and going out of the corner of his eye. The police officer leaned over the
passenger's seat and rolled down the steamy windowpane, trying to get a better
and closer look at the origin of the light.
He didn't need to use all of his deductive capacities, to understand that it was
the rear turn signals of a crashed vehicle. Hastings switched on the police
car's powerful search lamp, and focused its bright ray on the crashed car.
The ray of light penetrated the darkness like a knife, and allowed the police
officer to take a good look at its target.
He hadn't seen it before, because the corner of the nearest building had covered
it. It was a brand-new looking aquamarine Corvette, that stank of Rich Boy and
money.
Drunk Rich Boy, to be exact. Because the car's flat nose was carefully
enveloping a street lamp, a white cloud of steam coming from under the twisted
hood. Steam that was valiantly fighting with the falling water only to be
defeated by it, like a castle of sand under the crashing waves of the ocean.
Hastings sighed in resignation, and took up the microphone of the police car's
radio. "Central? This is Adam-14," he called, pushing the speak-button of the
radio.
"Central Dispatch," said the distorted feminine voice of the cop in charge of
the police radio central. "What do you need, Adam-14?"
"I've got a Twelve-Thirty-four between Heighboro and Fourth, and we may need
paramedics here," he said, taking his waterproof cap and a potent flashlight.
"Ten-four, Adam-14, do you need any back-up?"
"Negative, just send the damn ambulance, OK?" he said with more harshness than
what he'd intended.
"Ten-four, Adam-14," repeated the voice, not showing if it was annoyed by the
lack of good manners in the police officer. "Over and out."
With a grunt, Hastings placed the microphone on its cradle and opened his door,
quickly putting on his cap and switching on the flashlight.
As quickly as his slightly over-weight body allowed him, the police officer ran
to the crashed sports car, his feet splashing in the cold pools of rain water
and the light of his flashlight dancing on the thick curtain that quickly
drenched him to the bone.
"Damn drunk kids," he cursed, directing the ray of the flashlight to the
interior of the car while he shrugged and closed his jacket, trying to keep some
of the warmth of his cruiser's interior.
"Hey!" he called, "is anybody in there?"
The radio of the car was switched on, tuned into an Eighties station, and an
old, soft song was coming from the car's speakers, barely audible over the sound
of the storm and the falling rain.
"Why, lover? Why?"
With a frown, he leaned close to the rolled-down window of the driver's side,
only to discover that the crashed Corvette was completely empty.
"What the hell?" he muttered, turning around to check the surroundings of the
car.
Over the repeating sounds of the crashing raindrops he could hear the low rumble
of the car's engine, still alive. He didn't find any trace of the car's owner,
or anybody else for that matter, and Hastings couldn't help but feel really
puzzled.
=Who in his right mind would abandon a $50,000 car in such a storm?= He figured
that the driver, maybe confused and probably drunk as a skunk, had stepped out
of the car and lost himself in one of the dark alleys that surrounded the zone,
not one of the better ones of the town.
He would probably be wounded, and his life could be at stake. =Stupid son of a
bitch,= he thought.
"Why, lover? Why?"
While he walked back to the crashed car with the intention of taking a closer
look at the interior, and maybe find some clues to the owner's identity, he took
his portable radio and switched it on.
"Central? This is Adam-14 again," he said, almost with boredom and a good dose
of annoyance. He opened the driver's door, and introduced his water-dripping
head inside the dry interior of the car.
And his mouth went completely dry.
"Why do flowers die?"
"Adam-14, the requested paramedics are on their way," announced the voice on the
radio, not receiving any answer from the police officer. "Adam-14?"
Hastings put the radio to his mouth and tried to find the words to explain what
was in front of his eyes, but he only succeeded in opening and closing his mouth
like a fish out of the water.
"Wait a moment," he managed to croak to the radio.
The interior of the Corvette reeked with the unmistakable odor of spilled blood,
that covered the leather-covered bucket seats and dashboard.
Hastings barely controlled his dry-heaves as the pungent odor wormed its way
through his nose and filled his lungs with an acid, puncturing ache. One that
matched the one of his mouth when the bile rose from his stomach, burning his
esophagus and filling his mouth.
"Oh, God," he sputtered, spitting the awful-tasting saliva to the wet pavement.
"Why, lover? Why?"
The steering wheel and every disposable surface of the car's interior was
covered and matted with dried blood, its sticky look a clear sign that the vital
red liquid had been there for something more than just a few moments.
It was as if somebody had sacrificed a lamb there – as if somebody had
undertaken an unholy baptism of death.
The last thing he saw after he had to turn away to avoid spilling the contents
of his stomach on the floor was a perfect, clearly defined, red fingerprint on
the surface of the rear-view mirror.
Hastings walked away from the crashed car, supporting his whole frame on his
weakened knees and took long, cleansing breaths.
For the first time that evening he thanked the cold, wet air of the night, that
cooled his lungs and refreshed his mouth.
The police officer raised his face to the thundering sky and let the falling
rain wash his flustered face, filling his mouth and erasing the taste of the
acidic saliva from his mouth.
"Why do flowers die?"
When he lowered his gaze, wiping the water from his eyes with his shaking hand,
he found himself in front of the last thing he expected to find in a storm
during a dark winter night.
The young woman wasn't directly looking at him, she seemed more interested in
his shoes. Her hands were hanging limp at each side of her body, her
looking-down face covered by her wet dark-brown hair as the rain fell down over
her, the cold water running down her bare arms and long, smooth legs like the
caress of a lover.
Hastings gulped down with surprise and snapped to attention, trying to regain
some authority.
"Miss?" he called to the young stranger. "Are you alright, Miss?"
She just shook her head, but said nothing. The police officer began to feel
really confused by the whole surreality of the scene.
=Who is this woman?= he thought. She looked unharmed, but, judging by her
behavior, she could have some kind of internal wound or maybe a concussion.
Why else would she be standing there, almost naked in the middle of
thunderstorm? Because that little piece of spandex that she used to cover the
most intimate parts of her anatomy couldn't be called a dress.
It was too short, too sexy, too bold... it was simply 'too'.
"Is that car yours?" he asked her, beginning to cross the space that separated
them. She shook her head in denial once more, but this time Hastings noticed her
lips moving slowly in a silent whisper.
"What?" he asked, taking off his jacket and leaning into her.
"I'm hungry..." she whispered with a rough voice, as if she had a pained throat.
The policeman covered the girl's bare shoulders with his jacket and tried to
offer her a comforting smile, with little success.
"Come with me, Miss," he said, guiding her to the police car. "It's warm and dry
in there. And don't worry, we'll get you something warm to eat later." His hands
rubbed against one of her bare, arms and noticed how cold she was.
=Gotta be shock,= he thought.
She didn't look like the kind of girl with enough money to drive such an
expensive car like that Corvette, but she could be the girlfriend of the driver.
She was probably scared and confused, something that wasn't unusual in
Sunnydale.
"I'm so hungry," she repeated, almost in a trance-like state. "So hungry..."
Hastings opened the rear door of the car and stood aside, leaving space for her
to climb into the car's interior.
She sat in the back seat and he gently removed her hair from her face, then she
looked directly at his face and he fell captivated by her lost brown eyes.
"I don't know what's happening to me these days," she told him. "It's as if
nothing can satisfy me. I've already eaten today, but it's not enough. It's
never enough."
He nodded, not really understanding her but offered the girl a reassuring look.
"Don't worry, Miss, we'll take you to the hospital soon and the doctors will
help you."
She shook her head. "No, I haven't much time. You have to help me..."
"Me?" he squeaked, feeling with surprise how her nimble fingers began to crawl
over his chest almost with a leisurely pace. "Wha-what are you doing?"
"You have to help me, officer..." she whispered raggedly. "You're so full of it
I can taste it on my lips, on my tongue... give it to me, please. I need it."
The first words that crossed Hastings' mind were 'crazy bitch', and he absently
tried to back away from her; but the young woman's fingers closed over the chest
of his uniform shirt, holding him back.
"Let me go-mmmpphh," his voice was cut into a muffled sigh when she yanked at
his shirt, bringing his lips to hers and giving him a long, rough and
open-mouthed kiss.
It wasn't an unpleasant sensation – or it didn't feel like one, until the moment
her fingers began to painfully dig in his scalp, applying so much pressure that
it become unbearable in a very few moments.
It was as if she was trying to suck out his bowels through his throat.
"Get off me!" he shouted, when he finally managed to push her away enough to
take a long breath. "Don't know what your problem is, but you need a friggin'
shrin-"
His mouth went suddenly dry, and his voice turned into a high-pitched warble
when a wave of fear washed over him, closing his throat and making him feel
suddenly light-headed.
Right in front of his eyes, the girl's face began to change, morphing as if the
flesh, bones and cartilage were melting and rearranging of their own will.
Ridges appeared over the nose, brow and cheeks, forming hard edges and planes
where everything had been a smooth curve before. The eyebrows disappeared, and
her dark brown eyes turned blood-red and gold.
She smiled, and he could see her fangs. Long, white as snow and pointed like
little daggers.
Breath came out of the police officer's lungs in a weak yelp, the kind that
would be expected from the spoiled dog of a little old lady, forming just one
word. "No."
Still grabbing him by the chest of his shirt, she sank into the crook of his
neck; her powerful jaws locking around his carotid, as her fangs ripped the
tender skin of the man's throat. She made a spray of dark, thick blood spurt out
like a spring-fountain, coating his uniform and the girl's face and mouth.
Officer Matt Hastings began to kick and punch her with all the strength of his
large body, against which the girl's one looked almost ridiculously small.
Still, like a fly trying to get free from a spider's grasp, it was all for
nothing.
He simply couldn't believe what was happening to him. Even at that very moment,
with that... monster attached to his neck, he couldn't accept the fact that he
was about to die at the hands of a vampire. It was just too surreal.
As the beautiful dark-haired vampire drank from the open wound, taking long,
gluttonous gulps, Hastings tried to scream; but he found that he simply couldn't
order his body to take air into his lungs, and his mind began to feel numb and
fogged by the lack of oxygen.
So, the only sounds that filled the interior of the police car were the noisy,
almost obscene gulps of the vampire, draining his body of the precious vital
fluid. That plus the raindrops falling over the roof and his punches and kicks,
which were getting weaker and weaker with every passing second until, finally,
even that sound died.
She broke away from him, gently letting his lifeless body rest on the rear seat
of the cruiser, tilting her head to one side as she observed with a smile on her
lips how the final traces of life disappeared from his eyes, leaving them
clouded, lost and dead.
Then, with a smile that was beautiful in its cold perfection, she leaned over
him, taking his pale face in her hands and sweetly kissing him on his cheek,
where she left the blood-red print of her generous lips.
"Thank you so very much for your gift, sweetie," she whispered, nuzzling his jaw
and neck with her nose, and kissing him once more before finally stepping back
and getting out of the car.
The rain fell on her again, but her undead body didn't feel the cold of the
water, only the piercing, almost erotic sensation of the raindrops on her bare
skin. She raised her game face to the dark sky and began to dance away from the
accident site, spinning around with her slender arms outspread.
Letting the rain wash away the blood that matted the marble skin of her face and
chin.
"It's so good to be back," she whispered to the darkness, letting out a
near-hysterical giggle. "Oh, B, if you could see me right now..."
Far away, the piercing wail of the ambulance's siren began to be heard and the
rain slowed its pace, falling slower and slower until it stopped completely. The
vampire ended her dance beside the lamplight, her attention seemingly captivated
by a pool of dirty water at her feet.
She looked at the reflecting surface of the pool and, tilting her head again to
one side, waved her hand in front of her face.
Nothing. There was nothing there. No reflection of her, as if she wasn't there,
as if she wasn't real.
With a roar of rage, the female vampire smashed the surface of the pool with her
pump-wearing foot, making it explode into a rain of pearl-like drops. The siren
came closer, too close.
She began to walk away, her heels clicking on the hard pavement. Minutes later,
when the paramedics arrived, there was no trace of her ever being there.
~~~~~~
The mansion was perched at the top of the cliffs like a vulture preying on a
rotten corpse, waiting for its turn to begin feasting. Tens of meters beneath
the tall, dark gray walls of the building and the knife-edge cliffs, the waves
of an angry sea crashed against the rocks, exploding into white foam and
retreating back into the embrace of Mother Ocean.
The building itself was the epitome of a haunted house, its bulky body a
nightmare born from the mind of a mad architect with walls of dark gray concrete
that seemed like the rough skin of a basilisk.
Tall and narrow windows, like eyes boring into the darkness of the night. And
gargoyles on the roof, beasts with twisted bodies of stone and bronze that bared
their pointed teeth in menacing snarls, claiming their territory and silently
fighting amongst themselves for dominance.
A tall fence of rock and long, rusty spears surrounded the mansion, but nobody
could tell if it was there to protect the building and those who lived inside it
– or to protect those who had been bold enough, to dare to walk the distance
from the nearby town to that arid, desert place, from what had made its home
there.
Inside the massive walls of the mansion, darkness reigned. Even though all the
objects stored in every large room and decorating every endless hallway had the
unmistakable sign of money carved on them, everything was cold, empty, dead.
A thick layer of dust covered everything – the elegant 17th century furniture of
the ballroom, the ancient Chinese urns along the main hallway, the valuable
Rembrandts that hung in the library.
It was as if they'd simply been forgotten by the rest of the human race, and the
passage of time itself.
The emptiness of the building was almost audible, like a chilling, dead finger
running down one's spine. But, if someone dared to walk its lonely hallways or
stay, even for a second, inside anyone of the spacious rooms, he would feel that
unsettling sensation of having invisible eyes settled on his figure.
As if inside every shadow, in every corner, behind every piece of furniture a
menacing danger would be hidden, waiting to jump on one's back. As if the blind
eyes of every statue were actually seeing you, boring into your body.
Everything was cold; the open windows of the west side, which faced the naked
cliffs, let the freezing night wind be blown into the darkened rooms, making the
yellowed curtains flutter like ghosts, worn-out remembrances of the past.
In that mausoleum, the old man in the wheelchair looked like just another museum
piece amongst all those musty works of art, almost a living statue carved in
yellowed marble.
He was 101 years old, but to a casual observer he could have been a thousand; so
fragile was his little crippled body, worn by the inclement pass of time and the
fury of the elements.
His skin was nothing more than a tensed vellum over his protruding bones, so
thin that it was almost transparent, crossed by the thin blue web of his veins.
His hair, once as blonde as gold and later snow-white, was now a dirty and sick
ivory-yellow.
His limbs, so thin, so weak that they seemed the branches of a dead tree, were
almost immobile, barely rocking in front of the huge fireplace, its crackling,
dancing flames the only source of heat and light in the whole building.
His piercing blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence and untamable will, were the
only feature that looked alive on his otherwise tired and crumpled body.
His fingers, like curved and twisted claws, moved slowly over the chess figure
that he held in his trembling hands, carefully running over every smooth curve,
deep crack and shady nook as if he were trying to memorize them.
It was carved in pure black ebony, faithfully showing every feature of the young
woman in whose shape it was sculpted, from her short, skin-tight dress wrapping
her voluptuous body to her high stilettos at the end of her long and smooth
legs, her silky mane falling over her bare shoulders and her generous lips.
With a smile that was almost obscene, the old man let his fingertips run over
each one of the figure's features. He allowed his mind the forbidden pleasure of
remembering how it was to touch a real woman's soft skin, to drown in her scent
and taste her as his fingertips caressed the small figure's proud breasts and
shapely behind.
A long time ago, there hadn't been any sane woman that had refused his favors;
but now that he was quickly reaching the last moments of his life, all that
remained to him was the memories of his distant youth.
With a sigh of resignation, the old man put the figure on the Black Queen's
square of the chessboard. The chessboard that, supported by an elaborate black
marble pedestal, was right in front of him.
He tried not to depress himself with the dark thought that always came, when he
remembered his wasted young years.
Soon, he would have a new chance. To live, to conquer, to reign.
"Are you there, Mr. Smith?" he asked, with a voice that sounded like the action
of a pair of rotten bellows.
When the other man stepped into the circle of light provided by the fireplace,
it looked like he had just materialized from the shadows, as if they had merged
together, giving form and life to him.
As he soundlessly walked beside the old man's wheelchair with a pace that was
like one of a panther, his powerful muscles moved under his elegant black suit
and collarless white shirt, bulging like the pistons of a perfectly adjusted
machine.
He was very tall, more than seven feet high – so tall in fact, that the crippled
figure beside him looked almost ridiculous at his side.
He was also remarkably handsome in a dark way, with the severe and calm features
of an African prince; thick lips surrounded by a neatly cut mustache and goatee,
and piercing black eyes that resembled the ones of a shark.
Cold and emotionless, but extremely dangerous.
He waited beside the old man, with his hands big enough to crush a man's head
between his fingers patiently crossed in front of him. His egg-shaped and
perfectly shaved head was slightly tilted to one side, as if he was carefully
listening to a sound that only he was able to hear.
In the flickering light of the flames, his dark skin had the exact color of
chocolate. He said nothing, waiting for the old man to speak first.
This time the crippled old man took the White Queen in his hands, his lips
twisted into a lustful grimace. This figure had also the shape of a young woman,
barely more than a girl; but, contrary to the dark expression and attitude of
her black counterpart, its pure white marble face was smiling with a face that
seemed to radiate energy and warmth.
She wore a blouse that could be silk and tight pants with boots, and her hair
was gathered in a tight ponytail. One that, even when it was as white as the
rest of the figure, seemed to shine with a golden glow.
"How is everything going?" the old man asked, as his fingers began to run once
more over each feature of the small figure.
When the tall man called Mr. Smith spoke, the whole room seemed to shake under
the weight of his deep, vibrating voice.
"The game is about to begin," he said without showing any emotion at all, "the
players are already coming to town. Your... Black Queen is already here."
"Excellent, excellent..." He let his voice trail off as he watched the effect of
the dancing flames over the smooth surface of the figure. "So goddamned
beautiful... such a shame, such a waste..."
He carefully put the figure in its place. "I get the feeling that there's
something you'd like to say, Mr. Smith."
The black man let his brows merge together in a frown, that disappeared as
quickly as it had formed. He licked his thick lips with a flick of his tongue,
before speaking.
"Are you sure that you want to do this? I'm afraid that you are not fully
conscious of the forces you're about to unleash," he said.
In spite of his obvious old age, the man's head snapped up with the speed of a
lightning bolt, his clear blue eyes piercing Mr. Smith's face like laser beams
with rage and anger. "That's easy for somebody like you to say, but my time is
running out and I'm not going to..."
His voice turned into a sick, uncontrollable cough, as his lungs couldn't
support the effort of his angry tirade. The tall dark man waited patiently,
until he was able to regain some resemblance of control over his speaking and
breathing.
"I don't pay you so generously to know your opinions," he finished.
Mr. Smith just raised one eyebrow coldly. "I was just pointing out the fact that
you may be running too many risks, in order to obtain something for which
success could be considered highly... dubious."
The old man shook his head in denial and wheeled his chair around, turning his
back on the man and facing the chess board once more. Very carefully, he took
another one of the figures.
"Everything is under control," he whispered more to himself than his companion.
"I've studied them, I know their strengths and weaknesses – and I know where to
strike to obtain victory."
"Nobody knows everything," Mr. Smith pointed out.
The old man snorted, almost amused. "I also know that, but even the most
difficult enigma has a solution, even the bravest hero has his weak point." He
left the figure on the center of the board, and smiled slowly. "Even this one."
It was a young man, barely more than a boy, that wore a long coat covering his
muscular frame and wide shoulders.
He had longish hair, and a crooked smile on his lips that made his handsome
features look even younger, almost boyish. But his eyes were deep, sad... one
could say ageless.
It was the White Queen's Knight.
~~~~~~
To be continued...
