The Nameless Other

XxxxxxX

"Since there are always those who would burn those who they perceive as witches, many true magicians adopted new garb, avoiding recognition by disguising their plumage. Often the best hiding place is in plain view." – Neil Gaiman, "The Books of Magic"

XxxxxxX

December 21, 1918

Chicago, Illinois

Luther Black smiled at the young woman in the very slinky red dress; her elbow-length gloves and opera mask matched the color of her dress She was the mistress of a local Senator, no older than seventeen and probably rescued from her daddy's farm and sent to accompany the State Senator in his duties as a 'secretary'. Inwardly, he grimaced at all the ostrich feathers attached to her simply pillbox hat; women of this decade had no style at all. He'd be hard-pressed to remember her name, but that was true of pretty much all of his 'guests'. He held his tongue at her inane prattle, instead merely giving the appropriately timed noises of affirmation. A few repetitions of 'really' and 'yes' and 'I understand' and he was quite able to slip through the so-called 'conversation' with the bibbling quim easily and with minimal fuss.

The cream of the crop of Chicago's elite were here at his party on this, the longest night of the year. He needed the extra hours of darkness to accomplish his goals. The blasphemous events that would occur this night would set the course of the rest of his life, and would determine the fate of the world itself.

This masquerade party was a cover for the first official meeting of the Novus Ordo Magorum et Aeternorum Ducum, a trendy secret society to which only the best and brightest, not to mention richest, of New York's society were invited. Mystic societies and occult brotherhoods were all the rage. Each claimed to have some secret knowledge of the ancients, and each were busily relieving the credulous and the gullible of their hard-won wealth.

"If you'll excuse me, my dear, I simply must go and greet the Governor. He was kind enough to attend, and I would be a poor host if I didn't have a chat with him." He patted the vacuous cow on the arm and gave her his warmest smile. The enchantment that he imparted to her at his touch, child's play really, would mean he'd have at least some entertainment after the party was over.

Black extended a hand as he approached the Honorable Frank Orren Lowden. "Governor, so glad you could attend. I know you're not long in the city, so I simply had to have you at my party." The chance to ensnare one of the most politically powerful men in the state was too much for the sorcerer to resist.

Normally, Luther Black disdained the showy nonsense of these mystic secret societies. They were pale imitations of the Covenant of the Fanged Moon, the mystic brotherhood that had once held his loyalty. It was nothing knew. Throughout history, the power of the Covenant had ebbed and surged, rippling through humanity on both a conscious and subconscious level. Such ripples inspired cheap copies of the real thing. But these copies were nothing more than monkeys imitating the actions of their owners. Despite this, they were gaining popularity among the wealthy and the elite.

And Luther Black could turn this to his own advantage. He started his own mystic order and gave it a name that would appeal to these arrogant idiots who now surrounded them: the New Order of Magi and Eternal Rulers. He would drain these wealthy morons dry and use their money to fund his true goal: gaining the power of the Kings of Edom.

Of course, if he happened to find a true diamond in the rough among the wastes-of-breath that the New Order attracted, someone who showed a true talent for magic, and a true talent for evil, Black would happily recruit that person as an acolyte of the shining darkness.

Waste not, want not, after all.

XxxxxxX

October 7, 1996

Saint Louis, Missouri

They all heard it. All of them.

Throughout the city, like the tolling of a great bell, a sound that was not sound rang out. It covered the lycanthropic population of Saint Louis like a great blanket. Alphas, Betas, and Gammas. Even those whose beasts were solitary and followed no leaders. As one, they turned toward the source of the sound that was not a sound. No matter what they were doing. If they were working, they paused in their labor. If they were sleeping, they awoke.

No matter who they were, or what they were doing, they turned toward the source of the sound that was not sound and listened. Not for very long. Not for very long at all. Just long enough to notice that they were hearing something they were not hearing.

It was a call, a voice that spoke of something basic in their being. Something hidden, yet not hidden, that seemed to finally be distributed after being horded away for so long. A voice to be trusted. A voice to be listened to. The voice didn't say anything. It was merely sounding from the deep, as if alerting everyone to it being there.

And after this long moment of listening, the voice quieted. All of the lycanthropes returned to what they were doing as if they had never been interrupted. All of them carried the memory of the sound that they did not hear, but none of them thought about it. It was ephemeral, as if a phantasm that could be ignored.

Not that they ignored it. They merely dismissed it, storing it in their subconscious until it was time to bring it forth again.

Their actions, of course, did not go unnoticed.

XxxxxxX

"Wow. Of all the ties I've ever seen you wear, Zerbrowski, I've got to say, that one's one of a kind." Anita Blake looked the man up and down. Rumpled suit in a light tan, yellow shirt, and a tie that was eye-blazingly busy. It actually took her a few moments to realize that the tie was actually printed with Van Gogh's "Starry Night."

"Better gird those pretty loins of yours, Anita. This one is a weird one." Detective Zerbrowski ignored the comments regarding his fashion sense and leered at the animator-cum-vampire executioner-cum-mystic consultant as she walked into the wreckage of the house. "Here, they're going to yell at you if you don't put this on." He handed her an orange hard-hat, then tapped the one he was wearing.

"You're kidding, right?" She looked at the hat, then looked around. "There's no ceiling. This building doesn't have a fucking ceiling. And I have to wear a hard-hat? What's supposed to fall on my head? Sunlight?"

"Yep. Sucks, doesn't it?" He shrugged, and in doing so actually managed to uncrimple the shoulder of his suit. "Come on. You're going to love this."

"Doubt it. My weird shit quota for the day's already been filled. Did you hear what happened with the shifters this morning?" Blake put the hard-hat on and followed him.

"Heard something happened, but since nobody got hurt, nobody called us, and if no one calls us about it, I generally let it slide." Zerbrowski chuckled. "Keeps the workplace stress down."

"Sure it does. Sure. So what's the situation here?" She followed him over to the exposed staircase. Beside it was a square hole in the floor. "And what the hell's up with the hole?"

"Elevator. Old style elevator. Like the kind they used in tenements in the 30s. The car's locked at the bottom. We'll take the stairs." He waved her forward, about as gentlemanly as he could get. "Apparently they were built into the walls and were then disguised so no one knew they were there."

"A hidden staircase and a secret elevator. Where do they lead?"

"A hidden cellar. You'll love it." Zerbrowski gave her a grinning leer, taking a moment while they were in relative close quarters to look down the front of her shirt.

Blake rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything. By now she was used to the detective's antics. "You were telling me the situation?"

"Yeah, spoil the fun. The crew tearing down the house started the job today. They were supposed to take it down to the foundation, seal up any cellars the building had, then start reinforcing and widening the foundation. They're putting in a SaveLots." Anita grimaced. She hated the big box stores. For that matter, so did Jean-Claude She wondered how it was that anyone got the permits to build one of those monstrosities in Saint Louis if the Master of the City objected.

"Anyway," Zerbrowski continued. "They had three backhoes rampaging through the place when one of them broke through into a hidden cellar. Another uncovered the stairway down. They Crew Chief pulled the heavy machinery out of the way and sent three guys downstairs to see what they might have to deal with, and they discovered a girl in a bubble."

"A girl? In a bubble? What do you mean by -" She stopped speaking the moment she saw the remains of the crystal sphere. Most of it was whole, but one side was shattered, opening the interior to the air. It sat on a ring of some kind of reddish wood that had been inscribed with a myriad of mystic symbols, and hose feet were carved into the paws of a dragon. "Ah, right. Bubble. They found a girl in this thing? Where's she now?"

"Yeah. She's on her way to Mercy." Zerbrowski shook his head. "Real bad case. She was cut up and beat up something awful. Could barely move when the construction guys found her. They had to smash the glass with some crowbars to get her out. One of us will likely drop by later on once, you know, the doctors are done with her. Tammy there guessed she was being used as a sacrifice for something nasty."

Tammy Reynolds, RPIT's active duty witch, was crouching inside the glass bubble. She was moving her hands along the glass with her eyes closed. Beside the big glass bubble stood Detective Storr, the commander of the RPIT team. Anita Blake stepped up next to him, still watching Detective Reynolds move inside the glass ball.

"Blake. Nice of you to join us. I hate this mystic hoo-doo shit."

"Yeah, me too." Storr rolled his eyes at that. Everyone knew Anita Blake was hip-deep in the 'mystic hoo-doo shit' and loved it. "So, uh... maybe I missed something, but how did the girl get in the glass ball? I don't see any openings except for that one." Blake pointed to the area now missing due to the efforts of the construction workers.

"You noticed that too?" Tammy Reynolds opened her eyes and stood. "Okay, from what I can tell the glass was enchanted to keep things in, not keep things out. From the inside, you could probably have set off a nuke and not scratched it." She rapped her knuckles on the crystal. "This thing's old. Like close to a century. Its been sitting her since the thirties at least. Maybe the twenties."

Reynolds crawled out of the bubble, careful to avoid the sharp edges. "I have to say this thing is getting to me. It feels... off. And I don't mean the usual demon-infested chilblain make your brain try to turn itself off thing. I mean, there's something about this entire place that simply offends my sense of reality and my basic sense of magic is making me want to run screaming."

"What is this place, anyway?" Anita looked around at the wreckage. Now that it had been exposed to the light of day, the hidden cellar looked fairly harmless, except for the big broken glass ball. There was a menacing feeling coming from it that spoke to her senses. All of her senses. It was tweaking her necromantic power, the power she shared with Jean-Claude, and most especially her links to the wolves and the leopards. The power she felt through the links to her weres was sitting up and howling at the hidden moon.

"Its the old Whitebridge house," Zerbrowski said. From his tone, he obviously thought that would explain everything.

"And that means?"

"Right. Forgot you're not originally from here." Zerbrowski took a deep breath. "There was this guy, name of Michael Whitebridge. Rumor has it he was into demons and magic and weird sex. Its a bit of a local legend around here. I'm surprised your vampire buddies haven't told you."

"No. None of them have told me anything." Anita thought about it. "In fact, the only time I remember anyone mentioning anything to do with a Whitebridge was some discussion about... ah. Okay, that makes sense."

All the cops had an inquisitive look on their face.

"Jean-Claude was once looking into acquiring a property to raise horses. You know, as a business investment. Someone mentioned that it was too bad the Whitebridge estate had been bought by some store chain." Anita shook her head and almost laughed. "He said he'd be more willing to walk into the sunlight naked than come within a mile of the Whitebridge property."

"Well, you're looking at it. This is the Whitebridge property. According to the stories, back before about 1950 when his son took over, there were regular orgies and drug parties going on here. Supposedly a lot of black magic." Reynolds shuddered. "I can tell you now that we've found evidence that the black magic part was true."

"What happened after 1950?"

"Old Man Whitebridge died. His son took over. You know how it goes." Dolph Storr muttered. "This house has been empty for close to a decade and a half, since Whitebridge Junior died, I guess. That would explain why someone snuck in and put their devil-worship stuff here. No one would notice if they did it in an abandoned house."

"You're wrong about that, Dolph. This isn't new stuff someone brought in. From the looks of it, this stuff's been here for, I dunno... sixty? Seventy years maybe? This isn't new. And its intricate. Someone took a lot of time and effort putting this fish-tank together." Reynolds circled it. "From a strictly magical standpoint, its almost a work of art."

"Jesus, look at this..." Blake crouched to look at the base the globe was sitting on. "You've got the standard assortment of hermetic sigils for containment here, plus magical strengthening, plus more containment. This amount of protective containment is simply insane."

Reynolds was nodding. "You got that right. Have you seen the protective circle? Its not one of the seven variations on the Seal of Solomon. In fact, I think it might be the Seal of Danzalthar. And they backed it up with a Witches Collar made of blood-laced wax and an inner circle of salt. They really didn't want what was in there to get out."

"You make it sound like they were trying to hold a Tyrannosaurus Rex in that bubble." Dolph snorted.

Tammy Reynolds shrugged. "Could have been. The demonic equivalent. Though the interior residue doesn't feel strictly demonic. Its weird. Something that I've never seen before. Its like, demonic, but not demonic. Like almost demonic. No, that's not it. Not quite. Its like. Shit, I have no idea. Old? Evil? Other. That's what I felt. Some nameless... other." Reynolds rubbed her own arms, like she was suddenly cold. Gives me the shakes just thinking about it."

Anita Blake's face fell. "Wait, you mean you felt this demonic taint on the inside of the glass?"

"Sort of. It was not quite demonic, but definitely something dark. Something hostile. Pretty strong, too, like whatever was in here had..." Reynolds got it, suddenly. Here eyes got really large. "Shit. Dolph, we got a problem. Someone needs to track down the ambulance that girl was taken away in."

"What?" The leader of the RPIT team pushed himself away from the wall. "Why?"

Blake had already pulled her cellphone and was swiftly punching numbers. She had to let Richard know so he could warn his people what sort of creature was crawling around town, and the contact Jean-Claude so that the vampires were on alert. Anita cursed the fact that Jean-Claude way lying dead in his coffin. "Because that girl wasn't a girl, Dolph!"

"What was she then?"

"A demon!"

XxxxxxX

"Whitebridge. Bien sur. It would be Whitebridge, naturellement." Jean-Claude threw the handful of photographs of the hidden cellar onto the table. "That man was a menace when he was alive, and even now, sixty years after he est decede, he continues to bring trouble to my city." The Master of the City looked to his Human Servant. "So it is truly a demon, then?"

"It almost has to be. Given what we saw? I mean, look at the thing." Anita Blake pointed to the pictures. "That glass bubble is a fucking demon cage, and a strong one. Some time in the past, Michael Whitebridge, or his son, or one of his people summoned up a demon and kept it hidden in the basement for years. At least fifteen or sixteen years, maybe longer. Could have been a lot longer." She turned to Jean-Claude. "When did you say he built that house?"

"Je ne connais pas la reponse a cette question , precisement ma petite." The vampire shook his head. He spoke in French out of habit, not really thinking about it. It was a sign of just how stressed he was. "Apologies. I don't know, really. It was already built when I came to Saint Louis in 1909."

"Didn't you tell me you'd been in America since since 1815?"

"Oui, mon raton du roi. But prior to 1909 I was in New York City, or Philadelphia, or Boston." The master vampire shrugged. "I even dwelt in several cities in Georgia before arriving in my city."

"Ah." Rafael nodded. "Sorry, I misunderstood." The rat-king was quiet. "So this thing could have been sitting in the basement of the Whitebridge house since the turn of the 20th Century or even earlier. What would be the point of that? I mean, why trap it?"

"Power, what else?" Asher answered.

"But wouldn't you, like, have to let the thing out of its jail cell for it to be able to give you power?" Richard asked. Again Anita bristled. She couldn't help it.

"Oui, mon lupe. One would have to release the creature for it to serve. Which tells us that it was not cooperative with its gaoler." Asher picked up another photo. "I'm surprised by something. A few somethings, in fact"

"Ah? And that would be?" Jean-Claude asked.

"Why did the demon not kill the construction workers who freed it? Why did it need the ambulance? Why did it not kill the medics in the ambulance? Would that not be in keeping with the nature of such an evil creature. Why did it disguise itself as a helpless girl?"

"Wasn't a disguise. Demons are incorporeal on Earth, remember? They can manipulate things magically, but unless they possess a mortal, they don't have a body." Anita Blake pulled a notebook from her pocket. "According to the description, the girl they pulled from the bubble was blonde, no more than five-foot-two, weighed less than about a hundred pounds, emaciated, dirty, and looked like she'd been beaten and abused. The perfect look to generate sympathy from a bunch of roughneck construction workers. Which means that the body it was possessing actually looked like that."

"But how would you know for sure, Anita?" It was a reasonable question, even if the fact that it was Richard Zeeman asking made her bristle. Of course, at this point Anita would likely bristle if Richard made a comment about how blue the sky was. "I mean, how do you know it was possessing the girl?"

"Simple mathematics." Anita realized she was going to have to elaborate. "Okay, if you want to summon a demon, you're going to need a blood sacrifice. Basically, you have to kill something to bring the demon into this world. For something small, a nuisance imp that can hurt people and break things, but isn't all that powerful, you can get away with sacrificing an animal. But..."

"But for something bigger you need a person, right?" Rafael swiped at his eyes. "And the more powerful the demon, the, uh, the more powerful the person you'd need?"

"Right. Or you could do the same thing with more than one less-powerful sacrifices." Blake looked at the picture again. "For this sort of monster? I'd say you'd have to sacrifice at least eight or nine regular people, maybe five if you were using witches or vampires or shifters."

"And the math applies how?"

"The girl was in the globe and she was alive. That means she wasn't a sacrifice, she was a vessel. She was what they were putting the demon into when they pulled it into this world." Blake shrugged. "How do you think she survived a hundred years in an air-tight glass bubble?"

"That... oh God!" Zeeman's eyes got big. "Do you think she was a volunteer, or did they force her to..."

"In almost all possessions, Monsieur Zeeman, the vessel does not wish to be possessed." Asher's face, what could be seen of it, was a landscape of unpleasant emotions.

Jean-Claude put a hand to his face, hiding his expression. The other people at the table looked shell-shocked, angry, terrified, and everything in between. The Master of the City looked from one person to the other, sitting around the conference table: Asher, Damien, Rafael, Richard Zeeman, Micah, and even the hermit-like Narcissus were all here. Upon his awakening, Anita had told Jean-Claude that she was calling a real council of war, and that's exactly what she put together.

"So what do you think it'll do?" Richard Zeeman was leaning back in his seat, staring at the ceiling. "I mean, what are we talking about, here, damage-wise?"

"What will it do? I can't tell you for sure, but I'm betting its going to involve a lot of death, destruction, and fear." Anita nodded to the photographs. "Given the amount of containment magic on that thing, Whitebridge and his people were expecting to keep the demonic counterpart to Gojira in that damned cage. I don't know if what ended up in the globe really was that bad, but they were prepared for it. So if its really that powerful, then the entire city is in peril from this thing."

"What do you mean, the entire city?" Narcissus's voice was high-pitched and quavering. The were-hyena was obviously frightened by the mere thought of the demon.

Asher was nodding. "Almost any demon is terrible." He pronounced it 'tair-eebleh". "But the protection magic used here would mean a demon of the highest order. A prince of Hell, perhaps even one of the Fallen itself."

"The Fallen?" Again, the question was from Narcissus.

"Oui. Une ange dechu." Asher looked up. "One of those that directly rebelled against God almighty and was cast into perdition for their arrogant blasphemy. And I assure you, if one such as that was trapped by the late Monsieur Whitebridge and only now released, no one is safe. No one in Saint Louis. Perhaps no one in Missouri." He shrugged. "It is even possible that the danger could include everyone in Kansas, Arkansas, Iowa, Kentucky, Illinois, Tennessee... perhaps the continent. Or the world."

"Oh Christ, tell me you are joking." Richard Zeeman was staring wide-eyed at Asher.

"I am not joking , Monsieur Zeeman, but Christ would be the appropriate power to turn to in a time such as this. If this is a demon prince, or worse one of the Fallen, there is almost nothing we can do to drive it back into the pit. Surement, your usual tactics when fighting enemies of the wolves, in this case, will only get your wolves killed."

"Not to create a panic, but something just occurred to me. You know what happened this morning, yes?" Rafael looked around the table. "Seemed to have affected all all the shifters in the city simultaneously?"

"Oh God, yes." Narcissus's voice was almost a shriek. "I felt like I was sleepwalking while I was awake. I mean, I don't know about the rest of you, but for me it was like watching someone that looked like me stand up and walk around while I just floated there."

Zeeman and Micah both nodded. "Yeah, same here."

"Okay, well, do you think this thing had anything to do with it?" Rafael picked up a picture, glanced at it, and tossed it back to the table.

"There is, of course, no way to know, mon raton du roi. But it is possible."

Everyone was quiet, contemplating the morning's events.

"So... what do we do about this thing?" Richard Zeeman stood and rubbed his eyes. Even before he stopped, he was pacing near his chair.

"We need to call in some exorcists. Every priest, rabbi, and imam in the city – hell, we'll talk to the guys who run the ashrams, for that matter – they'll all be needed to drive this thing out of the world." Anita Blake sighed. "Guns aren't going to cut it. Hell, if this thing is as powerful as it seemed, canons won't cut it. People are going to die, and probably by the hundreds or maybe thousands. And if it cannot be trapped and forced back into hell, then there may be no stopping it at all."

There was a sudden rush of babble while everyone tried to speak all at the same time.

XxxxxxX

As eventful as Buffy's day was, it was now winding down, and she was relaxing.

Buffy sighed in contentment as she chewed on the slider. Xander always said that it was the little things that made it all worth it, and boy was he right. In this case, it was a bag full of White Castle burgers. White Castles were small enough that she could almost shove an entire slider in her mouth at once, but she didn't do that. This was the first actual food she'd eaten in eighty years, and she wanted to savor every second of eating it. She knew it had to just be hunger, but these crappy little hamburgers were like ambrosia to her.

The bag of hamburgers sat on her stomach as she ate, reclining on the shitty little bed in the shitty little hotel room. The room itself was in a shitty little fleabag hotel whose clientele was mostly made up of streetwalkers plying their trade. It was the size of a closet, but it did have a bed, and a lock on the door, and bars on the windows. She could finally relax for a little while. She swallowed the last bite of her burger, licked the wrapper clean of excess grease and juice, and then started on the next one.

The dark presence in the back of her head wasn't particularly satisfied with hamburgers, but in Buffy's opinion, the dark presence was going to have to live with disappointment.

Take the guys in the ambulance, for instance. Buffy had left the ambulance in the first public parking lot she could find, once she reached downtown. She'd left the two men sleeping in the back of the ambulance, tied to their own gurney. Physically they weren't truly harmed. A little bruising here or there was all they suffered. Physically. Their dreams, however, would be forever filled with dark images of teeth and claws and bloody fangs. Psychologically, they were far from well, but that wasn't really her fault, now was it? She made sure the ambulance was locked up, placed the keys behind the front left tire, and walked away. As she left she'd altered her camouflage, going from a naked and blonde girl to a tall, thin black girl in blue jeans and a t-shirt.

She'd been hungry since escaping the crystal prison. The dark presence had suggested, almost insisted, in fact, that she eat the two ambulance attendants. It would be a convenient way to dispose of them and would be much easier than hunting up something to eat later. But Buffy demurred. She was surprised that her objections had nothing to do with cannibalism taboo or the horror of eating human meat; for some reason the idea of chowing down on a person just didn't bring up feelings of disgust and horror anymore.

It was more the realization that the last thing Buffy wanted to do was become hunted herself, and nothing would draw the eyes of the authorities faster than someone dining on a first-responder. If she really felt like hunting, killing, and eating a human being, there'd be plenty of time to do that after she knew for sure that the cops weren't going to be chasing her for stealing an ambulance and kidnapping a couple of EMTs. And besides, there would have been all that blood, and Buffy was too tired to deal with the mess it would have caused. There was no way in hell she was going to bathe in this shit-hole's communal bathroom, after all.

She'd already figured out that it was close; it had vampires and werewolves and monsters and magic, but in her mind, it simply tasted too different to be her home. She'd spent a decade wondering what It tasted too different meant, and how an entire world could taste like anything, but eventually let it go as unimportant. But the knowledge that she was far, far away from home guided her in formulating a plan.

Walking away from the ambulance, Buffy's plan had been simple. First, money. Second, food. Third, clothing. Fourth, a place to stay. Of course, if Buffy was honest with herself she didn't really need the clothing. But that wasn't the point. Her ability to camouflage herself was handy, but it wasn't as physically satisfying to Buffy as actually dressing up in nice clothes and shoes, especially when combined with a great hairdo. And she didn't want to just sleep outside, though she knew the elements wouldn't bother her. She had survived for nearly eighty years without eating, so she wasn't going to starve, but eating a decent meal at a decent restaurant once in a while was just the thing to lift a person's spirits.

Buffy was determined to recreate as much of her human existence as possible. The problem was, she was naked and without tangible resources, and Buffy decided to be honest enough with herself about the situation to know that she faced several problems.

The only people she'd met were either mad sorcerers intent on her imprisonment, or else perfect strangers who would most likely freak out completely if they found out she wasn't quite as human as she looked. Sure, the construction guys had helped her, and so did the ambulance guys, but would they had been so helpful if she hadn't hidden her tiger-like eyes and her golden skin and her fangs? Buffy bet that they'd not only be unhelpful, they'd be downright hostile. So there was no one she could ask for help.

The food, clothing, shelter parts of her plan all required the money part of her plan. And she had no ready source of income. At least not yet. So in order to make money, food, clothing, shelter work she was going to have to start by stealing the money she needed until she found a job that paid well enough for her to live on. This thought hadn't made her very happy at all, but she felt she could live with it, as long as she stole it from the right – or rather the wrong – sort of people. Criminals. People who'd never go to the police and report her for robbing them.

And this was another reason why she chose not to eat the EMTs: they were just so helpful. When she questioned them about the city, and where she could get what she wanted, they answered her questions quickly and with a minimum of screaming in abject terror and despair. First they gave her directions to the wrong part of town, and from there to the really wrong part of town.

Buffy had wandered through the area at random, looking for likely targets. It took her a lot longer than she thought. Apparently all those TV movies about troubled youths, the ones that showed drug dealers and hookers on every single street corner lied to her. When she thought about it, though, she wondered why she thought that television dramatizations would be accurate. For the first hour or so, the only thing the wandering had confirmed was that the bad part of Saint Louis was nothing like the bad parts of Sunnydale or Los Angeles.

One odd thing she noticed almost immediately. The area she was in was almost literally crawling with vampires and lycanthropes. At nearly every inhabited and abandoned building she passed, and more than a few of the businesses, she felt the presence of a monster. And yet the regular people who lived and worked in these buildings didn't seemed troubled by the monsters among them.

It was dusk by the time she found the kid selling dope on the street corner. Mugging him had gained her close to three hundred dollars. Finding a pimp netted her another thousand. But the real find had been the vampire, his were-boar bodyguard, and his stable of girls. The pair had been operating out of a van in a vacant lot. At first Buffy had thought that she'd come across a vampire pimp and his rolling brothel, but it turned out to be something worse.

She'd approached the van from the dark side of the street, hoping to surprise the vampire, but he'd somehow sensed her coming. Apparently Buffy was giving off some strange vibe, because not only had he not tried to menace her away, he'd started a sort of sales pitch.

"Hey, pretty lady. Nice night for a stroll, isn't it? I know what you need and I got it right here. Young, fresh, and disease free, right from the tap." The vampire had motioned one of the girls forward; the young lady in question had pulled her hair out of the way and tilted her head so that her neck was exposed as Buffy approached. Even in the dim illumination of the streetlight, Buffy could see the scars of many sets of fangs. "Fifty bucks a pop for a nice long sip."

He actually seemed friendly. Buffy could tell just looking at him that the vampire was young. Maybe a century at most, perhaps slightly less. He wasn't a master, and he'd never be a master. She drew close and the vampire's attitude had changed. "Oh... uh... sorry about that. We don't do business with wannabe's and shifters. So, uh, beat it. Put it away, Darla." As the girl who'd been presenting her neck straightened up, the vampire had turned to the van and shrugged in Buffy's direction.

That's when the muscle made his appearance. The were-boar was tall and muscled like a body builder. His hair was pulled back in a corn-rowed mullet, and the ends were beaded. His massive arms were as tattooed as a Yakuza soldier's. A t-shirt from some band she'd never heard of was desperately close to tearing, stretched as it was across his chest. Motorcycle boots completed the ensemble. The man was menace in a pair of blue jeans, and the sneer that he gave Buffy as she got closer made it obvious that he considered her an appetizer and not a meal.

Buffy couldn't help it. She actually giggled. She immediately labeled the muscle Pigboy.

"Something funny, bitch?" The bodyguard stepped toward her, looming. "Boss said for you to hit the bricks. Beat it before I break something off of you."

"Relax, Pigboy. Chill. I'm just here to talk to your boss." Buffy laid a hand on the bodyguard's chest and there was a flow of energy between them. The thug's arms twitched, like he was going to do something, but he abruptly fell to his knees. He stayed there for only a moment before his head rocked back and his arms shot out away from his sides as if lightning was shooting through his body.

"M-my queen! My queen! My queen..." It was a mumbled chant directed at no one. The were-boar was staring up at the unforgiving stars as if they were talking to him. The pupils of his eyes widened to almost block out the irises, and the whites of his eyes were suddenly pink as multitudes of capillaries burst. He began to cry even as his face fell into a look of almost religious ecstasy. "my-my q-queeeen... my queen... ma-hah-my que-ah-en."

"I know. Shhhh..." Buffy smiled kindly at the lycanthope. She caressed the side of the bodyguard's face as she passed on her way to the vampire, and at his touch he shuddered and sighed as if enjoying a magnificent if painful orgasm.

The vampire whirled on her, his eyes wide. "What the fuck, Bruno?"

"Thank you for telling me his name. Seems like a nice guy. So, what's your name?" Buffy stepped between the still ecstatic shifter and the vampire.

"Fuck you, that's my name!"

PREY

The girls and the vampire jumped, suddenly, as if something had leapt at them out of the shadows at them.

The vampire swung at her with all the power and speed vampires were capable of, obviously expecting to easily crush her skull. Buffy caught his fist in her left hand and held it. "Look, vampire, here's the deal..." She ducked his other fist, and his nose exploded in a spray of blood and bone from the jab she threw in response. He rocked back, obviously stunned. The vampire dropped onto his butt at Buffy's feet. She hadn't lost her grip on the vamp's fist, and twisted it a bit to put him in a more painful position.

She held the vamp on the ground from the pressure on his fist. Buffy glanced at the girls, but they were all cowering, watching her like they were bait fish and she was a shark. Darla, the one who'd offered herself to Buffy, had backed away until she tripped over the lip of the van's bed.

Buffy tilted her head to the side quickly. "Hit the road, ladies. You're taking the rest of the night off. Beat it." They ran like the very hounds of Hell itself were snapping at their feet.

Buffy slapped the vampire. Its eyes, surrounded by bruises from its smashed up nose, cleared. "On your feet, Fuck You. Come on." She grabbed him by the collar with her free hand and pulled, forcing him to stand. "Up you go. This is easier if you stand up."

"You're going to regret this..." The vampire's voice was slurred. He was clearing up fast, but Buffy's punch had seriously concussed him. "You're going to regret this. Liv won't... won't stand..."

"Shut up." Buffy punched him again. His head snapped backward and he would have fallen if she hadn't caught him.

"Liv is who? A vampire?" The bloodsucker nodded, vaguely. "You work for her?" Another nod. "Okay, that's cool. Now... give me your cash." Buffy began squeezing the fist, grinding the vampire's bones together. He squealed and almost immediately began digging in his back pocket. The roll of bills he produced was suitably large. "You got a wallet, too, Fuck You?" The vampire went digging again and handed it to her. "Is this everything?" She gave the fist another squeeze. "Is this everything?"

The vampire almost screamed. "In the van! In the van, under the seat! Fuck, stop already, please! Stop."

"Okay." Buffy's free hand extended into a large lion-like paw with two-inch long claws. One swipe and the vampire's head had bounced under the van. Without pausing, Buffy dropped the body and climbed into the van. Under the passenger seat was a metal lock-box, the kind people used for garage sales and bake sales to hold the take. It was filled with cash. Enough cash that she didn't have to risk robbing anyone else. She nodded and grabbed it. Once outside the van, she tossed the still bleeding body into the back of the van and shut the doors behind it.

The were-boar was right where Buffy had left him, staring into space, crying from bloodshot eyes, chanting about his Queen.

Buffy knelt in front of him. His head was still lifted toward the heavens, but his eyes followed her movement. They were shaky, but his eyes still moved. He was smiling, almost blissful. "Bruno? I appreciate everything you've done for me tonight."

"An-anything... ah-ah-ah-any – anything thing for you... anything for you..." Bruno had taken up a new chant. "Anything for you... any – any – anything... my... my... my life... life is... anything for you... anything... my life for you..."

"Its okay, Bruno." Buffy leaned in and took his head in her hands. Gently, almost motherly, she kissed his forehead. Buffy pulled back to stare at the man. He was smiling up at her, mouth open, teeth showing, red eyes wide and vacant. There was a connection, now. Buffy felt it. It beat with the sound of the were-boar's own heartbeat. Buffy knew, deep down, that she couldn't just abandon him.

"Go home, Bruno. Go to bed. Sleep. Rest. Be well. I might need you for something else later on, so you have to be ready, okay?"

Bruno reached out to her, almost touched her, before pulling his hand back, as if he was about to desecrate something holy and barely stopped himself before it was too late. He bowed his head to Buffy, still crying. "Yes... yes, my... yes... Queen. Yes... rest... rest... sleep... Thank you... thank you... thank you..." His voice was almost a whisper.

Buffy watched as Bruno stumbled to his feet. He staggered away with all intent and speed he could muster.

Her next stop was a K-Mart, where she bought herself some t-shirts, a couple pair of jeans, some underwear, socks, and some sneakers. It was enough to get her started. Buffy also bought a newspaper, a couple of notebooks, some pens, a map of the city, two two-liter bottles of diet coke, and a bag of peppermint spears.

The White Castle, it turned out, was on the way between the K-Mart and the Hooker Hilton. She started eating almost as soon as she left the burger joint, and by the time she had her shit-hole of a room, she'd downed eleven of the thirty sliders she'd purchased. The man behind the counter had leered at her, but he gave her a room for $40 cash, no ID required.

Buffy finished slider number thirty shortly before falling asleep for the first time since the night before she leapt from Glory's tower, back in Sunnydale.

XxxxxxX

October 8, 1996

Saint Louis, Missouri

Despite there being three locks on her room's door, Buffy took the little metal lock-box with her when she left the next morning. She didn't trust the building's management, or the super, and she absolutely didn't trust her neighbors.

Speaking of neighbors, her neighbor in the room to the left, a six foot four inch tall transsexual hooker who had introduced herself to Buffy as "Daisy", was yelling at the aforementioned super, assisted by her neighbor in the room to her right, a thin mustached leather-boy named Kyle. Buffy didn't pay attention as she made her way down the staircase – the elevator was out of service, and apparently had been since the Kennedy administration – but she could tell they were yelling about a sudden increase in the cockroach and spider populations of their room. Which was odd, because bugs hadn't bothered Buffy at all.

Buffy sat on the stoop, watching the sun rise above the nearby tenements. She didn't have to wait too long before her ride appeared. Bruno parked his motorcycle at the curb, and at the sight of Buffy he smiled wide, showing all of his teeth.

"Hi, Bruno! Thanks for coming to get me." She stood, lock-box in hand. "I like your bike!"

"Thank you, my Queen! Anything for you!" Bruno handed her a helmet as Buffy climbed on behind him. "Wh-where do you want to go, my Queen?"

"Well," Buffy's voice was muffled by the full-face helmet and visor, but he could hear her just fine. "I need to go by the library; I've got to do some internet research. And I need to get some more clothes. And breakfast would be nice." Bruno nodded as she spoke. "Oh, hey, after we pick up some clean clothes and maybe a bag to put them in, do you know where I can get a shower?"

"I'll take you back to my house. You can use the shower there if you wish, my Queen."

"That'd be great. So lets stop by a K-Mart or a Wal-Mart or a Target, or something. I need at least two more shirts and some slacks. Maybe a skirt. Don't have to be fancy right now, just needs to look presentable. Can't get a job if you look like a slob, right?"

"Yes, my Queen. You want to get a job? I mean, a regular job?"

"Well, yeah!" She slapped him gently on the shoulder, as if it were a stupid question. "Can't get any money without a job, right? What did you think I meant?"

EXASPERATION

Bruno nearly jumped in his seat, as if he had heard the beast living in the back of Buffy's mind speak. His body began to shake.

UNNECESSARY

Bruno jumped again. The shaking got worse.

Shush, you. Buffy spoke to the presence. It is totally necessary. And stop it. You're frightening Bruno.

EXASPERATION

I said shush! She stroked Bruno's face with her hand. "It's okay, Bruno. Calm down. You're fine. I'll protect you."

"Fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I' f-f-f-f-fine. Right. Right." The biker shook his head. "Got it. I'm fine. I'm fine. Right. Protect me. Right. I mean, I mean, yes, my Queen. Yes, my Queen."

"Hey, none of that. You and me are buds, right? You don't have to always be so stuffy. I'm not going to bite you." She smiled at him, and even though there was no way for him to see it behind the helmet, he still basked in her attention. "And wipe your chin. You're drooling."

"Yes, my Queen. I'm sorry, my Queen."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it." Buffy sighed. It was obviously going to be a long road, getting Bruno to lighten up. "So Bruno, have you eaten yet?"

"No, my Queen! I, uh, I haven't eaten anything since last night."

"Well, then. Breakfast is on me. Got to pay you back for driving me around today. How's that sound?"

"It's not – You don't have to – I mean, of course, my Queen. Anything you say."

Buffy pressed her body against her new friend Bruno as the were-boar pulled his motorcycle into traffic. Not normally the most careful of riders, Bruno was almost meticulous in his care this morning, for he was taking HER where she needed to go.

XxxxxxX

With the demon on the loose, and all the potential chaos that would cause, Anita Blake actually thought she might catch a break. But no. Dolph Storr had to call her at 7 am and ask her to report to a crime scene. The perfect end to a perfect day that hadn't technically ended seeing as she didn't even get home until a quarter of seven. She'd still been in the living room of her house when the detective had called her.

"Blake, we got a weird one."

"What and where," she sighed. Not even enough time to catch a cup of coffee.

"Vacant lot at the corner of Surridge and Truman in the Blood District. Looks like a stick-up gone bad." Storr's voice was surprisingly peppy. "Victim looks like a vampire, and we're still trying to figure out how to get to the body without exposing it to the sun."

"Right. Okay, be there in about 45 minutes. I'm stopping on the way for coffee and a cruller."

"You're stopping to eat on the way to a crime scene? Some dedication to duty."

"First, I'm not a cop. I'm a consultant. Its not a duty. Second, I just got home and have been awake all night. So if you have a problem with me stopping to get some food in me, you can blow me. You got that, Storr?"

"Yeah yeah. Just get here."

By the time she was on the scene, the coffee she picked up with the cruller was laying in her stomach like a lead weight. She knew it would be alka-seltzer city when she got back home. Anita pulled into the lot just shy of the crime scene tape. Her head was still pounding from lack of sleep, and there was a part of her that hoped some dumb ass rookie gave her shit.

"Blake, take a look at this." It wasn't meant to be. Storr was standing right there. He waved her over. There were markers on the ground, and everyone was staying clear of the back of the van.

"Anita. You're going to like this one." Zerbrowski appeared from around the front of the van.

Storr nodded. "Old lady was chasing down her chihuahua after it got out of her apartment, found it here, lapping at the blood stains. Called it in. Watch the blood spatter."

"Blood out in the open. Do we know where the blood came from?"

"Yeah." Zerbrowski hooked a thumb at the van. "Body's in the back. Head's been cut off. From what we can see, the interior is covered in the runny red stuff."

"Right. And you know the vic is a vampire how?" She peered through a side window. All of the windows except the windshield were heavily tinted, but even so there were runny stains everywhere.

"We found a head, most likely the vic, under the van near a tire." Storr was matter of fact. "When the coroner pulled it out into the sunlight to bag it, the thing caught fire, then melted."

"So much for ID-ing the victim." Blake muttered.

"Okay, well, I don't know what I can do for you. It looks like a robbery gone wrong, not anything weird. Probably a shifter, or maybe another vampire." Anita yawned huge. "You really didn't need me here, Dolph. Come on, already. I need to get back home and to bed before I fall asleep in traffic, so I'm leaving."

"Right. Get out of here. If we have questions, we'll call."

She walked back to her SUV. Zerbrowski fell in step with her. "You don't think this is related to that demon thing from yesterday, do you?"

Blake just shook her head. "No. Demon wouldn't be interested in doing this sort of thing. You're going to probably find that the vic was a selling drugs or guns or something and got killed by an irate customer. This is small potatoes."

"Okay. Thanks, Anita. Talk to you later."

She nodded, yawned again, and went home to sleep.

XxxxxxX

Bruno stood in the small house's main room, staring unblinking at the bathroom door. His hearing, enhanced as it was befitting his nature as a were-boar, allowed him to listen to the sounds of his Queen as she bathed and made herself holy. She was singing. Bruno didn't recognize the song, but still, she was singing, and it was the most beautiful, most terrible sound he'd ever heard.

The sound of her voice in song brought tears to his red-rimmed eyes. Bruno felt absolute joy and terror at her being in his own house. He'd give her anything, do anything, say anything if it meant that she graced him with her presence, and as long as it meant that she didn't keep her attention on him for too long. His Queen was beautiful and cruel and he loved her and despaired.

The sound of the front door opening brought Bruno out of his reverie. A woman walked in, and it took him a few moments to realize that it was Sheila. Sheila. He'd been living with her for nearly eighteen years in a common law marriage, he remembered. She was co-owner of the house; it was in her name as well as his, he remembered.

Being in his Queen's presence had caused him to forget all about Sheila. Bruno was amazed that he wasn't more troubled by that.

"Hey, baby, what's going on? How'd that thing with Fisk go last night?" She walked past him into the house's small kitchen and began digging in the refrigerator.

"Went fine. Fine. Fine. Are... are you just off... off work?" Sheila worked night cleanup at Pete's Waterhouse, the local biker haunt, he remembered. Bruno felt himself become more aware as he clicked off more and more facts about Sheila. Her favorite color. Her favorite food. Her favorite band.

"Yeah, and I'm starving. Just gonna get myself a -" Sheila's voice trailed away. Like Bruno, Sheila was a War Pig, as the local were-boars called themselves, and thus shared their enhanced hearing. She stared at Bruno, irritated. "Who the fuck is singing? Is there someone in the shower?" Sheila dropped a jar of mayo onto the counter and took a step toward the bathroom door. He interposed himself, and her expression grew stormy.

"Who the fuck is in there, Bruno? Sounds like – " And now she was angry. "Is that a girl? Did you bring a fucking girl into our house!? We talked about that shit, Bruno! We both know we're going to play around, but not in the house! Keep your whores out of the house."

Sheila shoved him aside and began pounding on the bathroom door. "Get your ass out here, you little slut! I'm going to kick your fucking whore ass up bet – URK!" Bruno tilted his head to one side as he watched Sheila's expression. She was obviously shocked and surprised, and as she slid toward the floor, her mouth opened and closed rapidly several times. Trying to talk, probably, but the presence of his knife buried in her throat made it difficult.

Sheila was threatening the Queen. No one could do that and go unpunished.

Bruno stared for a second, then pulled the knife back. He stabbed her in the throat again, then in the chest, then again in the throat. When her eyes lost the spark of life, when he was sure she was dead, he wiped the knife off on her shirt and straightened.

His Queen was in the door of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel. Watching him.

"What... Bruno, what just happened? Why'd you – Bruno, you killed her? What happened?"

XxxxxxX

December 21, 1918

Chicago, Illinois

Luther Black handed his opera cloak and hat off to one of the nameless flunkies that were positioned around the nave. He examined all the preparations; everything was set, everything was in position. The Chapel of the Holy Blood had once been an active place of worship, consecrated when Chicago was only a trans-shipment point between the shipping traffic along the rivers leading to America's heartland and the shipping traffic on the Great Lakes between the young United States and Canada.

That was long ago. The church had been abandoned when the wealthy and the elite of the city had packed up everything and fled before a wave of unwashed immigrants from Europe and Asia. Black had purchased the building for a song, and immediately ordered his followers to work certain changes upon the interior decor.

The font was full of dog's urine. The pews of the nave were gone, and the floor of the chapel now featured a huge pentagram painted in human blood. The crucifix above the altar was inverted, with Christ's head now pointing toward perdition. And the altar. The altar was now the center of tonight's festivities.

Tied down on the altar was the very same bibbling quim who had irritated him so much earlier in the evening. Her red dress, hat, mask, and feathers were long gone, as were her undergarments. She'd been drugged with opium to make her more tractable and controllable by his henchmen, who had whisked her away from the party hidden in a steamer trunk.

She was tied in a standing position, bent nearly perpendicular to the ground. Her long blonde hair had been knotted in a rope that was connected to both her neck and her arms, which were themselves straightened and tied behind her. The rope on her arms was connected to a hook placed in the ceiling of the church, and connected by more rope. The entire thing had the effect of forcing the woman to hold her head up as straight as possible, and hold her arms in just the right position, lest she choke. And combined with the stance in which her legs were tied, it had the effect of presenting her womanly parts to anyone who stood behind her.

Black candles burned all around the altar. A silver knife lay on the alter, under the woman's head. Black could see that the eyes were almost completely white, and that she was actually drooling.

"We are ready for the ceremony, Lord."

Black nodded an acknowledgment to the man's words – Luther Black didn't bother learning the names of his flunkies unless they were important, and this one wasn't. He stripped off his clothing, then used the font to anoint his forehead, chest, and penis with the foul liquid kept there.

Black moved behind the girl's raised buttocks. With one hand, he fondled his penis until it was almost painfully erect. He spat into the other, then rubbed the thick liquid into the folds of the woman's vagina. She moaned at the physical contact, causing Luther Black to smile. "Good... good... then let us begin."

" I call the Kings to Witness. I call the Kings to Watch." He moved closer, forcing himself to penetrate the woman. He could feel her shudder as he raped her. The drugs she had been given would insure her proper reaction to his efforts, regardless of what her conscious mind would have wanted. He raked his nails down her back, deep and raw, drawing bloody rivulets to begin seeping off of her flesh and onto the altar.

The knife was just for show, a symbolic element of the ritual. All the bloodletting would be done with his bare hands.

"I call on the Shining Darkness to assert authority over this temple to the false pauper god." He could feel himself getting closer and closer to release. Black wrapped a fist in her hair and pulled, forcing her head further back. The girl started gasping for breath. The girl was suffocating even as powerful orgasmic waves pummeled her. She was cumming like she'd never cum before in her life.

"I call on the Edomites to claim authority over this place and make it sacred to them!" With the last words of the ritual, Luther Black's seed sprayed into the girl's womb. She shuddered uncontrollably, both from her continued orgasm and from the utter, inhuman cold caused by the touch of his semen. Black pushed her head to the side and bit into her neck. The girl's flesh parted and blood sprayed into his mouth and over his face and onto their conjoined bodies.

He continued gnawing on her, tearing gobbets of flesh away, chewing, and swallowing them until she hung lifeless from the ropes. For an hour he devoured her flesh and blood, ripping it from her body with his teeth. When he finally stepped away from her carcass, the girl's throat was nothing but a blood-sodden mass, her head connected to the rest of her body only by a collection of of fleshy, rope-like strings.

Luther Black stepped away from the corpse, panting. The girl's blood covered him almost from scalp to toe. The altar to which she was tied was bathed in red. He took another step back, trying to bring his breathing back under control as he studied the girl's corpse. The sacrifice had been accepted. He could feel it. He knew it. It was working. The blood sacrifice of the poor deluded girl, who'd begun the day dreaming of glamorous parties among the rich, had linked the Novum Ordo to his true endeavor.

Black found himself enervated; more than anything, he felt like he might sleep for a day or more at once. Time to rest and recharge his energy.

His lackeys led him away from the altar, helping him stay on his feet until he was in the private rooms formed in the church's cellars. He would bathe, he would sleep, he would eat. He'd need his strength to move his plans along. The next part of his plan was intricate, and it wouldn't do to get it wrong.

XxxxxxX

Author's Note: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the property of Warner Brothers in conjunction with Mutant Enemy Productions. Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter is the property of Laurel K. Hamilton and her publisher. The Sandman is the creation of Neil Gaiman, and is owned by DC Comics, which is itself a subsidiary of Warner Brothers. The character Luther Black was created by Alan Thomas and appears in that writer's series of pulp homage crime noir stories dealing with square-jawed detectives hunting down dangerous cultists. He appears here with permission of the author. The Pendleton Legacy by August Derleth is in the public domain.

Author's Note the Second: So, the hunt for Buffy the Old One is on the way, the actual villain of the piece has been shown to be very villainous, RPIT and the shifter leadership has made an appearance, and the effects of being too close to Buffy have been hinted at. Please read and review, let me know what you think.